Mac’s Daring Heart: Sweethearts of Country Music, Book 6

by Layne, Sandi

  She smiled at him and he could feel her face move under the pads of his fingers. It was, he reflected as they separated to get in their places for the next segment of the evening, the most intimate moment he might have spent with anyone, ever.

  He held that opinion through the toasts, including the one he’d memorized to deliver, and throughout Andrew and Lynda’s first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham. He held it all the way until he held Mac in his arms for their first dance.

  “I—I’d like to see you again,” he said as he walked her back to her seat under the far-too-interested eyes of her family.

  “I’d like to be seen,” she quipped with a dimple at the corner of her lips that held his total attention for one embarrassing moment. “Phone?”

  She had hers in an unexpected pocket of her formal concert gown and they swapped phones. He didn’t dare add a picture of himself, but he saw that she’d taken one of her violin case where it sat on her chair. “Call me,” she whispered, her lips moving with exaggerated, airy enunciation.

  “Tomorrow,” he promised.

  Hopefully, she would prove to be an early riser.

  INTERLUDE II

  Derek & Mac

  Derek: I promised to call you, but I figured I’d text first, to see if you were up.

  Mac: I’d make a face but I can’t see the emojis yet. You can call me, though.

  Derek: Really?

  Mac: Yep. So long as you don’t mind if I am also drinking coffee. NO VIDEO.

  Derek: Well, shoot, and here I thought I’d get to see you first thing in the morning.

  Mac: I look awesome first thing in the morning. Just not the morning after a wedding.

  Derek: I’ll keep that in mind

  Mac: !?!? Never mind. I’m getting coffee. Give me, um, five minutes.

  Derek: Well, I can tell you what I was thinking while you brew. I was wondering if you’d be interested in going out to a dinner that wasn’t also attended by basically your entire family.

  Mac: Coffee

  Derek: Dancing could happen, but mostly I was thinking dinner. Are you a barbecue girl or a sushi person or a basic kind of All-American steak and potatoes chick?

  Mac: Coffee . . . I told you

  Derek: LOL Do you have a side job or are you All About the Bass?

  Mac: Do not. Just. Don’t.

  Derek: Whoa! Didn’t mean to offend. Just wondering how full your schedule is.

  Mac: One more minute. I’m fixing up my cup.

  Derek: I feel like I need to ask ALL the questions. How do you take your coffee?

  Mac: Turbinado sugar and half-and-half

  Derek: No weird, sweet creamers?

  Mac: Ew. No. Raw sugar. Organic. And half-and-half.

  Derek: I’ll keep that in mind. Are you ready to talk, yet?

  Mac: Yes, and dinner sounds great, but we’ve got places to go and like that, so . ..

  Mac: Thanks.

  3

  Kacey Musgraves, after a whirlwind European tour, was back in the States and Storm Music had arranged for the Lipstick Outlaws to tour with her in the Southwest. Before meeting up with her, the band performed in Oklahoma City, hitting several local bars as headliners for a night or three. Thunderstorms had wiped out the power one night, a tornado warning had sent everyone to a shelter under one of the venues on another night, but all in all, the experience had been positive.

  Rissa and Taylor had even begun creating a couple new songs in response to the feelings engendered by a storm when a lady was happily in love.

  On the present evening, Mac heard Rissa plucking out a melody Mac knew to be the refrain on an as yet untitled bit of storm-music. “Sounds like it’s time to make another album,” she remarked to C.C. as they were prepping before they went onstage.

  The drummer put a final set to her hairstyle. “You know it.” They shared a smile before C.C. added, “Think another drop party will happen?”

  “I don’t know, but the first one was epic.”

  “It really was.”

  “There she is,” Mac whispered to C.C. under the noise of the growing crowd. It took a lot of work to get where Kacey Musgraves was, and the headliner had earned every kudo she’d received. Mac couldn’t help visualizing someone else being in their place another year, watching the Outlaws and thinking that they, too, had worked hard to get where they were.

  She blew out a breath. It was time to psych up for the night. She adopted a certain stance, voice, and awareness when they had a show. Locking in with the drummer’s kick drum patterns, mindful of all the notes and vibes that surrounded them. All of it mattered for every performance.

