This was intended to be a one-shot but is now going to be two chapters, so an extended one-shot... a two-shot, if you will.
I wanted to play about with the idea of Rayna and Deacon's first kiss happening in his car as they mentioned in 5x07, and some of what leads up to it. It's at odds with the way I've written it in Forged in the Fire so was a bit strange to write a different version - an AU of an AU, in a way. I could never get tired of imagining all the ways Rayna and Deacon's first kiss could have gone though, so it's fun to play about with. Second chapter is almost done and will be posted in a few days.
Also I realise every time I write Deacon and Vince, they're on their couch in dirty socks burping and drinking beer. It's just where I picture them being in their natural habitat, but I really should find somewhere new for them to hang out and ruminate on life.
Also worth noting - my research tells me Tootsies, and all of Broadway in fact, was not at all what it is today and based on 90s-era Nashville, it seems like a legitimate and dive-y enough option for Rayna and Deacon's first gig.
This story is at the request of my sweet friend B - I hope it makes you feel better!
Additional note - thank you to the person who pointed out Tootsies is of course not in East Nashville! I'd written their first gig as somewhere else originally and forgot to change that bit when I changed it to Tootsies - oops. So thank you!
It didn't start with the party. Fuck knows, it didn't end with it either.
Maybe it was ironic, the most extraordinary moment happening in the ordinary parking lot of a derelict Wendy's behind Stewart Osborne's parents' house. The night of the party was the culmination of all the longing and all the denial of the longing and all the times, the many times, Deacon had caught himself staring at Rayna's lips and willing himself not to kiss her and fuck it all up.
They were softer than he'd tried not to imagine, he discovered that night, when he finally did get to kiss her in the front seat of his truck while spring rain pattered staccato on the roof.
But it didn't start with the party.
#
"You can't go out wearin' that, man."
"The hell's wrong with it? This is my favourite shirt."
"Deac, it's got more holes in it than my Great-Grandpa's catheter. Samantha ain't gonna want to bang you with that on."
Deacon, ignoring the outfit critique, pulled two ice cold beers from the prehistoric refrigerator. "You of all people givin' me fashion advice is real cute, Vince. I ain't ever seen you wear somethin' that don't have ketchup down the front."
"I'm wearin' new boxers today, for your information." Vince wiggled his hips and took one of the beers.
"Ten bucks says they'll be covered in spilt booze before the end of the night." Deacon peeled back the ring-pull with a satisfying hiss. "Anyway, Samantha ain't comin' tonight."
"Why not?"
"I dunno, 'cause I didn't ask her?"
Vince flipped on the old radio, twiddling the dial past bouts of static. "Are you not wantin' to get laid tonight?"
"I just don't feel like hangin' out with her right now. Whatever."
He found a station playing some jaunty bluegrass, and pulled a face, skipping past it. "Girlfriend gettin' you down?"
"She ain't my girlfriend, I hardly know her."
"Does she know that? She sure as fuck hangs around you a lot for someone who ain't your girl."
Deacon winced and sat down on one of the kitchen barstools. "I've sort of avoided it every time she's brought it up," he admitted. "I just ain't interested in bein' tied to anyone, Vinny. You'd know - you ain't exactly boyfriend material either."
"I take offense at that - I gave that chick from the diner flowers last month."
"You stole her a dandelion."
"What's your point?"
"It was from her own yard."
"Now that is where you're goin' wrong, Deac - that shit got me laid for a solid week. The ladies don't take much impressin'."
Deacon laughed. "I take it back, you're a catch. Look, I just ain't in the place for a girlfriend. I barely got enough time for my music as it is, I don't need someone callin' me twenty times a day just to say hi."
"That's love, buddy." Vince finally settled on a decent station, turning up the George Strait record and giving Deacon a light slap on the back of the head.
"I don't think love's even a real thing." There was a black and white picture of an old couple sitting outside a French cafe on the wall in the kitchen, one that had been there when they'd moved in six months earlier. It had been knocked off during a party they'd had shortly afterwards, and they'd never bothered to hang it back properly. The old man stared back at Deacon from an accusing angle. "I ain't never seen it, anyway."
"Sure it's real. You think people write all those songs about somethin' that don't even exist?"
"All those songs are about broken fuckin' hearts."
"Well exactly - a heart can't be broken if it don't feel love, can it?"
Deacon thought for a moment, watching the old man, sure he was about to point a finger out of the painting at any moment. "I guess not."
"So you gonna break up with her?"
"Samantha? Nah. She's alright, she's kind of cool to hang out with sometimes." He looked at Vince pointedly. "Sometimes."
"But not tonight."
"Not tonight."
Vince nodded. "That rack sure don't hurt," he said after a minute.
"Fuck off, Vinny."
#
It was a Tuesday evening and the roads were quiet, the drive to The Bluebird only taking them fifteen minutes or so. A guy called Watty White had invited them a couple of weeks earlier when he'd come up to Deacon after a gig he and Beverly had played. Deacon had only learned later that Watty White was the king of Nashville, by all accounts, and he'd hastily fished the simple business card out of his jeans pocket, thankful he hardly ever remembered to wash them, and had called to say he'd be there.
