Tricksy"s voice felt hollow. Her chest felt empty and her soul weary. It was mostly from the song that had been shoved down her throat. But that didn"t account for her sore hand. The skin at her knuckles smarted where she"d connected with the handsy man wanting a private dance.
It should"ve been evident to him that she wasn"t that kind of performer. For one, she had on all her clothes. For two, she could hit the high notes without a synthesizer. But all Mr. Handsy heard was another person"s lyrics which, to his brain, suggested that he could shoot his shot.
thatWell, if you shoot your shot at a country girl, raised by a d**g addicted mother, who"d grown up in foster care, you would get exactly what you deserved. And that was lying flat on your backside with your meaty hand clutching at y
