by Kelly Moore
“Elliot can be a smidge overbearing”—she pinches her fingers together—“but he’s right, I’m not interested.”
“Have you ever been in a recording studio?”
A look passes between her and Elliot. “Yes, on several occasions.” Instead of sitting at the table with the guys, she plops down on the floral couch.
“Did you get a recording contract from it?”
“I’m not interested in a recording contract.” Her look says she’s sizing me up.
“May I.” I motion to the seat next to her.
She answers with a slow bow of her head.
“I’ve been in this business for a long time, Miss…”
“Gypsy.”
She’s not giving an inch. “Gypsy, and you have one of the most unique voices I’ve ever heard. I could easily sell you to the biggest recording label.”
“I don’t want to be sold, Mr. Wilde.”
“Jameson, please,” I tell her. “May I ask you why?”
“No you may not,” Elliot speaks between bites of his chicken wing.
“I can answer for myself,” she tells him. He glares over his shoulder at her but doesn’t comment back. She casually crosses one leg over the other. “Jameson, I’m perfectly happy getting new gigs every three months. I don’t need all the stuff that comes with getting famous.”
Her facial expression changes to something deeper and darker. There’s pain behind her words, and I’m betting whatever fuels that emotion is the reason she squashes furthering her career.
“How about you at least come practice in my studio.”
“That I’ll take you up on. I have a new song I’ve been working on, and I’d like to hear it with all the bells and whistles.”
I stand and take my wallet out of my back pocket and hand her my business card. “Here’s the address and my phone number. Call me, and I can pencil you in. Thank you for your time. I won’t keep you any longer.” Her voice stops me when my hand is on the doorknob.
“Are you staying for the second set, Jameson?”
She drawls out my name and god does it sound good coming from her lips. I swallow hard and turn to face her. “I wouldn’t miss it.” I close the door behind me and lean against the wall. This damn woman does something to me. I have to keep it professional, but there’s something in her eyes that gets to me. Maybe Tyler is right; I need to get laid.
I head back out to the overfilled bar. The bouncer out front must’ve let the herd of people outside, inside. It’s shoulder-to-shoulder room only. I make my way to a small gap at the bar and order another drink. I know Gypsy has come back out when the crowd starts cheering and chanting her name.
I push through the crowd and get as close as I can. She lowers her glasses and scans the bar. She stops when her gaze lands on me. She grins and pushes the sunglasses back up her nose. Her jacket is still off, and she has a small amount of cleavage at the V in her black silky tank top. She starts to sing, and my gaze is cemented to her. In my head, the bar is quiet again, and her words hang in the room. I’m soothed by her voice, and my headache dissipates, but the need to be near her grows even stronger. I’m standing in the middle of a crowded bar, people are dancing all around me, some bumping into me, and all I see is her. She’s in a room singing to me alone. I’m choked up at the amount of emotion her songs bring to me. I can’t even find my own words to describe how I feel at this very moment. The world has faded around me, and there’s only Gypsy.
The set ends way too soon, and I can’t force myself to leave. I get one last drink, and I watch as people head out of the bar. Some alone, some with their partners, others leave with complete strangers tucked at their sides. Others stumble out, barely staying on their feet.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to go home alone. It’s two in the morning, and I’m wide awake. Boomer comes out of the back and joins me at the bar.
“Did you sign her?”
“Not exactly.” I chuckle. “But I haven’t given up yet. She’s going to come to the studio and practice.”
The door down the hallway creaks, and Gypsy and her crew head this way. Her sunglasses are off, and she has a purse thrown over her shoulder. She drapes her arm around Elliot’s waist, and that ping of jealousy is back.
She stops when she gets to me. “Still working?” Her arm drops from around him, and he and Joe walk outside. Boomer stands and kisses her on the cheek.
“That was beautiful. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He walks back to his office with a pouch of money in his hand.
“No, work is done,” I finally answer. “Are you headed to your hotel room?”
“I’m always wired after a concert and like to walk the city.”
“How about I join you, except we go to an all-night diner. I’m starved.”
She bites at her bottom lip. “Only if you buy me an apple pie with vanilla ice cream.”
“Deal.” I stand, and the barstool scrapes across the tile as I push it under the counter.
“Let me go tell the guys not to wait up for me.”
I open the door for her, and she walks over to a silver van. I see her saying something to Elliot, and he peers at me from around her. She waves whatever he says off and heads back toward me.
“It’s only a couple city blocks from here.” I start walking in the direction of the diner.
“I love this city,” she says, looking at all the lights. “I especially love it when it grows quiet in the middle of the night. It’s like it’s all mine to enjoy. And, look at that moon hanging high in the sky. Isn’t it beautiful?”
I look up and stare at it for a moment, trying to remember the last time I even noticed it looking down over the city. I gaze over at her, and she’s yawning. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Not much.” She laughs.
“Is your boyfriend going to kill me?”
“What? Elliot? He’s not my boyfriend.” She doesn’t give any additional details.
