Quittin' the bottle at the end of the day,
Wanna be there for heaven, let it open the gate.
I'll give up the lyin' if you're gonna stay;
I'll be quittin' at the end of the day
The haunting words of the song Deacon had written for her, years ago, had been running through Rayna's head all evening.
She knew that the old song wasn't relevant any more. She had watched him get sober – and stay sober, rock steady sober, all these years. But Rayna had been reminded tonight of exactly how it felt, waiting for that other shoe to drop.
He stormed off, temper flaring; she couldn't find him. He hid out, ignoring her calls; she worried frantically. How could she possibly go through … this … with him, all over again?
She said goodbye to her sister and stepped into the waiting limousine, settling herself and letting out a frustrated groan, running her fingers through her hair.
When the limo door opened a moment later and he stepped inside, the relief that flooded through her was palpable. Rayna tried to stifle the tears that welled up, tears of guilt and relief in equal measure, as she listened to him.
"You and me got so much damn water under our bridge, sometimes it's like we're drownin' in it," he said, his eyes shining with sincerity. "Aw, to hell with all that. What matters is you – an' me – right here, right now."
Rayna looked out the window into the rainy night, feeling a small sob briefly escape her lips.
"Hey, listen to me," he whispered, turning toward her. "You can tell me everything, an' you can tell me nothin' at all. But you can't tell me you don't love me. 'Cause that's the one thing I will never believe."
Rayna fought back the tears, her voice breaking.
"I do love you. I love you so much."
She reached for him and leaned over to kiss him, the combination of heat and desperation in her touch surprising both of them.
Sitting in his truck waiting for her to leave the party, Deacon had tried to prepare himself for anything from her: Anger, recrimination, evasion. But the way she was kissing him now – with startling recklessness – had been the last thing he'd expected.
She had always been concerned about her public image, about propriety and good behavior, about shielding herself and her family from gossip and rumor. But now, she was moving across the backseat to him, pressing her body up against his, her hands on his head, eagerly pulling him toward her.
Deacon returned her kisses, his left arm wrapping around her waist, his whole body thrilling to her desire. Except for three minutes hiding out in the studio's guitar room - and a very sexy late-night phone call - they had not had any time alone together since that first night at his place.
If it was possible, he wanted her more right at that moment than he ever had in his life.
As the limousine sped away from the river, Rayna continued to kiss him hotly. Deacon could tell she'd been drinking, and probably on an empty stomach: She never could eat anything before a performance.
She gripped his shoulders and clambered onto his lap, straddling him, her knees pressed up against the seat back. She was undulating against him, never breaking their kiss. He slid his hands along her thighs and slowly up over her ass; she moaned hard against his mouth, her breath hitching sharply.
Her hair was draped thickly over him and he reached up to push it aside and take her face into his hands, brushing his fingers over her cheeks and encountering the dampness of spilled tears there.
She broke off kissing him for a moment and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Her voice came in a breathy whisper.
"I want you so much, babe."
"I want you too, Ray."
"You and me - right here, right now," she murmured against his mouth, continuing to kiss him.
"Right now?"
"Just like you said - that's all that matters."
She reached out the tip of her tongue and traced it over his lips, eliciting a moan from deep within him as she ran her fingers through his hair.
"God, you're gonna be the death of me, darlin'."
She smiled, so relieved to have him in her arms again, and pulled back to look at him.
"Least you'll die happy, Deacon."
"Oh yeah? You gonna guarantee that?"
"I am. Let me show you … let me show you how much I love you."
She resumed kissing him and slid both hands down his chest and over his stomach.
He held onto her waist, not sure how far she was going to take this. Then he felt her fingers dipping into the front of his slacks.
She was dead serious.
He braced himself for her touch just as the limo swerved and she was thrown off balance.
Deacon caught her and looked up in time to meet the driver's creepy, curious stare, focused directly on them in the rear view mirror.
He sat up straighter and leaned forward, furious.
"Hey, buddy! Eyes on the road!" he barked, and the man's gaze quickly shifted away.
Rayna seemed not to notice, quickly settling back into his lap and reaching for him again.
He froze, grabbing both her wrists.
"Hang on, darlin'," he said under his breath, glancing out the window and realizing they were in East Nashville, not far from his house.
"Babe, I want you … I want to show you …"
She was struggling to pull her hands from his grasp.
"Rayna ... we're not alone."
She paused and looked at him.
Deacon inclined his head toward the front seat and realization dawned over her. Both of them knew about the money that the gossip rags and celebrity websites paid for breathless, "eyewitness accounts" of celebrities behaving badly.
All of them - Maddie and Daphne particularly - had been dragged through the mud pretty thoroughly lately; they could not possibly put themselves in line for any more nasty public scrutiny.
Rayna collapsed onto him, groaning in quiet frustration, and buried her face in his shoulder as his arms enveloped her.
"Can you come over to my place?" he whispered.
"Yeah. I got a babysitter. She's staying overnight with the girls."
"Good."
Deacon wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her on his lap, and leaned forward, gruffly delivering his address to the driver.
They arrived in front of his house a few minutes later. Rayna climbed off his lap and got out of the car when the driver opened the door. Deacon followed, digging out his wallet.
"It's paid for, babe. Marshall's got it."
"I know, I'm givin' him a tip."
"Really? Why?"
"Safer that way. Makes things worse if you piss 'em off."
Deacon grimly pulled a bill out and approached the driver, handing it to him.
"Not what TMZ pays, huh? Sorry."
The man didn't say a word, simply taking the money from his hand, closing the car door and walking back to the driver's seat.
The limo slunk away a moment later.