“Yeah, it’s one I wrote a long time ago. An oldie but a goodie, as they say.”
I chance some of our now familiar banter. “Down on that Tennessee farm you’re always talking about?”
“How many times are you going to make that joke?” His eyes twinkle.
I shrug. “I’ll let you know.”
“You do that.”
Izzy nudges my arm, dragging my attention from Cole. “Look at the stage. Joel’s back.” Joel, tonight’s emcee, is standing at the mic once more, the crooner having sung his song.
“I don’t know what you see in him,” Raffy says to Izzy with a shake of her head. “He’s too confident.”
“Confidence is a bad thing?” Cole asks.
“Only when there’s no reason for it.” Raffy’s tone is harsh.
“Okay, people,” the evidently confident-for-no-reason Joel says to the crowd, “up next we have a new performer, Jim.”
The crowd at one of the tables nearby whoops and hollers as a guy with a multicolored mohawk steps onto the stage. He’s wearing a studded dog collar around his neck, a black leather jacket, and a hot pink kilt. He clearly doesn’t subscribe to my “fly under the radar” approach. But then I bet he doesn’t have a stepmonster like Sylvia Tremaine.
“Uh-oh. This is going to be bad,” Izzy says. “He looks like a punk rocker from the eighties.”
“Perhaps his time machine is out back, ready to whisk him back to 1984 after his performance,” I joke.
“Give him a chance,” Raffy says. “Remember that girl from a few weeks ago? The one who looked like she was about to throw up she was so nervous? Her voice was amazing. The Boys absolutely loved her. Said she was a Liza Minelli in the making.”
“They’d know. They’re experts on all things Liza,” I comment.
“The Boys?” Cole questions. “Are these your boyfriends?”
Raffy, Izzy, and I share a look between ourselves and immediately erupt into laughter.
“We don’t have the right—” Izzy pauses and her eyes flash to Raffy, who finishes her sentence. “—equipment.”
“Got it.” Cole nods as realization dawns.
I tell him, “The Boys are Raffy’s extremely fussy, highly opinionated roommates. They’re very hard to impress, so when you get their stamp of approval, you know you’ve got something really special.”
“There’s a gaggle of them, and they all love Raffy,” Izzy adds. “Just like us.”
“Well, what’s not to love?” Raffy says with a shrug and a wink.
“How many is in the gaggle of boys, exactly?” Cole asks.
“Seven,” we all reply in unison.
“That’s a lot of boys.”
Izzy crosses her arms over her chest, leveling her gaze at Jim. “If this dude just stands there and yells at us, I’m outta here. I get enough of that kind of crap from my freaking stepmother.”
“Tell me about it,” I say to her under my breath. I had to tell Sylvia a lie about needing to buy more cleaning products from the store to get here tonight. If she knew where I was, she’d exact her evil vengeance on me—and thoroughly enjoy doing it, too.
Jim begins to strum his guitar and hum softly. So far, not the assault on our ears we feared. And when he opens his mouth, the most impressive sound comes forth. His voice is strong, with a throaty texture that booms throughout the room, making us all sit up and take notice. I gawp at my friends. It’s hard not to be impressed.
He belts out a song that could come right off the Motown record label playlist. It’s completely at odds with the way he’s dressed, and by the looks of the people around us, everyone is enthralled.
When his performance is over, our table joins in with the stunned applause.
“I did not see that coming,” Cole says incredulously.
“I know, right? Talk about incongruous. Move over Aretha Franklin!” I applaud with enthusiasm.
“Do you get a lot of punk rockers who sound like they should be singing Motown in this place?” he asks.
“This is New York. Anything goes, remember?” I reply with a smile.
“Next up is Izzy, one of our regulars,” Joel announces from the stage.
I nudge Cole. “You’re up.”
“Oh, right. I forgot I’m Izzy tonight.” Cole stands and opens his guitar case.
“Knock ’em dead,” I say.
He smiles that sexy smile of his, and I’m forced to remind myself he’s not interested in me. “I’ll give it my best shot.” He saunters toward the stage.
I bet Cole has none of the nerves that were zinging around my body as I made that walk, as though I were high on a serious caffeine overload. He’s the epitome of confidence. I lean back against the high-back seat and release a deep breath.
“I like him,” Izzy pronounces. She has a way about her I love: straightforward, honest. I always know where I stand with her.
“Yup, me too,” Raffy agrees. “He’s solid, real. Great choice, Gabby.”
“And let’s not forget hot as all hell,” Izzy adds, dramatically fanning her face with her hand. “Gabby, we’ve decided! You have our seal of approval to date him. Us sad, lonely spinsters will live vicariously through you for a while, if you don’t mind.”
