Wasted Heart Read Free Page A

cabinets and taking a sip of his drink.
    Reaching for my mug, I test the lukewarm, dark liquid against my lips before swallowing the strong, bitter java. My dad has got to start adding more water. Looking up at him, I smile before saying, “Yeah, they want me back in the studio to work on the new album.” I watch for his reaction. He’ll never admit it, but I see the pain of my leaving age him every single time.
    “Well, looks like rain. I could drive you if you want,” he replies, his weary green eyes pleading with me.
    “Dad, it’s a six hour drive. You’ve got things to do here. I’m okay,” I add, looking earnestly at him. Sure, I could have flown, but I enjoy driving. Sometimes, it’s the only place I have control over my life.
    Placing his cup down, he looks out the window, wanting to say more but not knowing how. Suddenly, I feel twelve again, a lost little girl with a broken father, both trying to figure out how to live once more. Sitting my own cup down on the kitchen counter, I walk towards him and straight into his open arms. He envelops me in his warmth, and I feel safe, but I know within that same encounter I’ve felt smothered at times. Against his shoulder, I mumble, “Love you, Dad.”
    “You too, kid,” he quietly adds.
    I pull back, giving him a small kiss on his heavily-stubbled cheek and turn to leave. “I’ll call,” I say exiting.

    Grabbing my stuff in the foyer, I walk down the steps, lugging it to Old Blue. I sling open the creaky door, toss my bags on the seat, and climb in. When I crank her up, a puff of black smoke shoots out of the muffler. It rumbles and shakes, and with a huge smile on my face, I pull out of my driveway.
    Reaching down, I turn on the radio, flipping the channel to the local country station. Brantley Gilbert’s new single flows out of the old speakers. God, I love him. I belt out the lyrics and sing along. I have no idea how this whole “pop crossover” business is supposed to work. You have the very popular Taylor and Kelly. They both are incredibly awesome at what they do, but it ain’t me. I love a bluegrass riff streaking through my music, and I don’t mind singing about the fact that I’m a little crazy. All true country girls are.
    The next song that blares on the radio stops my thoughts cold. Tag McGraw’s latest mega-ballad hit, “It Ain’t Over,” plays, and that sexy Southern voice of his smoothly makes promises. “It ain’t over when my heart still longs for you. And it ain’t over when I know you feel it too. I’ve said the words you wanted, even though you left me anyway. So just know girl, it ain’t over with me and you.”
    “Get over yourself,” I loudly yell to no one and switch the radio off. Gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands, my knuckles turn white, and my teeth grind against one another. I’ve tried to forgive the cheating bastard. Sorry Lord, but that is what he is. My grandma always said, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I’ll burn your house down with you in it.”
    Tag and I started out together in Nashville. He had connections while I had to scramble for every contact I could find. His dad is a famous guitarist in bluegrass music or “hillbilly rock” as some would say. Tag would show up at a lot of the same songwriter bars, and instantly, I couldn’t help being attracted to him. Tag is, well, Tag, and probably the finest guy I’ve ever seen. Wavy brown hair with blue-green eyes, and he’s tall and built like a well-bred bull. Not overly muscled but all steel underneath that tanned skin, just enough to make your mouth water. I like a country boy with a lift on his truck and big ol’ tires, and Tag fit the bill perfectly.
    I actually caught him staring at me from across the room several times with those ocean colored eyes before we actually met. He’s charismatic, and people take notice when someone like him walks into the room. Women and men alike gravitate to him, just to be in his