Beverly, to Deacon's secret relief, was too busy to make it, hanging around with another new asshole boyfriend she'd moved quickly in with across town. He knew it was for the best; she was in one of her moods lately, and she'd snap out of it just like she always did, but it had been taking a toll on Deacon and he needed a little space, a little less Beverly and a little more getting to know his still-new town on his own terms.
Watty was sitting at the far side of the tiny venue when they walked in - late, thanks to their second beers - and he waved over at them, beckoning them to two empty seats at his table. It was open mic night, and a guy with red boots and the biggest hat Deacon had ever seen was up on the small stage, strumming a guitar and singing about his broken heart, much to Vince's amusement.
"That dude believes in love," he whispered. "If it's good enough for him…"
"You got here just in time," Watty told them between songs, signalling their server to bring a round of drinks. "There's a girl I'm keen for you to hear."
Hat Guy played one more song, different tune, same tattered heart, and a woman with long black hair and a ukulele took her turn after him. She was good, Deacon thought, but he was unsure if she was the girl Watty was referring to, and why exactly. He tried to think of something smart to say, but thankfully Watty didn't ask.
When she finished her short set, he excused himself to go to the bathroom, weaving through the tables as quiet chatter started up among the patrons. Through the closed door, he could hear the muffled voice of the host introducing the next act and scattered applause in response, and as he dried his hands on the towel hanging by the sink, a female voice thanking the audience for their welcome.
He closed the door carefully and made his way back into the main room, and as he rounded the partition wall, he saw her.
Red hair, bouncy curls past her shoulders, cowboy boots and a jean skirt. She wriggled onto the stool as the host adjusted the mic for her and laughed self-deprecatingly.
"I never have been able to get up onto one of these things gracefully," she said in a honeyed Southern drawl, and Deacon felt his chest constrict.
He realised he'd forgotten to move, and he shook himself, drifting back in the direction of his table without taking his eyes from the girl.
"I'm a little nervous," she continued, and chewed her bottom lip. "Just between you and me, I've never done this before…" She smiled, and it spread across her whole face. Deacon bumped into someone's chair and mumbled an apology, correcting course and finding his seat.
God she was pretty, the kind of pretty you want to look at for your whole life. She adjusted the mic a little more and shifted on the stool, crossing long, tanned legs and clearing her throat.
"I'm Rayna," she said, "Rayna Jaymes. And this is a song I wrote last year, about my mama."
Rayna Jaymes. He said it over in his mind and decided it suited her; she smiled shyly at the room as her guitar player opened the song, and he thought that suited her too. She had faint dimples, a friendly face, but she scared the living crap out of him and he wasn't at all sure why.
She took a deep breath and tugged the sleeve of her blouse down, her foot tapping along to the first notes while she waited for her cue, and then she opened her mouth and began to sing, and her whole posture changed. Deacon watched, captivated, as her nerves disappeared and she filled the room with her melody, her voice surprising him, as musky as it was sweet. She sang like her life depended on it, long fingers clutching the mic, and he took in every word, her lyrics sinking into his skin.
And then it happened: she looked at him. She didn't just glance, a quick scan of a nameless face in a crowd; her eyes stopped on him, unmistakably him, and she didn't look away. Deacon felt like he stopped breathing, so intently focused on her as he was. He didn't see Vince turn to look at him quizzically, or Watty raise an eyebrow. All he saw was her, Rayna Jaymes, and for the rest of her song it felt as though she was singing only to him.
She broke eye contact when the last chorus ended, and her breathy laugh, the slight flush in her cheeks as she looked down at her lap, could have been for him or could have been for the crowd as they applauded her. They were enthusiastic, generous, and she grinned; Deacon saw her look over at Watty in disbelief.
"Well my goodness," she said, "y'all are so kind. Thank you!"
"Chick is hot," Vince said, quietly enough that Watty couldn't hear.
"We just have one more for you," Rayna Jaymes continued, and launched into a more upbeat song, country as they came, the kind of catchy that made itself at home in your head and stuck around.
She was enjoying herself, that much was evident, and Deacon only realised he was smiling when his jaw ached from it. She threw him flirty, playful looks while she sang, but they were curious, lingering on him too long, and he gripped the edge of his chair with sweaty fingers. When she finished singing he clapped so earnestly his palms stung, and he had to stop himself jumping to his feet to give her a standing ovation all of his own. She left the stage with a little wave, and his eyes followed her as she made her way to one of the tables tucked into the far corner and hugged a couple of its occupants before she sat down to join them.
"What did you think?" Watty asked, twisting in his chair to face Deacon as the next guy got up.
He didn't know how to even begin to verbalise what he thought, so he gave a huff of air that could have meant anything, and opened and closed his mouth a couple of times.
"That means he thought she was great," Vince translated, and Watty laughed.
"Yeah," Deacon said, recovering himself before Vince said anything else and got them both kicked out, "I thought she was really great. Really somethin'."
