**Author's Note**
One Night in Nashville is the first story I wrote featuring Cassie Lane - a woman who's bold, experienced, and utterly unapologetic about what she wants.
Cassie isn't here to play it safe. She's not looking for romance. She's been there, done that. Now, she's unashamedly chasing her kicks - however and wherever she wants them.
In this story, Cassie finds herself at a live gig in a downtown Nashville bar, and a couple of the band members catch her attention - leaving her with a delicious choice to make.
I hope you enjoy it. Feel free to share your thoughts.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Nashville didn't ease you in. Far from it. Instead it hit like a double measure of Tennessee whiskey on an empty stomach. Loud, brash and ready to knock your socks off.
Music spilled from every open door on Broadway, a layered cacophony of guitars, bass lines, stomping boots and growled choruses about heartbreak, bar fights, and the kind of sex that leaves permanent marks. Neon buzzed. Ice clinked. Sweat ran down backs in the heat and humidity of the July evening - and yet nobody gave a damn about anything but having fun.
Into the thick of it all stepped Cassie Lane.
She wasn't dressed for comfort, she was dressed for impact.
She wore black cowboy boots, scuffed just enough to show character. A white denim mini skirt, fashionably frayed at the edges, clung to her hips and hugged her arse like it was grateful to be there. It barely covered the good stuff and did nothing to hide the shape of what lay beneath.
Her legs were tanned and powerful - legs that had straddled loungers and laps, had wrapped around shoulders, had walked through life with the kind of ease that made men insecure and women envious.
Her tits - big, fake, perfectly done - pushed against the fabric of her halterneck like they wanted out. They practically dared you to guess if they were natural, but you'd probably guess wrong. Over it all a leather biker jacket hung open.
She was 53 years young and nothing hidden. Her stomach was flat - shaped more by life and an active lifestyle than by crunches, but with a little help from a surgeon's knife. Her waist curved in, her hips curved out, and she had an arse that was tight and proud.
Her hair was long and loose, blonde and sun-warmed, catching the breeze and floating like a banner in the wind. Big dark sunglasses masked her eyes, but the curve of her lips told you everything you needed to know. That mouth had made men weak and women curious.
She strutted down the drag with attitude and a rhythm in her hips that didn't come from rehearsal. She didn't sashay, she glided. The kind of movement that made people turn - not because it was loud, but because it spoke of inevitability.
Girls in rhinestones and flower crowns clocked her. Boys with cheap beers paused mid-sentence. A man on a rented scooter nearly ploughed into a street lamp trying to get another look.
Cassie smiled, just a little, and kept on walking.
She passed a rowdy group of college kids outside a bar, half-empty daiquiris in hand. One of them nudged his mate, whispered something, and laughed nervously.
Cassie turned her head, just enough to catch him staring, then let her eyes drag over him slowly. "You're not ready for me, sugar," she said under her breath as she marched on.
She didn't rush, not least because Nashville didn't ask her to. She walked slowly, but with intent, letting the night press in around her.
The pavement beneath her boots was tacky in places - a combo of old beer, old gum, and old stories. The smell of fried chicken hung in the air.
A man spilled out of a bar to her left, red in the face, shirt clinging to his back, friends following with laughter in their teeth. He caught sight of her and stalled mid-step, eyes snagged on the curve of her arse, the sway of her hips. Cassie didn't need to look over, she could just feel it.
All along the street people were moving - smoking, shouting, necking drinks, necking each other. Nashville was vibrating, raw and charged.
She passed a cluster of women in matching pink sashes and cowboy hats. Bachelorette party, loud and tipsy. One of them caught Cassie's silhouette, looked her up and down, then whispered something behind her hand.
Cassie turned her head just slightly and flashed a slow, sideways smile that said
yes, darlin' - this is what good looks like when you don't need to try so hard
.
A little further down, the bars got messier, the music hotter. Every doorway spat out something different - swampy blues, dirty rock, fast fiddle and foot-stomp country. The kind of sound that got under your skin and pushed you up against a wall if you weren't careful.
She loved that about this place. It wasn't home, but it was somewhere she felt at home when she needed to let her hair down and blow off a little steam.
She passed an old man leaning against a lamppost, alone, smoking slow, watching the crowd with that particular look - like he'd seen everything there was to see but was still waiting for something to shock him.
Cassie held his eyes for three full seconds as she passed. He grinned, but looked away first. She had that effect on people, even the biggest and nastiest bastards of them all.
She licked her bottom lip, catching a taste of lipstick, and kept moving. Her walk was purposeful, even though she had no plan of where she was headed beyond seeing what caught her fancy.
***
Cassie's boots struck the sidewalk steady and unfazed until she paused at the corner of the street. She looked up, and didn't need to walk any further to know where she belonged.
The place caught her eye from the other side of the street - low roof, aged wood, amber lights spilling through the windows. No doormen. No queue. No neon cocktails advertised on chalkboards. Just a simple wooden sign above the door that said Harlan's. Faded and confident, like it didn't give a shit if you came in or not.
She liked that.
Cassie checked her reflection in the window, or at least as much as she could given the grime. She adjusted her halter, shifted her hips, and let that denim skirt do what it did best. Then she pushed the door open and stepped into the bar like it had been expecting her.
Inside, it was dark. Cooler too, but not by much. The air still carried heat - from the stage, from the crowd, from the bourbon-soaked breath of the men pressed along the bar. And those same patrons sure as hell noticed her arrival.
Heads turned and eyes lifted. Conversations paused. A man in his forties lowered his beer halfway to his mouth and just held it there. Another nudged his buddy and didn't bother whispering.
Cassie didn't flinch.
She drank the moment in. Walked slow across the boards, boots thudding with just the right weight. She knew how to move through a room with a presence that demanded attention.
She didn't mind being alone. Sure, she had friends - plenty of them - but she enjoyed her own company too. Nights like this? These were hers. She liked the power in it, the subtle art of not giving a fuck. The delicious freedom of knowing she could walk into any place she pleased and stay as little or long as she wanted without accounting to anyone else.
She made her way to the bar, leaning lightly on the counter.
The bartender clocked her instantly - clean-shaven, local drawl barely hidden beneath the polish. He leaned in.
"What can I get you, ma'am?"
Cassie smiled, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. She took them off slowly, folded them with care and hooked them on her top - dragging his eyes towards her tits as she did.
"Bourbon," she said. "Neat. And don't call me ma'am unless you're planning on misbehaving."
He grinned, almost blushed. Poured it immediately.