“He’s awful protective of you.”
“We’ve worked together for a long time.” She closes the gap in her jacket.
“Are you cold?”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a jacket to offer you. We could take my car.”
“Don’t be silly. I love the night air.”
“Where are you from?”
She looks up at me and smiles. “So many questions before pie.”
“Sorry.” I can’t help but laugh at her.
I tuck my hands in my pocket so I’m not tempted to hold her hand that occasionally brushes up against mine. We walk in silence for the next block, and I watch her from the corner of my eye. She looks like she’s checking out the storefronts as we walk by.
“Are you from here?” She finally breaks the silence.
“Before pie?” I chuckle.
She laughs out loud, and it’s a beautiful sound. “You’re right.”
“I’m only teasing. Yes, I’m from Nashville, born and bred. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“I can’t imagine staying in one place,” I hear her whisper, but decide not to ask before pie.
Chapter 3
There’s a homeless man curled up in a dingy-looking blanket outside the diner with his dog. He’s either sleeping really hard or passed out cold as the dog licks his face. I’m betting from the yeasty smell of beer, it’s the latter.
Holding open the door for her, she steps inside and chooses a booth nestled in the back of the restaurant with a smudged window facing the street. Other than the employees, there’s a curvy lady with a big flouncy hat sitting at the long countertop with stools evenly spaced along it, and a couple sharing one side of a booth, unaware that anyone else is around them.
The smell of greasy fries and bacon hangs in the air. I follow her on the black-and-white checkered tile floor to the booth and slide in across from her.
An overworked waitress with her hair in a bun and a stained apron places two white coffee cu
ps down and laminated menus offering staple diner food choices.
“Hey, look, there’s pie.” I point to pies displayed under a glass dome.
“May I get you something to drink other than coffee?” The waitress never looks up as she presses her pen to a pad of paper, waiting for our order.
“I’ll have a large glass of milk,” Gypsy says, unrolling her metallic silverware and placing the napkin in her lap.
“I’m good with coffee, thank you.”
The bell on the door chimes as a trucker comes in and sits at the counter. He pulls off his ball cap and flips over an empty coffee mug. The waitress behind the counter fills it, and he takes his first slurp of coffee, and from the sound of it, it’s damn good brew.
I laugh and reach for the creamer, careful not to run my hand through the salt that's been spilled on the table. Gypsy picks up her menu, scrunches her face, and places it back down. She reaches over to the overstuffed napkin holder and tries to take one out as it rips when she tugs on it.
“Allow me.” I drag it in my direction and pull a handful out.
“There’s grease all over the menu,” she says as she wipes her hands.
“I’ll get you a new one.” I go to stand, and her hand reaches over and stops me.
“It’s okay. I know what I want.”
I know what I want too. I want her hand to stay touching me. I return to my seat, and the waitress comes over with our drinks.
“Are you ready to order?”
“I’ll have apple pie with ice cream,” Gypsy says.
“A piece of apple pie ala mode,” the waitress repeats.
“A whole pie.” Gypsy smiles up at her.
I frown but don’t contradict her.
“And you.” She turns her hips in my direction.
“I’ll have a grilled cheese with French fries.” I take our menus and hand them to her.
Gypsy takes a sip of her milk, then wipes her milk mustache off with her napkin. “I’ve never been a fan of grilled cheese,” she says.
“I’ve never been a fan of eating an entire pie.” I laugh.
“Fair enough.” She giggles
“Do you always wear sunglasses when you sing?”
“That was a quick change of subject.” She folds her hands together on the table. “I’m actually very shy, and it helps when I first get on stage. That…and the vodka.”
“I was wondering what was in your cup.”
“Do you hang out at the bar often?”
“No more than I have to. I used to be there all the time when I first started in the business, but it grew old. The late nights and early mornings wears on you.”
“All the women hitting on you,” she adds and takes another sip of her milk. “I mean women love the dark, wavy hair with matching brown puppy-dog eyes.” She leans forward and points at me. “It’s not fair that you have two-inch-long full eyelashes. I have to work hard for mine to even show up.”
I can’t help but laugh at her.
She rests back against the booth. “It doesn’t hurt that you look like you take care of yourself either.” Her gaze is on my bicep that bulges in my folded arm. She looks harder at me and tilts her head like she did during her show. “You have a nice jawline and just the right amount of hair on your face.”
I rub my hand over my chin. “I’m normally clean-shaven. I’ve been a little lazy lately.”
“I like it,” she says.
“Here’s your pie.” The waitress scoots the tin in front of her and places a large bowl of ice cream down on the laminate table. She returns shortly with my plate and a spoon for Gypsy.
She scoops the vanilla ice cream onto her pie and then picks up her fork and stares at it. She presses it against the table to get the mangled fork back to its original shape.
“Here, take mine.” I hand it to her and then bite into my sandwich. The cheese runs from the corner of my mouth, and she laughs. I wipe my chin with my napkin and dive in with questions.
“You have pie now. Where are you from?”
