Smoke and Lyrics

By Holly Hall

Country star Jenson King is accustomed to fighting battles and losing—in his career, in his love life, and with alcohol. Following his divorce, thousands, if not millions, of fans are counting on his comeback. But how does one find the spark of passion when it's long since burned out?

Lindsey Farrar wants nothing more than to prove herself as a music photographer. Fiery and independent, she'd rather work countless side jobs to fuel her dream than ride someone else's name to success. After a chance encounter, Lindsey shakes up everything Jenson believes about life and that other four-letter word.

Together, they're fire and gasoline. But Lindsey's determined to shine all on her own, and Jenson casts an enormous shadow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Holly Hall
• Release date: May 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463495780

Holly Hall

Holly Hall drinks coffee on the daily, would love to travel for a living, thinks animals are often better than humans, can count on one hand the number of things she loves more than reading and Texas A&M football (okay, that might be an exaggeration), and couldn’t handpick a better family than her enormous one. She is the author of four standalone, contemporary romances: Forever Grace, All the Pieces That You Left, Love in Smoke, and Smoke and Lyrics. She resides with her husband and German shepherd in Houston, Texas.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jenson

I tug the cap farther down on my head, hunching over the bar top and two fingers of my most favorite vice: whiskey. Maker’s, to be exact. The amber liquid gleaming in the neon lights of the bar looks almost warm. It certainly has its arms wrapped around me more often than not. But the truth is, it’s the coldest thing there is. It blurs rationality and the hard line between right and wrong.

Oh yeah, and it fucking decimates relationships.

My realization is alarmingly slow to settle that I’m doing it again—deflecting blame. The liquor didn’t breathe inadequate words at my ex-wife, words that were meant to soothe, to temper, but really just fueled the flames of her hatred for our marriage. The bottle didn’t force her to leave. I did. I did those things. And until I accept responsibility, there’s no hope for me. My therapist in rehab told me that. Not in so many words, but being a songwriter and musician, I’m pretty good at reading between the lines.

I’ve drunk so much I’m surprised I’m not pickled yet. But I can’t stay away. Being out here—walking among the living—keeps me connected to the world I’m afraid to lose. The one I love and hate. I am not made for the greed and narcissism of the industry, yet I hold onto my career with desperate fingers even as it slices deep. Nothing sticks in my world; not good habits, not love.

I took as many precautions as one could when they’re a platinum-album recording artist at a bar near Broadway, one of the busiest streets in Nashville. My prolonged social media hiatus means everyone thinks I’m as long-haired and bare-faced as always, and my sleeves cover most of my trademark tattoos. Maybe Tripp’s wasn’t the smartest of choices for my Thursday-night binger, I’ll admit, but I’m sick of hiding. I’m tired of camouflaging who I am for the sake of others. I haven’t completely committed to waving my career good bye as it flushes down the shitter, but I’d better get used to the idea—that’s what’s going to happen if anyone in this bar happens to recognize my face in the sea of bleary strangers.

Even my own bandmates think I’m plotting my comeback. I’m supposed to be writing music right now, but what am I doing? Pouring gasoline on all the bridges I’m about to burn.

Though I want to flip two middle fingers to it all, I can’t stop my gaze from flitting around the room. If I’m being documented by other bar-goers guzzling whiskey while I’m supposed to be getting my life on track, I at least want the heads up so I can prepare an epic, not at all meaningful apology speech for the label execs. But nobody gives me a second glance. As of now, the haircut is working. It’s the one everyone and their dad is rocking these days—short on the sides and long on top—and I’ve allowed my stubble to reach its full potential. Yeah, a beard, as if I could get more cliché.

Counting it as good luck that no one’s onto me, I go to turn around and snag Tripp for another whiskey, when something by the entrance makes me pause. Or rather, someone. The neon plays off strands of dark hair, pulled up on top of her head in something my ex-wife would refer to as a topknot, though it looks more like a nest you could lose a bunch of shit in if you weren’t careful. I peg her as someone in the hospitality industry based on the usual get-up—little T-shirt with a mass-produced logo emblazoned on the front, shorts, a slice of flat stomach showing between the two, and non-slip shoes. But it’s not her general attractiveness holding my attention, it’s the preoccupied look in her eyes.