"She's got potential, hasn't she?" Watty looked proud as hell, but he also looked like the wheels in his head were turning and turning quickly. Deacon figured he was probably the kind of guy who looked like that a lot - a thinker, someone who saw connections and opportunities where others missed them.
"I'll say. She's not like anyone else I've seen playin' around town." Deacon ran his hand over the scruff on his chin. She'd thrown him for a loop, and he'd be damned if he knew why he couldn't stop looking over at her table.
The next act launched into a song before he could say anything else, but he caught the satisfied, almost scheming look on Watty's face and guessed he was pleased with his feedback. He turned his attention back to the stage and Deacon let out a sigh of relief.
The short set passed by in a blur; he couldn't take his eyes off Rayna, even the little of her he could see in the dark, her back to him. He didn't think about what he was doing when he reached into his jacket pocket for a pen and tugged the napkin out from under the beer Watty had ordered for him. He wrote around the wet circle it left behind, heady lyrics he heard without thinking, his mind full of her.
It turned out the guy was the last performer of the night, and Deacon pocketed the napkin quickly when the host closed out the show. He saw Rayna clapping with enthusiasm, and he started to worry profusely - people were packing up their jackets and bags and he felt a sudden blinding fear that she would walk out of the door and into the night and he'd never see her again.
He turned to look out into the parking lot, not really knowing what he was looking for - an excuse to catch up to her if she left, maybe, but he wasn't at all sure what his intentions were anyway. It was raining; big, plump drops bounced off the cars in the lot and blurred the world beyond the glass, like it had disappeared.
"Dude," Vince murmured, seeing his panic face, "you good?"
"Huh? Yeah, yeah I'm fine."
"Not for much longer."
"What?"
Vince nodded his head forwards. "She's comin' over. The redhead."
He was right. Deacon followed his line of sight to see her a couple of tables away, beaming at Watty and heading unmistakably in their direction.
Thank God, was his first thought. Oh shit was his second. He had about two breaths to try to pull himself together and he used them to slug his remaining beer, before she was hugging Watty warmly and smiling at his congratulations and telling him in a breathless voice how good it felt to play her music for an audience, to be sat right where she'd watched so many other people.
Suddenly having two arms felt like a great inconvenience to Deacon, and he didn't quite know what to do with them. He tried folding them across his chest but it felt all wrong, so he dangled them down by his sides, but they were too long and too unruly and too stiff if he tried to keep them still. Jamming them in his pockets made him look like he should be chewing straw but at least they were out of his way, and he could feel Vince staring at him as he tried his best to look casual.
"There's someone I want you to meet," he heard Watty tell Rayna, and he almost bolted out of the room. She turned towards him and in an instant everything went quiet. He somehow found himself holding out his hand and taking hers in it. "This is Deacon Claybourne," Watty said. "He's a guitar player who moved out here to Nashville a few months ago."
"Hi," Rayna said, a sweet, self-conscious smile on her lips, and God her hand was soft and so delicate and he definitely held onto it longer than he should have done but he really didn't want to let it go.
"Hi," he replied, a beat too late, and when she pulled her hand back eventually they both dipped their heads.
Watty chuckled. "And this is Vince - I'm sorry, I don't know your surname."
"Jameson. Like the whiskey. I come from a long line of Irish drunks," Vince said, giving Rayna a wave in greeting. "Pleasure to meet you."
She laughed, and it was a huskier sound than Deacon would have expected, a dulcet rumble that made him want to find something witty to say so he could hear it again.
"I've known Rayna since she was a little girl," Watty said. "Always knew she'd be up here one day."
"Gosh Watty, it was so exciting," she gushed, her eyes sparkling. "I just want to do it all over again."
"And you will, sweetheart. No question there."
"You were incredible," Deacon told her, and cursed himself for how dumb he sounded. He cleared his throat. "I mean," he gestured at the now-empty stage, "I thought you really belonged up there."
"You did?" she asked, in genuine question, and he nodded eagerly, taking in every feature of her face as he watched it light up.
"I'm glad you agree," Watty said, "because I thought it would be interesting to have the two of you meet." He gave them both a knowing smile that made Deacon feel reassured and absolutely terrified in one fell swoop, and put his hand on Rayna's shoulder. "Rayna's been dabbling in learning guitar for a while," - Deacon saw her grimace - "and she's getting there, but she could get there a whole lot faster with some help."
"Like, guitar lessons?" Deacon asked, his stomach flooding with nerves.
"Actually," Watty said, laying his proverbial Ace on the table, "I was thinking more like you playing, and her singing."
#
Their first gig together was at a rundown bar two weeks later. He'd been learning her modest collection of songs, and they'd written several more in that time, together, with startling ease. Deacon had been writing songs for a few years, and Rayna, at the tender age of sixteen - so he'd learned to his surprise later that night at The Bluebird - had notebook after notebook of lyrics, melancholic, inquisitive, honest lyrics that needed to be put to music to bloom into songs.
He'd been helping her create melodies for them, coaxing her to express how they sounded in her head, the way they made her feel. She'd opened herself to him quickly, and had told him how much she'd startled herself in doing so, that she'd never shown her songs to anyone - they were the inside of her head, her heart. There hadn't been a moment of the past two weeks that he hadn't marvelled at the revelation that she trusted him with something he knew firsthand to be so deeply personal.