She purposely puts a large piece in her mouth and takes forever to chew something that probably melts in her mouth.
“Take your time. I have all night.” I squeeze the ketchup bottle, but only sprays of red come out.
“Georgia,” she says quickly and then shovels another large scoop in her mouth.
“That explains a little bit of the southern drawl. Where do you live now?”
“Wherever the music takes me.”
“You’re not real good at answering questions, are you?”
“I like my privacy.” She continues to eat her pie.
“How about you ask me a question, then I’ll ask you one.”
“Okay. How did you get started in the music recording business?”
“That’s an easy one. I’ve loved music as long as I can remember. I’d break down songs and study them, note by note. I don’t have the talent to sing, but my passion was to promote others. I studied both music and business in college. I worked and saved the money for basic equipment until I got out and applied for a business loan. I was very fortunate that my recording studio took off so quickly.”
“That’s what happens when you love what you do.” She takes another gulp of milk.
“What’s your real name?”
“Pass,” she says and wipes her mouth.
“Pass? That’s not how this question-answer thing works. You ask, I answer. I ask, you answer. See the pattern?” I point back and forth between the two of us as I talk.
“Pass,” she says again and takes another bite.
“Fine. Why don’t you want a record deal?”
“I’ve already told you, I like my life the way it is.”
“Do you…”
“My turn,” she interrupts me.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight. Have you ever been married?”
Her fork stops midway to her mouth. “Pass,” she says, but this time I hear sadness in her voice.
“Are you going to pass on every question?”
“Probably.” She eats the bite on her fork.
“Are you going to eat the whole pie?”
“Yes. At the bar tonight, when you stood up front staring at me, were you working?”
I place my hands in my lap. “Yes and no. My friend Tyler asked me to come and listen to the band. He thought you’d be somebody I could sign a deal for.” I stop and stare at her.
“And?”
“You’re beautiful, and your voice drew me in, and I wanted to be near you.” I’ve never been so blatantly honest in my life. I hold my breath waiting to hear her response.
She picks up her spoon, hands it to me, and pushes the pie in the middle of the table. “I don’t normally share my pie.” She smiles as I take the spoon from her.
“Is that your only response to what I said?”
She leans back in the booth, and I feel her booted foot run up my leg and I have her answer.
“Whose turn is it for the next question?” she asks.
“Technically, I think it’s mine, but I’ll give it to you.”
“Do you live far from here?”
I get her meaning by the look on her face. It went from sweet to seductive.
“No. I’ll get the check.” I snap my fingers to get the waitress’s attention and motion for the check.
I don’t wait for her to bring it over; I calculate how much in my head and leave an extra big tip on the table. I quickly wrap the other half of my sandwich in a napkin, then slide out of the booth and the door jingles again. The homeless man has rolled over, and we have to step over him to get out of the diner. I squat and unfold my napkin and break off a piece for the dog. I pat him on the head as he takes it from me. I lay the other half on the ground in front of him, and he gobbles it down.
Gypsy digs in her purse and pulls out some cash and reaches over the man and sticks it in his pocket.
“Which way?” she asks.
“Back to
ward the bar and a couple of blocks the other direction.”
“You live downtown?”
“I live over my studio. It’s an old two-story building I had renovated. I love living in the city, being close to everything.” When her hand brushes mine this time, I grasp it, and our fingers find that comfortable spot with one another.
“I saw a twenty-four-hour liquor store we passed earlier. Do you mind if we stop and get something to take with us to your place?”
“Not at all.”
She shivers a little, and I drop my hand and drape my arm over her shoulder, tucking her into my side. “Better?”
She nods, and I feel her arm go around my waist.
We stop at the liquor store, and I wait outside and watch her through the window of the store. Like her voice, the sight of her draws me in. Her petite frame and the way she moves is like music. I’ve never met anyone so sensual, and I think she’s not even trying or aware of it, or its effect on me. I get the feeling that she doesn’t see her beauty at all. Outwardly, she’s average in looks, but what flows from her makes her gorgeous to me. Any man that can’t see it is blind.
She pays the cashier and picks up the brown bag with the bottle of vodka in it and comes back outside. We resume our walk but don’t touch each other this time. I’m not sure of what’s going to happen when we get back to my place. I mean…I know what I want to happen. I haven’t slept with a woman on a first date since college. I’m not sure this can even be considered a date. At this point, I don’t care. I’ve been achingly hard since she agreed to go to the diner with me.
Chapter 4
“Do you want some?” She’s taken the lid off the vodka and has the brown paper bag twisted around it.
“No, I’m good.” I dig the keys out of my pocket to unlock my building.
“Suit yourself.” She tips the bottle to her lips.
The lights are set on motion detection, and they come on when I open the door.
“Wow, this place is first class. Your entry room has a chandelier?” She’s running her hand along the wall where the shadows of the light are bouncing off it. She walks over to the picture wall of clients that I’ve signed. “You’ve recorded some really big players.” She takes another swig of the vodka.