She’s shooting worried glances out the door as if she’s watching for someone, but she flattens against the wall after each look. Like she’s expectant, but at the same time doesn’t want to be seen. The group of twenty-somethings huddled around a table near the dartboards keeps looking her way, eating her up with their eyes and talking loudly, puffing their chests like they’re animals trying to attract a mate. If they haven’t learned by now that subtlety is the key to winning the hearts of girls way out of their league, chances are they never will.

Redirecting my attention, I raise a couple fingers to signal to Tripp for another. Not your problem, Jenson. He slides a glass my way, accompanied by a look of warning. I ignore him and take a long pull, relishing the warmth as it reaches its fingers down my throat. I remember when whiskey used to burn. But you can’t fight fire with fire, and I burn everything I touch.

I feel her before I see her, hearing the whoosh of her breath as she plops down two barstools over. I look in her direction and immediately regret it. I study the bottles up on the shelves instead, though their labels are ones I memorized long ago.

I think I hear her mutter Who pissed in your Cheerios? but I can’t be sure. I don’t chance another look. Her wide gray eyes told me a thousand things in a fraction of a second, much more than words ever could. I’ve seen that look before—in Raven’s eyes six months after our divorce. The look of someone who’s open, feeling. Things Raven had hardly been during the five years we were together.

I take another swig of Maker’s to temper the memories, but my recollection of Raven is so flavored with liquor I almost feel her here, feel her disappointment. I can see the girl in my periphery, but she pays no more attention to me. It seems her focus is torn between the front door and the one leading to the kitchen, behind the bar. It’s unsettling, the way it dances uneasily as a wild horse’s.

Looking for someone? I can’t keep the words from coming out. It doesn’t look like she’s drinking or expecting anyone. She probably came off her shift somewhere, so I’m sure the last thing she wants to do is hang out in some bar, marinating in the same shit she’s had to deal with all day. Besides, this place is a sausage party.

I allow another sidelong glance. Just one, and when her distracted, stormy eyes finally fix on me, she doesn’t react. There’s no glimmer of recognition, not even a flinch of the pitying looks that have become normal as of late. Her head swivels back to the door, eyes alert.

Um, she finally says, facing forward again, craning her neck to see through the porthole window in the door to the kitchen. No. Just, uh, wondering if it’s going to rain.

The comment is so unexpected that I let out a burst of a chuckle, fully looking at her before it registers that she could be the one who recognizes me, who puts the final nail in the coffin of my sullied image and my limping career. You melt in the rain or something?

Worrying her lip, she drums her chewed nails on the counter. If it weren’t for those gunmetal-gray eyes, I’d be distracted by the colorful stack of bracelets on her arms—the hand-woven friendship type. No. I walk to work, and I didn’t bring an umbrella today.

I’m not even sure if it’s going to rain. When I walked in earlier, the air was thick, the clouds swollen and dark, but as far as I know the pavement’s dry as dust. So why don’t you call a cab?

Her gaze nearly pins me to the wall. I don’t walk to work every day just to turn around and blow my tips on cab fare.

Which one do you work at? Her eyes tighten and I tilt my head back toward the street. Which bar?

Not a bar, a record store. Rhythm and Beans.

I know of it. Who doesn’t? It’s a record shop-café combination across the street that caters to tourists with their overpriced T-shirts and hats and key chains.

Ah.

What? she snaps, catching my distaste.

I shrug languidly, finish off my glass. Consider ordering another. Just not my scene.

What’s not your scene, fun?

I snort. You call that tourist circus fun? You must not be from around here. That place is a skid mark on this street.

Whatever. She picks at the corner of a menu, shutting me out. I might’ve been silently ragging on those other guys earlier for their ineffective attempts to catch her eye, but I haven’t done much better. Then again, I’m not trying.

I shift, pulling my wallet from my back pocket and peeling a twenty from the wad of cash inside. I toss it onto the bar, catch the other bartender’s eye. Whatever the lady wants.

