Out of The Blue

by Carina Adams

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Out of The Blue

By Carina Adams

Copyright ©2015 Carina Adams

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the author.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Images Copyright

Cover art created by Sara Eirew

 

Cover photo by Sara Eirew

Cover model Mike Chabot

Editing by Kristen Switzer of Switzer Edits

PR by Ardent PRose

For Apple and Samms,

You make me laugh when I want to cry.

Then, you make me laugh until I cry.

You tell me I can when I think I can’t,

And you always have my back.

(Plus, you wouldn’t let me kill Mike)

This book exists because of you.

I’m honored to call you my friends.

Prologue

~ Mike ~

I hate country songs.

I fucking despise the whiney ass pathetic excuse for music. I’m not a psychologist, but I’d bet big money that there is a direct link to the rising depression rates in America and the songs played on country radio. Everyone’s heard that horrible joke: “What do you get when you play a country song backward? You get your wife back, you get your home back, you get your dog back, you get your kids back, and on and on.” Truer story has never been told.

Grown men singing songs about the world doing them wrong, and crying about their achy breaky heart, disgust me. Fucking grow a pair, you useless douche. You lost your job? That sucks, guy. Really. Okay, you had five minutes to be pissed, now man up and get another one. Your woman left you? I’m actually not surprised. At least one of you has some common sense and she realized that she was more of a man than you are. Can’t live without her? Get off your ass and go get her back instead of singing a song that reminds her how worthless you are. Your attempt at a love song won’t make her realize her life is shit without you. Because it isn’t. The world’s problems won’t be solved in the bottom of a whiskey glass while you are hiding from life. Moron.

Fucking hate country music.

Yet, here I sat, at the bar in Hooligan’s Pub, nursing my third Tennessee Honey. The same place I went every single Wednesday. For Country night. Every week, I’d tell myself it’d be my last, that I would not come back the next. But I never fucking listened.

Fred and Darcey, the middle-aged couple that owned Hooligan’s, saw me there enough. I ran security for them Thursday through Saturday, and then manned the door on Mondays and Tuesdays. It’s a great gig. The money was decent. I worked with like-minded guys so there weren’t any annoying co-workers that wanted to shoot the shit and dig into my personal life, and my shifts didn’t start until eight, giving me the whole day with my son, Jake. Plus, the bar was located exactly halfway between my apartment and my hometown. The same town where Jake lived with his mom and stepdad.

I lucked out when I got the job seven weeks ago.

I’d stopped in for a drink on the way back to my apartment after an interesting exchange with my ex-wife, Julie. And, by interesting exchange, I mean the kind of argument that would make a lesser man thank fucking Christ he didn’t have to deal with her brand of crazy anymore. Her new husband is a douche nozzle, but he’s the unlucky dickhead that took her off my hands. I’d passed this place more times than I remembered, but had never stopped. At that moment, I needed a drink more than I needed air, so as soon as I saw the sign, I pulled over.

And walked into the middle of a brawl.

The normal bouncer had gotten called away and it was just Fred working security. He’s a moose of a man, don’t get me wrong, but the guys that frequented this place some nights were in a league of their own. That night it wasn’t just frat boys looking for an easy lay. Fred had his hands full. I could have turned and walked away. It wasn’t any of my business, but I’ve been a nosy son of a bitch my whole life, and I never mind my own. So, I’d jumped in.

Maybe the idea of beating on someone had encouraged my involvement. Knocking the shit out of some disrespectful little fuck is definitely a great way to let off some steam. It’s a helluva better stress reliever than that yoga shit my roommate always pushed on me. And, after the last few months, I needed to de-stress. After we got control of the situation and kicked the offending party out, Fred turned and offered me a job. My only stipulation was that I wouldn’t work country night.

Like the glutton for punishment I am, though, every damn week I came back here, parked my ass on a stool, and got twisted while listening to the music I couldn’t stand. I never thought I was a masochist. But I’d sit here and torture myself, gritting my teeth through every Billy Ray Cyrus song, just to hear the familiar chords of the outlaw country I’d missed.

As much as I’ve complained about the classics sung by hillbilly hicks, I longed to hear the familiar tunes I’d come to love. Give me Gary Allan, Eric Church, or Nate Kelly. Men that aren’t scared to move away from their genre’s conventions; men that are men, goddammit, and aren’t afraid to tell the world exactly who they are. That’s music I could get behind.

That’s the music of my life.

So here I sat, on my night off, waiting to hear the songs I’d heard played thousands of times while my friends sang to sold-out stadiums. They reminded me of a time when my job was to protect the man on stage at all costs, and life was a helluva lot better than it is now. I’d drink my whiskey until I couldn’t remember why I gave up the job that I loved, why I didn’t want to go home alone, or why every woman I saw was a redhead, even if she wasn’t.

I’d just lifted my empty glass, signaling for another refill, when I felt someone slide into the stool next to me. I didn’t even glance her way; I didn’t need to. She could’ve been the hottest piece of ass to ever walk in here, or she could’ve been completely deformed. It didn’t matter, because there was only one face I’d see.

I’d gotten good at waiting for them to approach me. So good, I didn’t even have to acknowledge her before she started talking and buying me another drink. Before it’s gone, she’ll have me in the back room, or in her car, both of us pretending the other is someone else.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” this one told Fred, who merely raised a single brow at me before nodding. “So, you come here often?”

I almost snorted at the obnoxiousness of her question. Does anyone really ask that? Instead, I offered a nod, still not looking at her. This one at least sounded the part. The voice is almost just like the one I missed, and I didn’t want to ruin the illusion by looking at her. Fred slid her drink toward her, and then tapped the bar in front of me, moving his eyes to her really quickly when I glanced up. She must’ve been hot. It didn’t matter to me, though, so I pursed my lips and frowned at my drink.

“This is actually my first time here,” the woman next to me continued as if I’d asked her the same question. “I didn’t even know it was here. But a friend told me I’d find what I was looking for.” And there it was. She was looking for a hookup. The one night stand that wouldn’t call her or bug her the next day. That’s me, honey. I definitely won’t call you, ‘cause I don’t even see you now. She muttered on, but I didn’t hear a word she’d said, too busy lost in my memories.