  Even so, there was room for a bit of fangirl as she studied the famous artist. Kacey Musgraves was vocal in her opinions, but highly respected by so many. Mac thought that was just great and she appreciated the strength it took to maintain that kind of image for the public. However, she just didn’t let her admiration show too obviously before ducking back into the makeshift changing room the openers got for the night.

  “You know, we could be doing a European tour thing soon,” she ventured to say quietly to her friend as they both worked on last-minute tricks with their makeup. “I mean, we’ve got the CMA thing in a couple months.”

  C.C.—older, wiser, and generally far more grounded—nodded cautiously. “Could happen.” She pursed her lips in the mirror and added more lipstick in a dark plum shade.

  Mac did likewise, though her color for the evening was Pantone’s Jester Red to match the bodice of her body-hugging knit top. “Yeah. Here’s hoping, anyway.” She finished her look by adding a coat of lipstick fixative. Felt weird, but it did the job; she hated having to reapply makeup during an event of any sort. “Did you check the mics for the drum kit?”

  C.C. smiled. “Yep. All twelve of ‘em.”

  “D.D.—”

  C.C. interrupted with a laugh and wave of a drumstick. “Wait, you’re still calling Dalton that?”

  Chuckling, Mac paused and caught C.C.’s eye. “Nicknames are forever. I mean, he’s been Drummer’s Dude in my head since the first time I saw him following you with those so-sincere eyes.”

  C.C. might have blushed as she clicked out a rhythm with the sticks.

  Mac smoothed her hands over her jeans. “So, D.D. said he’d tweak my monitor. Last time, there was that sound problem.” Mixing engineers had a hard job; Mac knew that. Their prior performance had been notable for the way the sound hadn’t been quite right for the bass. “Not knockin’ your sweetheart, Ceece,” she tagged on in case her friend took offense. “He’s great. I think the problem was as much the fact that I used my Yamaha instead of the Ibanez.”

  “Probably,” C.C. agreed. “Do I look all right?”

  “Yep. Me?”

  “Uh-huh. Let’s do this.”

  Rissa and Val were already in something of a pre-show conference just inside the door of their room, bent over a list that was the official order of performance. Val handed out the slips of printed paper with the set list. “First, though,” she said, meeting each of their eyes as her gaze swept the group, “focus on the Close.” Mac nodded and her heart gave a thump as she remembered sharing this very important part of their stage-time with Derek.

  They had been texting just before their first time on tour with Kacey and he’d asked her what the biggest challenge was for her, so he could be supportive. Because he was all kinds of excellent, that way.

  Derek: Why is the close hard?

  Mac: The Close is the last thing we leave the audience with. For your work, you have to close a meeting, right?

  Derek: Get a new client, get funding for The Place. Yeah.

  Mac: Same for us, sorta. I was curious, so I checked with my brother the finance whiz and he said that touring actually nets only about 28% of a musician’s income these days. Anyway, touring is most important for the way it connects us with fans and like that. Connections, you know? So, we have to make an impression. Leave them feeling good about us. We’re still p
retty new, and it’s like they say, you never get a second chance to make a first impression.

  Derek: Ah

  Mac: Yeah.

  Derek: Well, YOU make a great impression, if I may say so.

  Mac: LOL. Thanks.

  After a pause, the little “I’m typing” dots appeared on his side of the conversation on her phone and she’d waited, despite the fact that she’d needed to get her boots on. And then, the gray bubble from his side flowed down the screen and her heart thumped hard as she read his text.

  Derek: I know we didn’t get a chance to even have a first date, Mac, but believe me when I say that you made a striking first impression. Just seeing you open the door at your place threw me, and I haven’t stopped smiling since. Hate these stupid keyboards on the phones! Takes forever to type. But really, you stand out and I’ve seen you perform, and I know how well you did in Colorado with the Close. I didn’t know what it was called, but it worked for me and I remembered you. Even without your stage boots on, I remembered you. So . . . don’t forget me, OK?

