Bare Essentials (A Dirt Road Novel)

By M. L. Stephens

Trouble never looked so good.

He's a cowboy with a guitar and an attitude. She's Nashville's toughest, most sought after music agent. They have one thing in common: country music.

Cutter Harrison relies on two things: beer and music—his music. At twenty-six, he's happily divorced and plans to keep it that way.

Holly Avery is on the hunt. She's determined to discover the next country music superstar and is willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen.

An unexpected meeting in Arkansas makes them question their pasts, their futures, and the bare essentials of love. Country music brought them together, but will their dirty little secrets keep them apart?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. L. Stephens
• Release date: Jun 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781498920186

Book preview

Prologue

Cutter

Her fingertips stroke the sensitive area between my shoulder blades. This is the part I most hate, the part where I'm expected to talk, to cuddle. She wants more than I'm willing to give. They all do.

I could pretend to care but why should I? My words won't right her sins or make them disappear. If they could, I still wouldn't say them because it'd be a lie. How can I right the sins of another when I can't right my own?

Even if I decided to talk with her or changed my mind and pretended to care, I can't. I don't remember her name. It might be Laura or Leia, or something with an 'L' but the name doesn't matter. I don't plan to see her again.

Lips connect with the skin on my back. Reflexively I flinch. If she thinks she'll be my saving grace, she's wrong. Why do they all want to be my savior, to fix me? Can't they see I don't want to be saved? I'm in hell where I belong, baptized by the sins and the lies of my past.

My muscles are tense. Rigidity helps protect me from soft caresses. I've learned to barricade my senses and disconnect from reality. It's easier that way. I can't get hurt if they can't get in and they can't get hurt if I don't pretend.

Damn. She should have passed out by now. Leaving is less dramatic when they’re unconscious. The less I have to talk, the cleaner the goodbye.

I'm not a considerate lover. Not anymore. Consideration destroyed my life. I won't make that mistake again. Ever.

Her hands knead my back, her lips brush against my skin.

I cringe. But instead of asking her to stop, I remain silent, my breathing slow and steady. I don't know why I endure the torture, but I always do. The affection reminds me of what I had, what I lost, and what I'll never have again.

I shouldn't be here. This was supposed to be uncomplicated. I met Leigh or Lea, or whatever her name is in a bar. We were both searching for a good time and we had it. I wish she'd roll over and go to sleep. Then I'd leave.

She wants something I can't give. I refuse to spoon feed buckets of empty promises or shoot the bullshit cannon every time I get laid. I won't send flowers or call. I won't take her to dinner. I'm not a date. I'm a one night stand. That's it. I'm nice enough to tell them that. I never sugarcoat my intentions. I want sex without commitment and I make no bones about it.

This one though, she seems to think she might be the exception to that rule. She's mistaken. I've yet to meet an exception.

Closet light streams into the room. Clothes are strewn across the floor and nightstand, carelessly discarded and scattered in our haste to strip. I study the disheveled array of fabric, searching for the pieces that belong to me. The faster I locate them, the faster I can spring from the bed. The faster I spring from the bed, the sooner I can split. Leaving is an art form that I've almost perfected.

The mattress shifts under her weight as she pushes the length of her body along mine. Breasts press into my back and my muscles involuntarily stiffen. A sensual act becomes an assault and guilt cuts me to the core.

I sympathize with her. I really do. Not because I'm leaving, but because she probably thinks I'm a great catch...a real keeper. I'm not. In fishing terms it's called catch and release. Hook it, reel it in, measure it, and compare notes with your pals. After tales are spun and the notes are compared, it's tossed back into the water to wait for the next person who happens to snag it.

The problem for her is that snagging is the easy part. I enjoy sex as much as the next person. Keeping me around for more than one night? Not going to happen. I've been there, done that, and have the emotional scars to prove it.

I've only had two meaningful relationships. One was with my high school sweetheart, the girl I was meant to marry. I was a first class dumbass and let her slip away. The other woman, I did marry. For six, long years that woman spun a web of lies and deceit until her sins devoured our marriage. And that's when my give a damn officially busted.

