Sasha is a young woman in crisis. A week ago, while suffering a moment of emotional turmoil, she alienated the love of her life. Now she's determined to get him back. But therein lays the problem…she's learned Nathan's been frequenting a notorious, backwoods roadhouse located far from the safety and security of Valdosta, Georgia.
It's a risky undertaking she's chosen in showing up there unannounced…and to do this while being so scantily clad…well, she knows her man's mind…and that sometimes a woman has to defy all social conventions for the sake of true love.
Twenty-two-year-old Sasha Gibbons, who personified the quintessential city girl from Valdosta, Georgia, paused before the scarred wooden door allowing entrance into the roadhouse known as Molly’s Place. She bent her head toward the door, hearing muffled laughter and the twang of country music coming from inside.
Surprise became the chief element dominating her face because she believed the unsavory rumors circulating around town about this roughneck bar located deep in the unforgiving backwoods of South Georgia. She especially believed in the purported violence of its patrons. The absence of any security guards patrolling the chain link fence encircling the property only added to her growing trepidation.
She glanced up at the lone fluorescent light beaming down upon her from the gravel parking lot to realize it gave her no illusion of safety. There were simply too many flattened beer cans littering the ground, too much faded green paint flaking from the side of the derelict building, too many four-wheeled ATVs and older-model pickup trucks in the parking lot, and way too much sinister darkness in the surrounding woods.
For perhaps the hundredth time she asked herself why her former boyfriend had picked this disreputable place of all places to drink the memory of her away. What allure did this squalid place hold for an accomplished man in business like himself?
Not summoning up any answers, Sasha tried to will the tremors in her hands away while cursing the sick churning of her stomach. The inevitable declared she must enter the roadhouse.
Suddenly, the very real possibility of the night not turning out as she wanted made her face flush hot in the crisp, cool, October night’s air. She used her right hand as a fan to prevent perspiration from springing up while reassuring herself it would turn out exactly as planned because she’d concocted a good plan and good plans almost always proved successful.
Once her nerves had calmed and a sense of coolness returned, she dug into the dainty pink pocketbook looped over her left wrist to pull out a small compact. In the reflection of this circular mirror she saw the honey-blonde hair styled so fastidiously on top of her head still looked impeccable; not a stray strand wafted around. The makeup on her pretty face looked right also, the foundation evenly spread with just enough rouge to give the impression of healthy coloring. The heavy eye shadow gave her sparkling gray eyes extra zing. She believed none of the people inside the bar would ever suspect the wretched pastiness of her real facial tone or the dark circles under her eyes.
No, no one would suspect a thing except for him. Once he became aware of her presence in the bar, he would take one look at her and know she put on a facade. He always knew when she only pretended to be all right. He knew other things about her as well, a host of secret sexual desires he’d unselfishly taken the time to draw out of her during their former relationship. She believed he would always intuit her most intimate thoughts and desires, even if he and she lived to be a hundred, but especially if they lived to be a hundred together. This longing heralded the actual point of tonight’s facade.