  Heat had suffused her entire body as she read his words and her fingers were trembling when she managed, somehow, to find a way to type an answer.

  Mac: Stupid phones. What can I say to that? I’m all flustered over here.

  Derek: Sorry?

  Mac: No. No sorries. No. I just. I wish I could talk to you.

  Derek: Call me when you can. It won’t be too late.

  Mac: OK.

  “Mac, you good?” Katie Lyn’s big blue eyes were sharp and concerned. When Mac blew out a breath and tried to smile in reassurance, Katie Lyn nodded. “Usual intros tonight, all right? Any special guests?” She grinned. “I mean, you know, if Eddie or Silas are here, one of you could do the honors.” Katie Lyn’s husband, Alec, was working and unable to accompany them on the road. Eddie was Taylor’s fiancé and Silas was Cinnamon’s boyfriend, but neither of them did road tours with the band.

  Mac smilingly shook her head in answer to their lead singer’s question. “Not tonight, no.” Everyone aside from C.C. proclaimed themselves to be Significant Other Free in California. And C.C. and her D.D. didn’t do the spotlight-on-my-man routine.

  Jack Bradley, their tour manager, popped his head into the group and waved his clipboard. The man was in his fifties and preferred pencil and paper over electronic note-taking. Not because he hated computers, he’d told Mac when she asked months before, but because he thought better with a pencil in his hand. “All set, ladies?”

  “Because we haven’t done this before, right?” Val said with a smirk. Mac hid her own smile. The relationship between the band manager and the tour manager was proceeding nicely, as far as the rest of the band knew, and they all thought it was cute.

  Val tugged at Jack’s arm to get them out of the band’s way and Mac moved to stand next to Katie Lyn. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to zone on you just now.”

  With a smile, the other woman waved off her apology. “No worries. So long as you’re ready.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Katie Lyn, their lead vocalist held out her hands. “Let’s pray, ladies!”

  It had been their pre-performance routine ever since the first night they’d played together, back in The Turquoise Horse the year before. Before they charted, before they were on the radio, even before they’d had a contract, the Lipstick Outlaws had started their own rituals. Mac smiled a little as Cinnamon—banjo and fiddle—took one of Katie Lyn’s hands. Taylor, blond and beautiful on the piano, emerged from her meditative thoughts and took Katie’s other hand. Rissa—acoustic guitar—linked up with Taylor. Mac grabbed C.C.’s hand and the two of them slid in to complete the circle before they said the Lord’s Prayer as they always did.

  Pre-performance energy levels were high, but Mac was still a bit wary. Opening for Kacey Musgraves was a huge deal. They had about twenty minutes for their own set and had decided to make this a more personal performance. Something that left an emotional impact. Taylor’s song, Came to Nashville would be the first played. It had been their first song to hit number one and was still popular. Then the introductions would happen. Mac would follow Katie Lyn’s lead when it was her turn. Then, Cinnamon’s song, When Karma Comes Calling, would be up. It was energetic, thrumming with girl-power vibes. This would be followed by Rissa’s ballad, Rebel Heart.

  She fidgeted until then, rocking back and forth in her thigh-high boots.

  “Lipstick Outlaws, you’re on!”

  She and C.C. exchanged a smile, as they usually did, before moving to take possession of the stage. Mac felt her limbs thrum with energy, even as she adopted her deceptively insouciant posture and slung her Ibanez around her body. She and C.C. had a thing, as they performed, with C.C. driving the rhythm and Mac herself staying in her pocket, as the saying went among bass players. Mac stayed in the groove, the rhythm, and generally kept a low profile without a lot of flourishes, though she did include the occasional lick, filling in a chord when the energy seemed to call for it. As much as they rehearsed as a group, the band was a collection of individuals. Creative individuals. All of them had their own sense of self and their own hearts to share though the music they performed as a whole.

  The challenge was a real rush.

  Applause faded as they began to play their first number. They had all had something to say about the energy levels of the music, so that it was a group effort. It had been one of the first that they’d played in public, over a year ago.

  Only a year!