I locate my jeans. Tossing back the cover, I snatch them up and shove my legs in, one at a time. Through peripheral vision, I see her crawl to the edge of the bed. She's on all fours. Damn. I'm almost tempted to walk around the bed and go another round but that would only complicate matters. It's not a risk I'm willing to take.

Call me later? she asks.

There's no reason to lie, so I don't answer. I don't look at her either.

We both know I won't call. I don't have her number. Even if I did I wouldn't call.

I didn't call her friends.

I didn't call her cousin.

I didn't call her sister.

And I won't call her.

Chapter One

Everything around him screamed that he no longer belonged. From the cheerful shouts and drunken laughter, to the pop music blaring through nearby speakers, Cutter Harrison felt completely disconnected.

He grew up in small town Arkansas, but lately, dirt roads and back woods were sucking the life right out of him.

From the tailgate of his jacked-up, four wheel drive truck, he studied the bonfire, wondering how the hell he'd let things get so bad.

While most of his buddies were happily married, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, he was happily divorced. How was that for a life-plan?

All twenty-six years of his life could be summed up in two words: wasted time.

Squeals of youthful laughter reached his ears. He shifted his gaze from the fire to the pasture and immediately spied a group of young women standing a few yards away. They were rallied around one another, enthusiastically discussing whatever college girls discussed while tossing back beers and scanning crowds for date-worthy guys.

The situation darkened his mood. He knew how easily an innocent night of partying and drinking could bend hopes and dreams into a lifetime of regret.

Six years ago at a similar party, he drank until he passed out and woke up the next morning sleeping beside his fiancé's best friend. He'd gotten totally wasted, blacked out, and now his life was a huge frigging mess.

I'm too old for this crap, he mumbled under his breath.

He stole another peek at the giggling women and hoped they had more sense than he'd had. Maybe they'd play it smart and sidestep any and all life-altering, dumbass, drunken decisions...at least for tonight.

A few local boys with bad reputations strolled over to the ladies. Gritting his teeth, Cutter looked away and scowled at the embers in the fire. The ladies weren't his responsibility. If they were older and he'd met any one of them in a bar, he'd likely have the same thing in mind the boys did.

Remind me again why I'm here, he pleaded with his beer can.

To forget. You're trying to forget. After downing the last swallow, he crushed the aluminum and tossed it over his shoulder. The can clattered against the other empties, becoming just one more addition to the beer can graveyard.

Shit, he growled. No amount of drinking, working, or screwing would ever be enough to make him forget.

Angie, the woman he should have married, was in love with someone else. It was his fault though and he couldn't blame his misfortune on anyone but himself. After all, he was the dumb-ass who'd let her get away and then he'd married Becky. As far as he was concerned, Becky ruled the island of Bitch-Assedness and he secretly wished someone would nuke her and her freaking island. No party in the universe could fix his troubles.

And the perky brunette he’d screwed last night? She'd distracted him long enough to satisfy an itch, but that was it. If he could reverse time and undo all he'd done to hurt Angie, he would. Then Becky wouldn't have happened and he'd still be with the love of his life.

He ached for her, for what he’d lost. Her name was scribbled across his heart, his soul imprinted with her images, memories, and the love they shared. He was a damaged shell of a man, desperate to drown his pain.

Cutter pulled another beer out of the ice chest and lifted it to down-turned lips. Releasing a long, weary breath, he chugged the contents, sat the empty can down beside him, and picked up his guitar.

When life got iffy, there were two things he relied on—beer and music—his music.

Usually, he only played for cash, but plucking his own butt hairs would be better than suffering through another chart busting pop song. Besides, if he didn't channel his grief, his truck bed wouldn't be deep enough, long enough, or wide enough to hold his pity or the cans.

If Angie knew he still played, she'd be proud. She'd always encouraged his music. It was crazy, but sometimes he fantasized about playing for her, which was pointless. She was with Dean now, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. As the owner of a Dallas strip club, she'd probably think his back road country music was boring anyway.

Satisfaction coursed through his veins as he strummed the guitar strings. With each tender stroke, he forgot about the party. He forgot about the college girls. He forgot about the brunette he'd walked out on last night. He forgot about his ex-wife. He forgot about everything—except Angie. He pictured her face, her lips, and the sound of her voice.