"I just can't believe we get to sing these up on stage," she gushed, the night before the gig, far too late for her to still be sitting on Deacon's couch, but he didn't want her to leave, and she didn't seem to want to either.
"It's more songs than at The Bluebird," he said, picking a broken potato chip out of the bowl wedged between them. "Do you feel ready?"
She looked at him thoughtfully, watching him pop the chip in his mouth. "With you? Yeah. Yeah I do."
He grinned at her. "I can't wait, Rayna. These songs… there's some gold here. You're really onto somethin'."
"I'm onto somethin'? The songs we've written together are magic, Deacon. I can't believe how easy it is with you, it's like I don't even have to think, they just pour out." She looked away, and spoke a little quieter. "Those songs are my favourites."
He watched her pluck at the thread of a tattered cushion, and his chest thumped against every conscious will in his body. Two weeks of knowing her and he was a goner. If he was honest, it hadn't taken two weeks. It hadn't even taken two minutes.
He couldn't admit it, of course, and he felt guilty as hell for feeling it, but with every fibre of his being he knew already that he was in love with her. He also knew he was in big trouble. She was sixteen, he was a couple of months away from being out of his teen years altogether, and damn if he didn't feel a hell of a lot older, the pressures of his life necessitating that his adolescence be over quickly. Rayna, though she too was unquestionably an older soul than her age would suggest, was innocent, under his tutelage, and when she looked at him it was with big, wide eyes. There was no way he was going to take advantage of her, and no way he was going to screw up Watty's faith in him.
The thing between them though, whatever it was, was bigger than them. It didn't matter how much Deacon tried to push it down, she was all he could think about, and when he was around her all the weight and the worry he carried around - had always carried around - vanished, no room for anything but her. It should have scared him, how intense and immediate their connection was - if he believed in past lives, and hell maybe he did, he'd surely have thought it must have been cemented in one, to feel so instinctively familiar. All he did know was that it was anything but scary, a comfort that filled him up, parts of him that were so empty he'd never even known they could feel any other way.
He didn't know too much about Rayna, and he sure as hell hadn't regaled her with tales of his sorry life, but he knew beyond doubt that they were the same: lost, searching for something to hold on to, trying to make some fragmented sense of life. She'd lost her mother, and music was her solace, the thing she'd turned to when nothing else was there. It was a remedy he knew only too well.
"It's a lot of fun writin' with you," he told her, and she nodded. Fun didn't come close to covering it, but he didn't dare say more than that.
"It sure is."
Rayna dipped her hand into the bowl to fish for a potato chip at the same moment he did, and for a brief second their fingers brushed against each other's. Deacon felt heat shoot through him and looked up at her, pulling his hand back the instant he saw the same stunned look on her face. "Sorry," he muttered.
He glanced at her at she nibbled the edge of the chip she retrieved, and he could have sworn her cheeks were a little pinker than they'd been before.
/#
Tootsies Orchid Lounge was at the top end of Lower Broad, a run-down bar with a solid reputation for good quality live music.
Rayna bounded towards Deacon when she saw him waiting for her by the back alleyway entrance, and he pushed himself up off the wall he was leaning against and grinned at her. Their first gig together - it felt big, far more so than any of the gigs he'd done solo or with Beverly and Vince. Him and Rayna, together, singing the music they'd been rehearsing in private… he was nervous, to say the least.
"You ready to do this?" she asked, taking a deep breath.
"With you?" he replied, echoing her own words back to her. "Yeah, yeah I am."
It was an early slot, the sky freshly dark outside and the bar sparse with drinkers, some classic country records playing when they walked in. It might as well have been a stadium, the way it felt to walk through the dark, graffiti-riddled room and up onto the stage beside her, to swell with pride as she greeted the handful of people paying any attention, to meet her eyes when she turned to him as his fingers found the strings and began to play.
It was over in a blink, seven songs and a cover of an old John Conlee song Rayna loved, applause from the audience and a handful of crumpled dollar bills in the tip jar. They used them to get cheeseburgers and corndogs from a Sonic drive-thru afterwards, their celebration of a night neither of them would ever forget.
"I can't believe we really just did that," Rayna said, tossing her empty wrapper onto his dashboard. "I feel like I'm flying, Deacon."
The joy on her face made him feel like he might burst into pieces, and he thought about how he'd seen them, the people drinking and chatting, propping up the bar, how one by one they'd paused their conversations, started to listen, really listen, how they'd lifted their eyes to watch her. To watch them.
When she turned to him from the passenger seat of his truck, lowered her chin and gave him a look that said she double-dared him, he felt drunk on her.
"I wanna go run through a waterfall," she whispered.
And that was how he found himself soaking wet at a quarter past midnight in the Tennessee countryside, Rayna Jaymes beside him in her underwear, hair about her face in every direction.
"I wanna do it again, Deacon," she told him, spinning around to face him, her eyes brilliant, as wild a thing as there ever was. "I wanna sing every night. Up there, like that. With you. It feels like the truest thing thing I've ever known."
