Falling into You (Falling Stars 3)

Tossing off the covers, I sat up on the side of the bed. “Fine.”

A spike of pain pierced my brain. I moaned and rammed the heels of my hands into my eyes.

Shit.

Good fuckin’ luck with the whole drowning my problems bit. Only thing taking a swim in a bottle of bourbon had done was double the misery. The gaping hole in the darkest part of me ached and moaned. A blade struck right through my brain, the piercing stab of it a reminder of what I was in the middle of.

Of what I could feel coming closer.

Rhys laughed and patted me on the head. “Aww…did someone have too much to drink last night? Makes me wonder where you disappeared to without sayin’ a word. Sketch, baby.”

I smacked his hand away. “Fuck off, man.”

He laughed harder. “Touchy.”

“I’ll show you touchy,” I warned.

This time he cackled. “You’re adorable, Richard. Truly adorable. Keep up with those dreams about taking a stallion like me out. Now get some damn clothes on and let’s roll. My mama is downstairs with yours, hatching a plan. Word of warning: favorite topic right now is that surprise guest who showed up last night.”

He lifted his brows.

Busted.

Fuck.

No doubt, every busybody in the state knew Violet had shown. Which undoubtedly meant every single one of those gossip-hounds were currently spreading the word that I’d followed her out. In a town like this, I might as well have set fire to Town Hall.

I really did have to get out of here. Last thing I needed was to face my mother after the stunt I’d pulled last night.

If I’d thought my life was a bad dream, it’d just become a nightmare.

“Fine. I’m coming.”

“Meet me downstairs in five.”

When he slipped out, I tossed the covers off and groaned as I got out of bed.

No matter which way I cut it, this was gonna suck.Fifteen minutes later, we were blazing down the road in Rhys’ ridiculously over-the-top car at warp speed.

A brand-new GT500.

Lime green and black, of course.

“Would you slow down, asshole?”

“Not a chance, brother!” Rhys drummed on the steering wheel as he shouted out the open window, his dark blond hair blowing all over the place. “Freest I’ve felt in forever. Home sweet home, baby!”

Rhys blew out a whistle as he dragged his face from the window and faced forward. “Woo wee, is it ever good to be back. Ready for a little R & R. Remind my bones where they came from before I let the limelight go to my head. A country boy could get used to all that glitz and glam.”

Dude actually tapped his temple.

I cut him a raised brow. “I’m pretty sure something got to your head, and it doesn’t have a thing to do with the limelight.”

Rhys busted up and reached over the console in my direction. Asshole patted me on the cheek, action just as condescending as the tone of his voice. “Aww, come on, Richey-Poo, don’t be jealous I got double the Gram followers after our big show on the ACB Awards. I know it stings, brother, but there are some of us who are just meant to go down in the history books. Some of us who were meant to love all the ladies. Some of us who are meant to go down in a blaze of glory.”

He let his left arm drift out the window, riding on the wind, his grin going double-smug. “No need to get bitter over it. I’m happy to give you a ride on my coattails, and I won’t even take credit for it.”

I scoffed. “You wish, dude. And would you watch the damn road?”

Rhys was as ridiculous as they came. Loud and obnoxious and wore his heart on his sleeve. He was this thick, brawny, tattooed boy with dust on his boots and country in his soul. He never hesitated to say whatever he was thinking and was glad to throw in a little extra BS, too.

We’d grown up next door to each other, best of friends, two of us nothing but reckless dreams and nonstop trouble. Pretty much drove our poor mamas out of their minds with worry.

I guessed they hadn’t been too far off base.

“You know the only reason all those women follow you is because they want to see pictures of you without your shirt?” I goaded him.

After every show, the doucher ripped his shirt from his body and tossed the sweaty, drenched mess out into the crowd. The women who caught it had started a tradition of taking a picture of themselves wearing it with nothing else under and posting it with the hashtag #IGotWetWithRhys.

Dude was a walking STD.

His expression turned wry. “You’re saying that like it’s an issue.”

“Hey, man, all I’m saying is we know who’s got talent around here, and it’s not you,” I teased.