With each strum, the music grew louder. Her image carried him up the summit of forgiveness and down into the valley of regret. The chords were waves of what ifs, maybes, and what might have beens. And he rode them until the sound of his guitar filled the heated summer air, surrounding him with its rich, hypnotic melody.

Within minutes, the pop music stopped and the party goers' boisterous, drunken laughter fell silent.

With head bent over his guitar, the brim of his cowboy hat blocked his view and he gave himself to the music. Party goers started gathering around the tailgate of his truck but he didn't notice, didn't care. This was his medication, his escape.

Leaning further over the instrument, Cutter's frustration, loss, and grief merged together in the form of a song. It was one of many he'd written, but was the only one he'd written for Angie.

Every night when he crawled into bed, the lyrics haunted him. The image of her face invaded his dreams, crushed his heart, and the song echoed the hurt he'd buried inside. The song was so personal, so heartfelt, that he'd never shared it with anyone else—until now.

Comfortably numb and grateful to have the rim of his hat and a guitar to hide behind, he belted out the lyrics and shared Angie's Song.

Losing her was hell, but without regret, his music wouldn't exist. He'd learned to surrender to the melody. It was easier to release the words created by misery than to mask his sorrow. Music was a friend, a faithful lover, and the only outlet he had left which connected him to Angie.

Holly Avery knew it was a bad idea but she hadn't come this far just to back down. Like it or not, the plan was already in motion and she never backed down—no matter how much she wished she could.

See one dive bar and you've seen them all. Yet here she was, scouring each and every dilapidated building on every back road that she could find. Though a handful of famous country singers had sprung out of the area along the Oklahoma/Arkansas border, the talent well had apparently dried up.

Can I buy you a drink?

She offered the politest, most nonsensical smile she could muster. How many men had asked the same question? And how many times had she declined?

No thanks. I drink alone. Lifting a beer bottle, she tilted the bottom toward the unwelcomed intruder before bringing it to her lips.

Unfazed by her standoffishness, the burly, red headed man stumbled back a step. On a grunt, he lunged forward and plopped his ass on the seat.

A lady should never drink alone.

Here we go again, she thought, rolling her eyes. And why's that? Is there a law regulating socially acceptable drinking habits? Or is that your best pickup line?

Just trying to be friendly, he slurred.

I appreciate the gesture but I'm not in a friendly sort of mood.

The part she most disliked about her job was dealing with idiots who tanked up on enough liquid courage to try their luck. If this guy thought she was leaving the bar with him, he was sorely mistaken. Better looking men had tried and failed. Her pants hadn't hit a man's floor in a long time and she planned to keep it that way.

When it came to marriage and men, her success rate was a big, fat zero.

A gentleman won't allow a lady to buy her own drinks. Anyone from around these parts will tell you that. His garbled speech and alcohol-steeped breath filled her nose. Her stomach rolled. Another sip of beer helped her force down the bile forming at the back of her throat.

Thanks for the generosity, but I'm here for the band. And your ugly mug is blocking my view.

The man's right eyelid sagged under the weight of the alcohol as he unsuccessfully attempted to focus on her face. Are you married to one of them?

She'd never punched anyone before, but the scenario played out in her mind. Instead, she decided it was easier to dance around the edges of a lie. If I say yes, will you leave me alone?

The man struggled to stay upright and she fought to keep from gagging. If the spittle hanging from his lips wasn't disgusting enough, the sweat seeping from his pores combined with his whiskey sour breath was. Her skin crawled under his glassy-eyed scrutiny.

If he immediately left the table, it wouldn't be soon enough. She knew men like him. They lived in a contaminated cloud of sickly fog that infected everything they touched. She'd only talked to him and knew she'd need to soak in an oatmeal bath for an hour to cleanse her soul of any infectious contagion he might have spread.

With a grumble and sloppy roll of the head, he finally slithered off in search of his next victim.

Holly had reached the bottom of her beer when the band finally returned for the second set. Whether she'd failed to follow directions or whether they were bad she couldn't say, but she'd managed to miss the first set. That didn't matter now. She made it and only had to hear two