"Three chords and the truth," he said, the humid breeze chivvying beads of water down his skin. "They say that's all you need. I think they might just be right, Ray."
She considered him for a moment, eyes on his face, lips parted, and for just one stolen second in time he let his breath catch at how utterly beautiful she was. "Ray," she repeated, and then she was gone, slipping away from him towards the edge of the bank.
"Where you goin'?" he called. It was so much darker out in the country, no artificial light for miles, but the night was clear and the moon almost full; he could see the curved outline of her as though through opaque glass, her skin silver as she moved.
She gave him a wicked look over her shoulder, and before he could move, she reached up and flicked off her bra, shed herself of her panties, and dived into the water.
"Rayna!" he gasped, squinting to see where she was, and when she surfaced her laughter bounced around the clearing.
"Come on in!"
Deacon stood on the edge of the bank, paralysed with surprise, until she splashed him and ducked back under.
"Fuck it," he said under his breath, and shucked off his boxers. High on adrenaline from the gig and from Rayna, he laughed too, took a few steps backwards to get a good run-up, and threw himself in next to her. God help him, he'd have followed her anywhere.
She shrieked in delight and he felt more fucking free than he ever had in his life, the water cooling his skin, bubbles in places he'd never felt bubbles before.
"First one to the waterfall gets those leftover fries in your truck," she said, and he grinned so hard as he swam that he could swear he swallowed half the pond.
#
It was a couple of nights later when Vince came home from a shift at one of his shitty jobs and found Deacon at the kitchen counter, attempting to make dinner with minimal effort. "I heard some stuff today," he said, closing the door behind him and surveying Deacon's culinary skills, "about Rayna. About her Daddy, to be exact."
"About her Daddy?"
He pulled off his boots and tossed them on the floor. "Mmhmm. You know that big glass skyscraper thing they're buildin' downtown? He owns it. The whole thing."
"So?" Deacon said, going back to the can of beans he was about to devour without bothering to heat them and peeling back the jagged lid. "Guess he's in property or somethin', what's that got to do with anythin'?"
"He's also Chair of the Metro City Council, some bigwigs who make a tonne of fancy decisions and whatever. And then there's that big ass investment firm over on Demonbreun, that's his too - he owns half this town, Deac. They're sayin' he's gonna be the next Mayor." Vince gave a whistle. "Name's Lamar Wyatt. Sounds scary huh?" He fixed Deacon with a stare. "Turns out your cute country-girl crush comes from a Belle Meade millionaire family. A damn powerful one."
"What does it matter if she does? And I ain't got a crush on her," Deacon huffed, shoving a spoon in his can. It sounded like bullshit even to his own ears.
"You wanna wish you don't, 'cause Lamar Wyatt definitely has a cabinet of shotguns, and I'll bet you every cent I don't have that he sharpens them at night just waitin' to scare away horny rascals like you from gettin' anywhere near his daughter."
"Well it ain't a problem, is it? Rayna's my friend, I'm just writin' with her, that's all. Just helpin' her out."
"Uh huh," Vince said, gleeful, "just helpin' her out." He snagged a bean that plopped onto the counter. "Of her clothes."
Deacon jabbed his spoon in Vince's direction sternly. "I ain't doin' nothin' of the sort."
"Oh yeah? So you weren't skinny dippin' with her the other night? Just the two of you, nice little romantic moonlight swim, ass-middle of nowhere?"
"It wasn't like that. She's sixteen, for one thing. And for another thing…" Deacon flailed the spoon about, lost for what, exactly, another thing could be. "I just ain't gonna do that to her, man. Jesus, I'm not a total asshole."
"Sure." Vince nodded slowly. "It would be such an asshole move for you to fall for a seriously hot chick you've been all moony over ever since you met her. What a jerk you'd be." He spun around on his stool and came to rest on his elbows, fingers laced under his chin. "But you're just writin' songs together, nice and simple, so it's nothin' to be worryin' your pretty little head about, is it?" He peered at Deacon, one eyebrow raised. "But then ain't that just how all the legendary country music love stories started out, Deac? Just writin' songs together?"
#
It rattled Deacon, as much as he tried to shake it off. Lamar Wyatt. For some reason the name of the guy echoed around his head, striking little frissons of apprehension, the towering building catching his eye every time he drove down Broadway.
What made him nervous though was the thought of Rayna coming from that kind of a family, from money, from power, and the status that came along with it. He couldn't reconcile it with the understated girl who saw him from across the park and quickened her step towards him, who turned up at his house with a bag of warm doughnuts and a beat-up guitar awkwardly wedged under her arm. She had manners, impeccable manners, and her boots were always polished, her hair always impossibly shiny, but it just didn't fit.
When he wasn't around her, he thought of how she must see him. He thought of where he came from: the worn couch in the front room of the house he grew up in, the chips in the kitchenware, wilted wildflowers in the yard that had been infiltrated with weeds no one had bothered to get rid of. He thought of his worn mother, the chips in her teeth from where she'd hit the kitchen counter face down, the wilted greys that had appeared prematurely and drained her previously dark hair of its spirit.