I do my best to ignore the way the butterflies in my belly flitter about at the thought of being with Cole. Instead, I choose to deflect. “I’m not sure we’re exactly considered spinsters at twenty-two. We should google it.”
“Don’t try to sidetrack. We’re onto you, Gabriella Davis.” Izzy’s tone is stern but playful.
“Yeah, Gabs, what’s the deal with you two? That hug he gave you was so sweet,” Raffy says.
“Sweet and hot,” Izzy adds.
“Totally hot. Are you dating him?” Raffy asks.
I force out a laugh. “Is that what you think this is? I’ll tell you why he’s really here tonight.”
“To charm the pants off you?” Raffy offers.
I roll my eyes at her. “No, that’s not it at all.”
“It kinda looks like it from where I’m sitting,” Raffy says as Izzy nods her agreement.
“It’s because he knows Rex Randall, and I asked him to introduce me to him. He needs to know how well I can sing.”
“And so he can charm the pants off you,” Raffy repeats.
I shake my head, exasperated. “He’s helping me with my singing career, that’s all.”
Izzy fixes me with a stern gaze. “Sure, he is. And no guy could ever be interested in Gabby Davis, right?”
“Yeah, babe. Just because Sylvia and her spawn treat you like a slave doesn’t mean you’re not worth a guy like Cole,” Raffy adds.
Argh! They so don’t get it! I begin to protest as Cole strums his guitar on the stage, drawing my attention. He nods to the beat as he plays an opening riff and his right boot-clad foot taps a rhythm against the floor. He begins to sing. I’m nothing short of mesmerized. His voice cuts through the sounds of the room like a knife through butter.
I recognize the tune from when I found him in the hallway at the studio. This time I concentrate on the lyrics and watch his mouth move as he forms the words.
A young boy cries in the night
Why doesn’t he fit in?
Why doesn’t he feel right?
With his words, his voice, his intoxicating presence he grips my attention and won’t let go. I’m spellbound by the story he tells, so heartfelt and so real. As I listen, watching the depth of emotion written across his face, I know this song means something to him. Is Cole the boy, alone, crying in the night? I try to swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. What happened to him to make him feel this way?
Cole is baring his soul to this roomful of strangers.
To me.
He strums the final soft chord and rests his hand on the top of his guitar. I recognize that look on his face: he’s lived that song, every word of it, and now he’s got to work to bring himself back to reality.
When his eyes come bac
k into focus and he looks around the room he says, “Thank you for listening,” into the mic.
There’s total silence in the club. The only sound comes from voices outside, the wail of a siren in the distance, and the deafening sound of people holding their breath. And with a clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the audience stirs to life and erupts into applause. The Ellas clap exuberantly beside me. The people around me whistle. I look around, stunned, and begin to clap myself as I struggle to swallow the lump in my throat. On automatic pilot, I stand with The Ellas.
When he returns to the table, his bulk is doubly impossible to ignore. He’s looking at me with such intensity that my breath catches in my throat. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My mind is too busy whirring, like a hamster on a wheel, my heart too busy expanding. Too busy telling me to forget all the buts, forget all the reasons why not.
In this moment, they mean nothing.
The words whisper in my ear: I want to be with him.
“Wow, Cole. That was a beautiful song,” Raffy gushes beside me.
“You wrote that?” Izzy asks and he nods. “I’m so impressed. And your voice is gorgeous.”
“Thanks,” he replies.
“Between the two of you, you make the rest of us look so amateur,” Raffy says. “I can totally see why Rex Randall wants you to play with him. Can’t you, girls?”
I’m still dumbstruck, standing rigid beside him like some sort of totem pole.
“Gabby, what did you think of Cole’s song?” Izzy leans over and gives my back a painful prod with her finger. It jerks me out of my stunned totem-pole state.
“I-I loved it,” I breathe. “Who wouldn’t?”
“You did?” There’s a momentary flash of vulnerability in Cole’s features I’ve not seen before, and then he shifts his position and his expression changes. He clears his throat. “I wrote it years ago, but I haven’t performed it publicly before. I thought I’d see how it sat up there.” His tone is brisk, his eyes not meeting mine. “I think it went down well.”
I want to ask him if he’s that boy, and if he is, what happened to make him feel that way? But his expression is closed off, and I shy away. Instead, I ask, “If you haven’t performed it publicly before, why did you decide to play it here, tonight?” I hold my breath, hoping I know his answer. Hoping it’s because he wants me to know him, he wants to open himself up to me through his song, as I did for him.