  She grinned at C.C. and slid into her groove as they went to the next numbers, adding the low backbeat that the bass guitar provided. It wasn’t often that she added her limited vocals to the song, but this number required it, so she added her alto-forged, “Like lightning striking, hot and fast . . .” on cue, her fingers plucking the heavy notes on her Ibanez as she did so, but not adding anything extra. Not for that number; she wouldn’t want to throw the girls off their stride.

  Smiling, she ended with a practiced downbeat and took a deep breath, subtly relaxing her arms, shoulders, and fingers as Katie Lyn introduced the band. The other woman shot Mac a grin as she got around to introducing the bass guitarist.

  “Mac Cunningham on bass guitar!” Mac took a couple of slow steps forward, angling a look back at Rissa before smiling at the audience. “Mac’s from Nashville, Tennessee, and not only does she play such a styling bass, but she also goes all formal on her violin.” Mac sighed but made a deep curtsy, comedic in her jeans and thigh-high boots, and mimed taking a violin bow to her bass before stepping back as Katie Lyn finished with, “And on acoustic is Rissa, also from Tennessee, but she wanted you to know she does like how you Californians throw a party!” Lots of applause greeted that acclamation and Mac played nice, smiling at Katie Lyn’s comments and nodding at each of her bandmates as they took their turn in the spotlight before the mood went challenging and fierce, in the way she was prepared for as they hit the second number for their set that evening.

  The house lights were dim, so Mac didn’t see much of their audience. She could hear them—some “Ahhhh” sounds floated to her, winding their way between amps and mics and all the paraphernalia that made up a band’s hardware. She enjoyed performing; enjoyed synching herself up with C.C., enjoyed playing the deep notes that weren’t obvious, but were missed when they were gone. It was a subtle sort of thing, really, but she liked it.

  Cinnamon played the banjo and fiddle as needed; they were featured instruments, the ones that got attention and garnered interest. Mac was fine with that; she had her time and had her own kind of prestige as a first chair violinist in college and she didn’t need the same kind of attention anymore. Had she ever really needed the attention, or had she just been driven to excel to get her parents’ approval?

  Focus, Cunningham!

  Her mind had been drifting lately, and she blamed it all on Derek and his red hair. The date—that dinner without her family—hadn’t happened, but they’d managed to chat on FaceTime. They were both MacB
ook people, which made him laugh as he’d said, “It’s like a good omen, you know? Your initials being M.A.C. and all!”—and to text during the days and nights.

  “And this is Black Pony,” Katie Lyn added another bit of patter. As their lead singer, she was often the face of Lipstick Outlaws. “Our own Cinnamon wrote it and we all like how it gets to the heart. Hope you do, too.”

  As it was a nostalgic sort of song, there was a significant emphasis on the bass and Mac brought her best, as she always did. C.C. kept the beat, Rissa’s guitar was soulful and sweet; they all brought their A-Game to the performance. The audience, after a minute, was with them, too. Mac could feel the change in the energy, and it made her heart pick up the pace a little.

  It was kind of like, well, dancing with a particularly perfect partner.

  Focus, Cunningham!

  * * *

  “No, really, there’s Wi-Fi on the tour bus,” Mac told Derek after she’d showered in the tiny lavatory on the bus. “And I’ve got a private bunk. It’s like . . . like one of the servant’s cabins in Murder on the Orient Express. I’ll take pics, if you want, but it’s not that exciting. We each, though, have a private entertainment screen for movies.”

  His laugh was welcome, even if it was layered with exhaustion. He’d said to call, she’d told him it’d be insanely late, and he’d said to call anyway, so . . . she had. He still sounded sweet when he said, “Maybe when everyone’s awake and posing. I don’t want to get on anyone’s bad side.”

  “This group? Nah,” she said, keeping her voice quiet. The bunk was nothing super exciting. She had the very top one as heights were not a problem for her. “Most of us are touching base with our guys, families, and like that.” She could hear Taylor’s soft voice; Eddie was almost always in a different time zone and they made their long-distance relationship work with frequent phone calls. How else could they juggle love and music?

  “Guys, huh? What, y’all have a group of cabana boys or something?”