She slaps the bill and slides it right back to me, snatching her hand away before I can even think about deflecting her. "Uh, the lady doesn’t want your money. And the lady’s name is Lindsey."

That makes it easier on me, then. I didn’t even have to ask. And excuse me for contributing to the cause. When she shoots daggers at me in the form of a glare, I hold the twenty up between two fingers. Look, no offense, but I can tell you’re having a bad day. You could’ve used this for a few beers, a couple shots, maybe even a cab. But if you’re not going to use it, I might as well give it to my friend here. I dangle the bill over the tip jar and she watches it intently, trading glances between it and me.

But, I understand if you’re into that girl power thing. That ‘don’t open the door for me and undermine my own capabilities’ bullshit. I was just trying to be nice.

Chewing on her lip, Lindsey draws a menu toward her with one finger, then pushes it away. Yeah, no. Thanks for the effort, but I kind of just want to go home. I guess that was nice, though. She angles her head toward the tip jar, and the bill flutters down to join the others.

None taken. Come on, I’ll drop you off. I go to stand, pausing beside the stool to get my bearings. I’ve been affixed to this bar for almost two hours, and although I’m well practiced at concealing how much I’ve drunk, I don’t want to fall on my face and cause a scene.

Again, no offense, but I don’t think you’re in the position to take anyone home.

The bartender, Tripp, who’s also the owner and a good buddy of mine—one who does his best to fend off my efforts at tarnishing my own name—slides my debit card and receipt toward me so I can close my tab. I should’ve remembered to use cash. More discreet. My fingers are thick and clumsy around the thin plastic, and the card bobbles, tumbling toward the floor. Before I can retrieve it, Lindsey’s hunched over and fishing it out from beneath her stool.

She glances at my card—awesome, because if she didn’t know who I was before, she certainly does now—and hands it back to me almost dismissively. No questions, no requests for photos or autographs or any of the usual clamor that occurs when people realize who I am.

I watch her as I slide it into my back pocket. Thanks for your concern, but I have a ride waiting. A sober ride. Take it or leave it.

I can see the inner debate play out in her eyes. It’s strange to see someone with thoughts so unguarded. After five years of Raven, it’s a shock to the system. I wonder briefly how young she is.

Sighing, she shoulders her bag—a beat-up messenger type. She’s not one of those label snobs. Okay, but don’t think for one second that me taking you up on this offer is also me making some unspoken agreement to sleep with you for your ‘generosity.’ I won’t. Let me make that clear. I’m holding up my hands in surrender before she literally puts her hand over my mouth, making me swallow any words on the verge of coming out. And don’t touch me. I have pepper spray. Seriously.

Pardon me for pointing it out, but you touched me first. Just saying. She breezes past me without a word before halting right in front of the glass door, glancing out. Then she spins right back toward me. Is there a back door we can use?

There’s always a back door, I say with a straight face. I catch myself before my hand fits in the curve of her lower back to guide the way, waving toward the door past the restrooms instead. Right this way. I consider questioning her decision to slip out the back, but I push down my curiosity. She doesn’t seem to want to explain, and I don’t want to seem too eager to know anything about her. For seeming so naïve, she’s not defenseless. Not at all like I first assumed.

We step out into the back alley, and though she doesn’t know where we’re going, she walks a step ahead of me. I stuff my hands into my pockets, the tang of the oily urban air partially cleaving my whiskey stupor. She’s mostly going in the right direction, so I don’t stop her. The other way would’ve been quicker, but I’m enjoying the view too much. She’s tall—maybe five-eight or so—and her frayed jean shorts hug her swaying hips like a glove. Black ink shows just above the back of her tank top, and I can just make out the top half of a circle in the dull lighting. I bite back a smile; I’m no stranger to ink. Half of my torso, some of both hands, and most of my arms, from chest to shoulder to wrist, are covered in it.

We pause at a cross street, and she takes a step before realizing I’m no longer following her. I tilt my head left and we continue north, away from the bustle of Broadway. My pickup point is a few blocks from here, in a quieter area.