His own house in Nashville, the one with the just-about affordable rent he and Vince had found, left much to be desired itself. There were always dishes in the sink, the place smelled of sweaty feet thanks to Vince's habit of tossing his socks everywhere. The blinds were hung crookedly at the windows so they always looked a little drunk, and there was never fresh milk in the refrigerator - they were incapable of remembering to buy it, no matter how much coffee they drank.
The first time Deacon had met up with Rayna after the night at The Bluebird they'd gone to a coffee shop, but it was hard to concentrate on writing music when surrounded by people and so he'd suggested they ditch and go carry on at his place. Rayna had agreed happily and he'd been a little nervous even before learning about her intimidating heritage that she might think it was a dump and turn right around. She didn't; she dropped into one of his lawn chairs with a smile and an hour later they'd written their first song. There was something about her demeanor when she was there, and Deacon would be damned if he could quite understand it, but she had a quiet contentment about her when she was squished in the middle of his sofa cushions with her legs crossed, the faucet dripping loudly into the sink. She'd never mentioned her house, and she certainly had never asked him round - come to think of it she hadn't told him what part of town she was from even, or spoken of her family much at all, and he wasn't one to push.
He considered what she must think of his accent, how thick it sounded next to her gentle, refined cadence, his permanently calloused fingers with the nails bitten down, the jeans he wore most days that should certainly have given up by now. He wondered if she knew about fancy silverware, which fork was the right one for an appetiser that wasn't a mozzarella stick, how to properly pronounce chaise longue.
And then she would turn up on his doorstep, and he wouldn't think at all. There was no self-conscious rhetoric in his head, no doubting himself, what he said, how he sat, how cheap the coffee was that he offered her. He focused on nothing but her, in front of him, the presence of her that stayed with him long after she left.
#
"I just can't get this line, I don't know what it is but it doesn't sound right, you know?"
Rayna's favourite spot to write in, specifically, was in the middle of Deacon's floor, usually on her belly with her feet bare, legs crossed at the ankle and swaying in the air. She chewed all of his pens, and she always brought snacks, and in no time at all he couldn't remember anything he'd loved to do as much as spend time with her.
"Try it with this last part first," he said, peering down at what she'd written and beckoning to borrow her pen. "You can sort of lead into it that way."
She wriggled around to read his re-working and Deacon found himself lying side by side next to her. She nodded thoughtfully and started to sing his version of the line, her voice soft and low, a pretty murmur. He rested his chin on his hand and listened to her, and when she caught his eye she gifted him one of the smiles he'd come to crave in moments when he wasn't around her, the ones that made him feel like the sun had broken through every window in the house at the same moment and wrapped him up. He'd also come to realise that she didn't smile quite like that at anyone else, but he didn't let himself dwell on it.
There were a lot of things he had to stop himself thinking about when it came to Rayna.
"I love it," she mused, "that works much better." She kept her eyes on him and seemed to hesitate for a moment. "I don't know how I ever did this without you, Deacon. I can't imagine it now."
He felt his cheeks get warm and had to drop his eyes to focus far too hard on a knot in the scuffed floorboards. "You did great without me, Rayna." He took a deep breath. "I'm sure glad to be doin' this with you now though. We make a good team, huh?"
She bumped his shoulder with hers. "That we do."
"I got a hell of a lot to thank Watty White for. I don't know why he picked me out of all the guitar slingers in this town to play for you."
"With me," she corrected him, "not for me. And he picked you 'cause you're the best."
"I ain't the best, hell, I ain't even close."
She reached for a salty peanut in a bowl on the floor and popped it into her mouth, crunching it for effect. "He told me of all the people he's found lately, you're the one with the most potential. I'd take that - Watty doesn't say things he doesn't mean. And I agree with him, by the way. I think you're somethin' really special, Deacon."
Deacon was not good at taking compliments, but from her… He had no idea how to respond, so he cleared his throat and tried to look like he wasn't scrambling to think of something to say that didn't make him sound lame, until she laughed.
"What?" he asked, looking up at her.
"You're cute when you're embarrassed."
"I ain't embarrassed," he chuckled, and she let out a tiny snort. He echoed her shoulder nudge a little too vigorously and she toppled off balance and landed on her side, her laughter peeling through the room. She rolled onto her back in surrender and he scooted towards her, laughing with her and unthinkingly grasping her hip, trying to ask her through his mirth if she was okay.
She nodded and reached up to push her hair out of her face, and as their laughter died down the room seemed to get really quiet. Deacon, suddenly hyper-aware that he was touching her bare skin where her shirt had ridden up, just enough to expose a few inches of her stomach, felt his heart thud in his chest and his palm get sweaty. She stared up at him steadily and against every voice in his head that told him not to, he dropped his eyes to her lips, pursed and plump and right there, a few inches away.
The knock at the door couldn't have been better and more terribly timed, and for a few seconds they froze, until a second impatient knock sounded out and Deacon jumped to attention.
"Coming," he called, while Rayna sat up, and when he glanced back at her he thought she seemed just as dazed as he felt.
