"Get out," I say, my voice low.
"Dude, take it easy," Taylor says. "Shit, are you on the rag or something, man? You're acting like a bitch."
"I said, get.the.fuck.out.of.here," I repeat, punctuating each word with a careful pause. My hands are clenched into fists at my side, and I think about punching both of them in the fucking face for talking about Addy that way, but instead I open the door. "Now."
Both of them sit, sprawled on the sofa, staring at me stupidly. "We didn't mean anything by it, Hendrix," Brandon says. "Jesus Christ."
"Get your shit and leave," I say, watching realization dawn on them that I'm not joking. Brandon carries the bong with him like it's one of his school textbooks or something, and Taylor shrugs as he passes me.
"It's not like she's a big virgin or something," he says. "I heard she fucked that country singer, what the hell is his name?"
I punch Taylor square in his stupid fucking mouth.
PRESENT DAY
Watching Addison sing is like nothing else on earth. She has one of those voices that makes you stop dead in your tracks, quit whatever you're doing and hold your breath and listen, because you know that you're hearing something special. You can't hear her sing and not know that with certainty.
I knew that the very first time I heard Addy sing in person. She was sitting outside, under this grove of trees, cross-legged and barefoot and wearing this pink and blue multicolored skirt, her hair blowing in the breeze. She looked like a Woodstock transplant, a modern hippie, playing her guitar and singing something wistful and sad with her eyes closed. She didn't know I was there, and I stood perfectly still while she played.
She was so pissed off when she opened her eyes and saw me standing there that she threatened to throw her guitar at me.
I watch her now from the other side of the glass as she sings the bullshit pop-with-a-little-bit-of-twang song that has to be the worst possible fit for her voice, synthesized and altered to the point where it barely sounds like the girl I knew once. Even when she's singing this crap, though, she still has that quality. It still gives me goose bumps to listen to her.
She hates the song. It's written all over her face.
Addy pulls the headphones off her ears. "I'm not sure about the last bit there," she says, her voice audible through the sound system.
One of the guys at the sound system, "Big Mike," gives her a "thumbs up" gesture. "It's good," he says, fiddling with levers and shit on the sound system. Addison told me I should go do something else while she was here, insisted I didn't need to "hover around and scare people," and if it were anyone else, I'd be out of here, to be honest. But if I weren't going to before, I'd have changed my mind the minute I saw the guy who's standing in the recording booth beside her.
Dean Tucker. If Addy is America's country sweetheart, he's whatever the hell the male version of that is. He's blonde-haired and blue-eyed, the guy every female country music fan wants to throw her panties at. And they're collaborating on an album. Addy conveniently failed to mention she was recording a duet with him.
"Let's lay down one more take," Big Mike says.
Dean leans over and says something to Addy, and his hand brushes her shoulder protectively. Protectively or intimately, I'm not sure which. I clench and unclench my hands at my sides. She laughs, and tucks her hair behind her ear.
Screw this. I can't watch Addy sing a love song with Mr. Perfect. Slipping out of the booth, I walk down to a vending machine, where I put in a dollar and my soda gets stuck. I pound the machine with my fist, once, twice, three times. "Fuck shit stupid motherfucking son of a bitch."
"Colorful vocabulary." The sound of a female voice behind me startles me. "You're hitting that machine like it cheated on you with your girlfriend."
"I'm just trying to get a drink," I say, looking at the dark-haired girl standing in front of me. She's petite – really petite, my shoulder height even in the stilettos she's wearing. Cute, too, in a Nashville kind of way. This is probably just what I need. A distraction from Addy.
"Well, now," she says, her voice practically a purr. "If you want a drink, all you gotta do is ask for my number, sugar."
I can't help but laugh. "That's very…direct," I say.
"No use beatin' around the bush," she says, winking. "I mean, unless you're into that kind of thing."
Hell, she's laying it on thick. And she's gorgeous – country music star gorgeous, I realize. "Are you a singer?"
"You're kiddin', right, sugar?" she asks, putting her hand on her hip.
"Is that a yes?"
"What, have you been living under a rock?" she asks, cocking her head to the side and surveying me with deep brown eyes.
"Close," I say, shrugging. "I've been overseas a lot. Military." That's partially true. I don't add that I've been living in Nashville for six months.
"Oh, a soldier," she says.
"Marine, not soldier," I correct her. The mistake immediately grates on my nerves.
She shrugs. "Potato, po-tah-toh," she says, her voice flippant, and that annoys me even more. "I like a man in uniform. I'm Cassidy Belle."