Lindsey’s strides are less confident now, eating up less ground. She glances behind us a few times before we reach Carter’s black Tahoe.

I open the back door for her, and she glances inside, trying to get a look at the driver. Carter, this is Lindsey, go ahead and give her a nice wave so she doesn’t think we’re abducting her or something.

Carter, my best friend and the drummer from my band, looks up from his phone, lifting two fingers in his version of a friendly greeting. Hey, Lindsey, he says, shooting me a look. He’s used to me bringing girls home, but I promised him just the other night that I was done with it. I used women like I used alcohol—to plug up the hole in my heart. My selection could’ve been better, safer, but at those times, I wasn’t sober enough or happy enough to care.

Tonight, I didn’t even have to look for someone. She found me. But I steal a glance at her, looking small and alone in the backseat, as I fold myself into the front passenger side and shut the door, and I know I won’t try to take her home. The look in her eyes back at the bar, irises tainted with caution, told me she wasn’t the type. Plus, I’m not one to take advantage of someone’s fragile mental state. I believe in karma, to an extent. She’s certainly been a bitch to me.

Where are we taking you? I ask. I repeat myself when I see her reflection in the side mirror, looking out the window, her mind somewhere else again.

Oh, um, I live at Carrington Park, she says, her voice quieter since she’s now twisted in her seat, facing the rear window.

Carter gives me a questioning look and points to his head, hinting she’s crazy, and I shrug at him. It might be rude to presume, but I don’t really know her enough to firmly deny it. Putting the truck in gear, he pulls away from the curb.

"Could we not? I can’t . . . don’t want to go home tonight."

I shoot Carter a covert look when his hands flex on the steering wheel and he grumbles just loud enough for me to hear. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. Okay, anywhere else we can take you? Carter amends, raising his eyebrows at me. I nod in approval. Better.

I see her lick her pouty lower lip, then bite it, but not in a seductive way. Earlier, it was reddened and raw from where she’d probably been chewing on it all day.

I don’t have anywhere else to go.

My confusion aside, she sounds lost. Utterly lost. And I don’t think she’s that great of an actress, I can practically see every thought flicker across her features. If you don’t mind a bachelor pad that’s in no way suitable for female company, you could come to our place. Hang out for a little while. I figure she just needs somewhere to wind down, maybe. Somewhere she doesn’t feel alone. I can commiserate.

Her shoulders drop. Okay, she breathes.

Chapter 2

Lindsey

I’m not crazy. I know how it looks, especially to narrow-minded men who see women as hardly more than a good lay or a pain in the ass, but I’m not crazy. Paranoid, maybe, but that’s where I draw the line. My head may be up in the clouds half the day, but I know what’s real, and reality is usually uglier than anything I can imagine.

I force myself to face forward, smooth my fidgety hands over my denim shorts. My nerves are shot, but that has little to do with the men in the front seat. After a rocky session photographing an indie punk band this afternoon and a shift at the café, my anxiety is through the roof. Juggling coked-out musicians followed immediately by serving the rowdy patrons who stumble into the record shop will do that to you. I work in a near-constant state of panic that I’m not doing enough. All to fund my dreams.

But I don’t have expectations, ever, and I know anything worth having won’t come easily. I moved from Denver three months ago to refine my craft and chase my dream of becoming a music photographer. I’ve met a few people here and there, people that know people, but it’s an uphill battle in an industry where self-teaching is all the rage, connections matter more than almost anything else, and everyone thinks they have what it takes to take a good photograph. But I told my mom I’d succeed. I made a promise. And I didn’t move across the country, a thousand miles away from her, for nothing.

And tonight, I can’t even go home to get a decent night’s rest before the madness starts all over again tomorrow. Because he’s found out where my apartment is and, like several other nights this week, he’ll be there waiting. Craig.