"What in the world took you so long?" Samantha said when he opened the door to find her on the other side, huge purse slung over the crook of her arm, shirt so tight she was one wrong stretch away from exploding out of it.
"What are you doin' here?" he asked, and she clicked her tongue at him.
"Well nice to see you too, sugar." She grabbed his shirt collar and his stomach sank when she pulled his face towards her and planted a wet kiss on his lips.
He wasn't sure what to do other than hover limply in the doorway, but she didn't wait anyway; she breezed past him into the house and dumped her purse on the counter, stopping short when she saw Rayna.
"Oh," she said, not at all trying to hide her surprise, and Rayna stood quickly, smoothing her shirt. "Hello."
"Hi," Rayna said, plastering a benign smile on her face. She held out her hand and Samantha stared at it for a moment before she took it. "I'm Rayna, I'm a friend of Deacon's."
"Oh is that right?" Samantha replied, looking between the two of them. "Rayna, that's your name? Funny, I haven't heard him mention you. I'm Samantha, his girlfriend."
She said it pointedly and Deacon flinched; he shuffled towards the two girls and stood in front of the couch, acutely aware of Rayna's rumpled hair and bare legs. He scratched the back of his neck, feeling like he'd been caught red-handed though he wasn't entirely sure doing what, or which of them he felt he should apologise to. "Rayna and I been writin' some songs," he said, and motioned redundantly towards the guitar and notebook on the floor. It was a statement rather than a justification, but he thought he sounded a little wet anyway.
"Writin' some songs?" Samantha repeated. "Haven't you been at work?"
"Ah, I had the afternoon off, actually, so, yeah, writin' some songs."
She blinked false eyelashes at him. "You had the afternoon off and you didn't call me?"
Deacon, for his part, tried not to let it show on his face that he was thinking of all the times he hadn't called her when he'd had free time, and took a second too long to answer. As Samantha's eyes narrowed, he made the mistake of glancing at Rayna, who looked like she would rather be anywhere else. "We got a gig we gotta get ready for," he said, and Rayna lifted a very subtle eyebrow at him. They didn't have another gig lined up yet, but he figured it was only a matter of time so it wasn't a lie, entirely, just a premature truth.
Rayna was on the same page in half a second, and gave Samantha a nod, much to Deacon's relief, but Samantha was still unconvinced.
"Right," she said, fingers white where she was gripping her bony hips. Deacon guessed that meant she was not happy. "How long exactly have y'all been doin' this?" She swirled a hand around in the direction of their songwriting paraphernalia. "Why don't I know about you, Rayna?"
"Oh we haven't been doin' this long at all," Rayna told her, "only a few weeks, actually. Deacon's just helpin' me out as a favour to a family friend. I'm not exactly gifted when it comes to playin' guitar, let's say, so he agreed to step in for a few gigs to make me sound less terrible." She smiled politely at Deacon, platonic and even a little business-like, an entirely different kind of smile to those she gave him while they were alone. "I had a couple of free periods from school this afternoon, and gosh he's been real kind to make some time - I called him this morning in somethin' of a panic."
To Deacon's amazement, Samantha's clipped face relaxed, and he stared at Rayna, impressed. Her voice had taken on a more pronounced Southern lilt, her posture warm and reassuring, and he didn't even know quite how she'd done it, but it was as natural as he could imagine. She'd managed to diffuse the growing tension in a few words and Samantha gave a cooing sound and beamed at Deacon.
"Oh!" she said. "Well he is great at guitar. I'm glad he could help you, sweetheart."
It was a little patronising but not at all in a mean way - Samantha just was a little patronising, Deacon had come to see, but she meant no harm. She had the same tone with everyone, so at least it was genuine, but he cringed inside all the same. She'd taken Rayna's bait, judging her as a kid the instant she'd mentioned school and discounting her as a threat, and he knew Rayna had played that card to provoke exactly that reaction, but it irked him that Samantha was so quick to categorise someone. She didn't see people, only their surfaces.
"Me too," Rayna said, and she tapped her wrist, though she wore no watch. "I really should be goin', actually, I have a study group to get to - I'm about as awful at Chemistry as I am a guitar. It was nice to meet you, Samantha!"
If Samantha was smarter, less into herself, she would have seen how Rayna gathered up her things too quickly and pulled on her boots without bothering to put the socks back on that were stuffed into them. She was instead too busy flicking her hair extensions over her shoulder and shooting Deacon a look that said she wanted to get her hands on him the instant Rayna disappeared.
Deacon barely noticed; he followed Rayna to the door and tried to slow her hurry, but she was already halfway out of it by the time he caught up with her.
"Hey, you don't have to go," he said, quietly enough that Samantha wouldn't hear, not because he cared that she would, but because he didn't want Rayna to feel awkward. Their afternoon together had been interrupted so abruptly that he felt upended, like everything had been pushed off balance.
"Study group," she said with forced cheer, and he knew there was no such thing. She whirled around just long enough to give him a jerky wave, and made a beeline for her car before he could say anything more.
