I had it all.
Country music’s bad boy renegade.
Success, women, money.
The name Walker Holcomb meant something.
I was on top of the world.
It was a damn long way to fall.
My third album tanked, and I looked for answers in a whiskey bottle.
I went from the top of every sexiest man list to the butt of every joke on late night.
Only thing in worse shape than me is the family farm.
Old place is as ramshackle and beat up as I am—another damned lost cause.
Until I open my screen door one day and find her on my front porch.
Luscious and fiery.
Stubborn as hell.
Nothing’s had me this fired up in a long time.
She makes me crazy.
I want to shout and cuss at her.
I want to get my hands on that body.
Part of me wants to throw her off my porch, tell her to keep walking till she crosses the property line.
The rest of me wants to back her up against the rail and hike up her skirt.
Even bloodshot eyes can see she’s just what I’ve been waiting for.