I swallow thickly, avoid the curious glances the guys in the front seat direct at me from the mirrors. This kind of irrational decision-making is what probably got me into this mess in the first place, but it’s Jenson King who offered to take me home. He’s already made such a mess of his life that I doubt he’d risk an abduction or rape scandal. Despite the drastic change in facial hair and the ball cap over his new-ish haircut, I could’ve told you who he was the moment I sat beside him and met those soulful, down-turned eyes. He might think he’s fooling everyone else by covering the ink on his arms, but I’m supposed to know the ins and outs of this industry. It’s part of the job.

Besides, anyone with half a brain should’ve been able to pick him out of a crowd. There’s nobody who plays with the passion he does. Nobody who caresses each note with his tongue and the strum of his fingers as if every single one is worth his undivided attention. The appearance of Carter as his ride, one of the most talented and recognizable drummers of this decade, just confirmed everything.

What I don’t know for sure is why Jenson, an artist just out of rehab for God knows what, would be drinking whiskey like his life depended on it at a bar in the middle of Music City. Maybe that’s something I can find out . . . and maybe slap him in the face with to wake him the fuck up.

I’m surprised to look beyond the window and see darkness, the bright lights of the city replaced by softly-lit residential homes with wide lawns. I was expecting a little bungalow or loft near the heart of the city, maybe in trendy East Nashville, but while I was lost in my thoughts, I’ve been whisked to the sleepy outskirts. Carter pulls into the cracked driveway of a home that, while expansive, looks like it could use some TLC. The yard is slightly overgrown, and beer cans litter the pavement surrounding the pair of trash cans near the garage.

We come to a stop on the side of the house, and Jenson opens my door. Carter goes one way while Jenson goes another. I’m momentarily torn between the two until Jenson throws a half smile over his shoulder and angles his head toward the back. I hug my messenger bag to my hip and follow his long strides around to a basement entry. This isn’t creepy at all. The concrete outside is dotted with cigarette butts and a couple of sun-bleached lawn chairs. A bachelor’s paradise.

Come on in. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to clean the place up, I wasn’t really expecting company.

Is that what you say to all the girls you bring home? I joust, stepping through the sliding glass door. I may be young, but I’m not naïve. I experienced college life, for god’s sake, and if you want to find a scumbag, try any college campus in this country.

Jenson’s mouth twists, biting back a smile. He’s standing in the middle of the cluttered basement with his hands in his pockets and a take-it-or-leave-it expression on his face.

To be fair, you asked to come. Don’t go judging.

I let out a sigh, traipsing between two piles of dirty clothes to drop my bag onto a leather couch that, aside from the monster TV on the stand in front of it, is the only thing distinguishing this part of the room as the living area. I figure it’s the safest piece of furniture in this place, but being Jenson King, I imagine nothing’s been left unscathed.

You’re right. No more judgment allowed.

Oh, and you don’t have to do that. He gestures flippantly toward the couch. If you’re staying, I can take the couch. Half the time I pass out there anyway.

Taking in his rumpled, unmade bed, I shake my head quickly. The couch is fine. The guy’s been divorced for the better part of a year, no telling what’s on those sheets.

He shrugs and nods toward the bed. It’s only polite.

I assure you, giving me the couch is polite enough. I insist.

Holding up his palms, he backs away and reaches for a bottle of liquor on the nightstand. He had that in arm’s reach of his bed, and yet he still took the chance of getting caught hammered in public and subsequently slapping each of his well-wishing, hopeful fans in the face. I bite my tongue. It’s not my problem, but I’m not sure anything enrages me more than someone taking an opportunity hardly anyone ever gets and discarding it like trash. Doesn’t he know how many people would kill to be in his position, to just be able to do what they love for a living instead of putting it on the back burner for something that barely pays the bills?

Jenson pours two fingers and, to my surprise, holds the glass out to me. Shaking my head, I toe off my shoes and perch on the couch, sinking into the cushions. It’s been a long day. Thanks for this, by the way. I’ll be gone first thing in the morning.

He shrugs, tossing his cap onto the bed and running his fingers through his chocolate hair. It stands on end, disheveled and a little sexy. I don’t think he’s even aware of the effect he has on people if the rumors can be believed. He’s known for his modesty, his avoidance of the limelight, his aversion to attention. It’s hard to grasp how a man who’s considered a country music rock star could have that kind of attitude. I thought it was all an act before, but now I see it’s genuine.

