Page 9 of Strung Along

The table breaks out in loud, howling laughter, and the waitress stumbles a step while approaching with my water. With a flash of a smile, she sets it on the table, and one of the volunteers pushes it toward me before starting a new conversation about how he found a stray cat beneath the wheel of the fire truck last week.

I zone out, drinking nearly the whole glass of water in one gulp. The whiskey scorched away the lingering ache in my throat from singing after avoiding that strain for a couple of weeks, but it’s already coming back. The water coats the rawness with another flash of relief that I know won’t last. The pain will disappear by the morning, so long as I don’t let Caleb convince me to get drunk and sing karaoke all damn night.

But the odds of that happening are so low they’re nearly non-existent.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you in such a terrible mood before you leave?” Caleb asks, the question quiet enough across the table that I know it’s meant just for me.

“Rita was here this morning. Wanted to hear how the vocal rest was coming along.”

His eyebrow twitches but doesn’t lift. “And?”

“I’m still here.”

“You pushed yourself too hard on that damn tour. I’m glad you’re home. I think the whole town is, honestly. So, you won’t find me disappointed that your voice hasn’t even healed yet for you to take off again.”

The stark honesty in his words rattles my chest. “It’s nice being back at the ranch. My grandparents need the help anyway.”

“I’m going to assume Rita didn’t share our opinion?”

A gigantic understatement. “She wants me to finish Killian’s tour. I agreed to open for the entire thing, and then I just left. It makes my entire team look bad. Pissed off the fans too.”

The angry messages and emails are now being filtered through people Rita hired over the past couple of weeks. I don’t have the passwords to anything anymore.

“It’s for your own well-being,”she said.

I didn’t disagree. Still don’t.

“If you had finished the tour, you could have damaged your voice bad enough that a small break wouldn’t have been able to fix shit,” Caleb hisses.

“I know. That’s why I’m still here.”

Some of the anger leaches from his expression but still gleams in his eyes. We’re like brothers. One willing to fall on a dagger for the other. His protectiveness doesn’t surprise me. I would be the same if he were in my position.

“Next time Rita slithers into town, send her to the station. We’ll have her running back to Nashville faster than she can say Carrie Underwood.”

“Who are we sending back to Nashville?” Darren asks, shoving himself into the conversation.

I finish off my water as Caleb says, “None of your business, Nosey Nelly.”

My phone vibrates on the table, screen facing up, and Caleb zeroes in on it. That brow arches now, amusement curling his mouth.

Snapping out his hand, he sets it over my phone. “Is there another reason you’ve stayed in town that you haven’t told me?”

“What?”

“Don’t try and play coy.”

My mouth hardens as he grabs my phone and guesses my passcode on what seems like the first try. “Don’t go lookin’ through my shit, Caleb.”

He doesn’t reply. His lips part in silent surprise instead. The other guys seem to clue in to what’s happening, and we become centre of their attention. One by one, they lean toward Caleb, trying to sneak a look at whatever he’s found on my phone.

“Does he have Shania Twain’s number in that thing?” one of the volunteers asks.

I rub my temple and lean back in the booth.

“Well, this is a first for me,” Caleb finally utters. When Darren tries to look at the screen from over his shoulder, he angles the phone away and stares at me. “Looks like we’ve got an accidental text on our hands, guys.”

Interest skims beneath my skin. I lean forward again, resting my forearms on the table. “What?”

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