He stood and watched her drive slightly erratically - as was her driving style, so he'd learned on the one occasion he'd gotten into her car - down the street until she was out of sight, feeling deflated. Samantha sidled up behind him and slid her arms around his waist, reaching straight for the buckle on his belt.
"Kid seems nice," she said, leaning around him to close the door and pulling the belt through the loops on his jeans.
"Hey," he said, grasping her hand and stilling it, "don't."
"Don't?" He turned to face her and was met with a sculpted eyebrow, skyhigh with incredulity. "Since when do you not want sex, Deacon?"
"I just got a lot to do," he said, brushing past her and opening the fridge.
He pulled a can of soda out and realised he should probably offer her one too, seeing as she didn't seem to be getting the hint and leaving. He held one out to her and she took it with a pout and sauntered over to the couch. She must have been torn between sulking and trying harder to tempt him, because she hitched her skirt up before she sat down so that maximum leg was on show, and sure, her legs were ten feet long, and that damn skirt was as tight as a balloon, but it was all so… obvious.
Deacon sighed and tried not to think of Rayna's far more subtle good looks, her modest jean shorts, the handful of freckles on her summer-kissed knees.
He sat down in the armchair next to the couch and Samantha pouted some more. "Come sit with me, babe," she said, and he did as she requested. She draped herself over him and he let her smear her lipstick on his cheek, but when she reached for his pants again he stood up quickly.
"I really ain't in the mood, Samantha."
That about did it. She got to her feet, hands flying to her hips. "Were you in the mood when Rayna was here?"
"What?"
"Who's the family friend you're doing the favour for, Deacon? Or was that all bullshit and you've spent the afternoon screwin' her?"
"Jesus, Samantha, no I fuckin' haven't."
"Really? Because you sure must have been workin' hard on all that songwriting to be so worn out."
He threw his hands up in the air, exasperated, and some kind of shrill noise came out of Samantha but he'd already stopped listening. She stomped towards the door and threw a few curse words and a few enraged scowls his way before she slammed it behind her.
Peace rang throughout the house and for a few blissful moments, Deacon bathed in it.
Girls. He would just never understand them.
#
"Samantha's pissed at me."
"Let me take one guess at why - I get it right and you gotta buy me a shot."
"Tequila or bourbon?"
Vince bounced on his barstool, a hand-rolled cigarette balanced precariously between his lips. The bar lighting was low, tinged green, and an intense game of pool was going on behind them, a short, tattooed woman beating her two male friends, much to their dismay.
"Tequila, and Rayna Jaymes."
"Two for two, buddy." Deacon signalled to the barman that they needed another round, and tossed some bills onto the sticky surface.
"She walk in on you gettin' it on?"
"Nobody was gettin' anythin' on, we were writin'. Samantha turned up out of nowhere, I don't even know how she knew I was home."
Vince, a little buzzed and fresh off a killer hangover, blew smoke rings up into the air and grinned. "In girl-speak, writin' a song is code for havin' the sex, Deac. Everyone knows that."
"I don't know that."
"You didn't - now you do. And how the hell did you not already?"
There was a yell of anticipation and Deacon spun on his stool just in time to catch the woman pot two balls at once. "I dunno, I ain't really done this co-writin' thing before. Not with anyone except you anyway, and no offense man but I ain't interested in gettin' it on with you."
"We only write songs about booze and girls. The day we write us a love song, you're gonna want in my pants, Claybourne, you mark my words."
Deacon laughed loudly, the alcohol hitting his veins and making him feel loose around the edges. A group of girls in short shorts and varying degrees of crop tops were gathered around a table at the other end of the room, making no secret of their interest in him and Vince, and he caught the eye of a blonde who bit her lip and uncrossed her legs. He looked away. Tequila made him horny as hell, and he would usually be all about those bedroom eyes she was giving him. He'd forget her name by morning, of course, and he wouldn't call her; he was an asshole, he was well aware. Samantha had been that same blonde across the bar a few months ago, except that somehow she'd inserted herself into his life as more of a regular feature and he wasn't entirely sure how, or how happy he was about that.
The girl said something to her friends behind her hand and got up from their table. She made a show of leaning over tantalisingly to order a round of shots, and the wink she directed at Deacon was fully loaded.
"The cheap stuff gets you drunk faster," she said, just as her friend called something to her in a high-pitched cackle. "See?" She thumbed towards her table. "They're all wasted. Wanna join us?"
Deacon looked over at the group of them, every single one hot. The girl next to him was sliding closer: she was cute, really cute. A whole lot of flesh on display and one hell of a brazen come-on.
It wasn't the thought of Samantha that rendered him entirely disinterested. If she'd walked over to him a few weeks earlier, he probably would have thrown it all to the wind and gone home with her anyway.
But it wasn't a few weeks earlier, and everything had changed. She wasn't Samantha, sure, but she wasn't Rayna, and that's what mattered. Suddenly, and he was pretty sure it was an irrevocable state, other girls held no appeal to him.
Vince blew out another smoke ring as the girl rejoined her table, sashaying her ass in the wake of Deacon's polite rejection. He leaned in, all tequila-wisdom and tobacco breath. "You, my friend, are screwed. One way or another, you're screwed."