Sure you don’t want anything else to drink? he offers, dropping down onto his bed to kick off his shoes.

No, thanks. I need sleep, as weird as that sounds.

Sure. He reclines on his pillows, sucking down a gulp of liquor and running his hand over his face. It’s strange to see him here in his socks, utterly alone in his bed. Out from the glow of the neon, it’s easier to see how despondent he looks. How . . . empty. Merely a puppet going through the motions. It’s not fair, how life renders us helpless against its whims. Illnesses, natural disasters, social injustices. I don’t have much pity for people’s self-made problems, but I have a strange fascination with finding out who holds the strings behind others.

You know what? I’ll have one. What fun is drinking alone, right? Maybe not the most tactful of comments, but half the time I’m not aware of the words I say until they leave my mouth. Do you have anything other than whiskey?

Nope, he says, reaching over without even rising and pouring another glass. This time I take it, and with the expansiveness of the one-room basement, and nowhere to sit that wouldn’t be awkward, I round the bed and prop a hip on the edge. Whiskey it is, then. Lowering my nose so it’s just inside the rim of the glass, I take a deep inhale, registering the scents of smoky oak. Then I take a sip, and the warmth courses down my throat and spreads to my limbs.

Where’d you learn to drink like that? he asks, watching me.

My cousin. He’s an old fashioned snob. Whiskey and bourbon are his thing.

Jenson brings his glass to his lips, mulling that over for a moment before taking a sip. Your cousin and I have that in common. Are you guys close?

I smile fondly, thinking of Landon. He reminds me of Jenson in more ways than one. Same broodiness, same penchant for things that aren’t good for them. But Landon’s happy now, and I’ve never seen him look better. He’s my mentor. My idol. I probably admire him more than anyone I know.

He regards me with contemplative eyes. Why wasn’t he here to take you home?

He lives back in Denver, where I’m from. I don’t know many people out here, yet. The more I say, the more lost I sound. I hate that. I’m tougher than I look.

Jenson nods, his eyes skating to me. They get glassier as the night wears on. So you’re new here, and you hardly know anyone. But why do you have nowhere to go, Lindsey?

I catch a swallow of liquor in my throat, just narrowly avoiding letting it go down the wrong pipe. I did say that, didn’t I? That’s just part of life, isn’t it? Half of it is finding out where we belong and where we don’t. Sometimes we fail at both.

Mmm. Poetic.

You would know. My gaze ambles over the acoustic guitar resting on its stand beside the bed. I lean forward and run a finger across the strings, eliciting a wayward note. I don’t want to talk about me and my issues. Have you written anything lately?

He scoffs. It’s sounds strange coming from that mouth. You sound like the record people.

I was hoping I’d get something out of my first personal encounter with a rock star. Like a sneak peak of a song. Something exclusive I can gossip vaguely to my coworkers about, I jibe at him.

He’s slower to blink, his eyes growing heavy, and the hand supporting his tumbler of whiskey rests languidly on his chest. Is this what he does every night? Wallow in his whiskey and his failures, let them take him to bed? You know who I am.

It’s more confirmation than question. Of course I know who you are. But his fingers slacken and his eyelids don’t open, and the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest tells me he’s done for the night. I take the glass from his limp fingers and set it safely on the bedside table. By myself in the silence, I start humming my favorite of his songs, Puzzle Heart, about a woman and her mystery. And when I drain the remnants of my drink with a wince, he murmurs something. It’s low and strangled.

Rayyy. Ravens.

I go rigid. That was his wife’s name, wasn’t it? I’m less aware of the pop culture side of things, but I’m almost sure of that fact. I’m frozen in place, a little embarrassed for him, but one glance over my shoulder tells me he’s just as asleep as he was a moment ago. His tortured voice accompanied by the slight furrow of his brow make me irrevocably sad.

Rising slowly, I discard my glass on his bedside table and roam over to a dresser in