“I dunno. It felt right, I guess. It’s no big deal.” Averting his eyes from mine, he slips his guitar into its case, closes it up and leans it against the wall beside our table. “Done,” he says, “I’ll, ah, I’ll be back in a few.” He nods at my friends, and I notice his features are still tense.
Wanting to follow, I mumble, “Sure.”
He takes big strides away from the table, as though he can’t wait to be away from us—away from me.
I watch him leave, confused.
“What was that about?” Izzy asks, echoing the question running through my mind.
I watch as Cole zigzags through the tables toward the bathrooms. I lift a nail to my mouth and chew. “I’ve got no clue.”
“Maybe he can’t take a compliment? Some people are like that,” Izzy offers.
“Whatever it was, that song was powerful,” Raffy says thoughtfully. “He seems like such a great guy. Maybe a little sad?”
“I know, right? A painful past only adds to his allure though, in my opinion. It makes him mysterious, multi-faceted, so interesting.” Izzy chucks me on the arm. “Good score, girlfriend.”
My face heats up as I drag my attention back from the door that now separates us from Cole. “I wasn’t being modest before, you know. He’s here to see me sing and that’s all. He’s not interested in me.”
“Are you freaking blind?” Raffy says at the same time Izzy exclaims, “He is so into you!”
“No, he’s not.”
“Um, yeah, he is,” Izzy says. “And the two of you, locked in that romantic embrace before? #Swoon, babe.”
I arc an eyebrow at her. “#Swoon? Please. I’m not about to ‘swoon’ over some guy. We’re not in high school anymore.” It wouldn’t take Freud to work out I’m trying to hide my true hopes behind my snarky words.
Raffy reaches across the table and places her hand on my arm. “Babe, you deserve some fun. You know, with your dad still not home, your worries about Cece, megabitch Sylvia out to make your life super miserable, and all that crap-ola. I say, go for it with this guy. Right, Izz?”
“Right.”
A spark of hope ignites inside my chest. Cole makes me forget about my life, he makes me feel like my dreams are possible, like I can have a music career—and get Cece from Sylvia’s grasp. And oh, my, when he held me in his arms? Well, let’s just say I never wanted him to let me go. And although I’d not admit it to her, Izzy was on the money with her hashtag. The way he held me was totally and completely swoon-worthy. “All I want from Cole is to introduce me to Rex so I can try to get my music career off the ground.”
“Are you sure that’s all?” Izzy asks.
“Of course! Neither of us are interested in the other.” They’re empty words, and I’m not sure even I believe them anymore. “Look I admit, I can see he’s gorgeous, and sweet, and kind, and all those things, but—”
Raffy cuts me off. “Yeah, all those things us girls hate in men.” She rolls her eyes. “Me? I like a man to be super mean to me, be the opposite of sweet and kind, and definitely not hug me the way Cole just hugged you.”
“You’re being sarcastic,” I say.
“It’s not like that, my ass,” Raffy says.
I shake my head, that spark of hope in my chest spreading like wildfire. I try to protest. “But—”
This time it’s Izzy who cuts me off. Really, can’t these two just let it go? “We can tell you like each other.” Raffy nods. “And babe, you can’t help who you fall for, or when you fall for them. You’ve got to go for it. Guys like him don’t just fall out of the sky.”
Or catch me when I fall through doors.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. I can’t fall for Cole. Someone who’ll leave me, just like everyone I’ve ever cared for. A shot of pain sears through my chest as I’m slammed by an image of Mom laughing with Dad, her long dark hair falling down her back, her eyes focused on him.
I don’t want to put myself through losing someone again. I lost Mom, I’ve all but lost Dad.
And anyway, no matter what The Ellas say, this is not about Cole. This about The Plan, about protecting Cece, it’s about getting away from Sylvia, it’s about . . .
Aw, crap. It’s about Cole.
Chapter 10
Cole
I push through a door at the back of the club into a narrow, dimly-lit hallway. I see a sign for the bathrooms, located at the end, and there’s an old-fashioned payphone on the wall that looks like it hasn’t been used since the beginning of time. I stop as the door swings closed, muffling the song that someone has begun to sing out in the club.
I rub the back of my neck, as though doing so will ease my agitation. It doesn’t.
God. What was I thinking? Why did I play the song I wrote when I was a kid, the song that meant so much to me? The song that rips my heart out every time I play the damn thing.
I played that song over and over in my room while my mom was out working one of her three jobs. I must have been eleven when I first wrote it, refining it over the years, making it into what it is now. And still, when I sang it up on stage, it was like I was back there, sitting on my bed, propped up against my wall. Alone. That song helped me deal with how I felt, it helped me make sense of my life.
Make sense of the choices my mom had made for me.
I pace the hallway, coming to a stop by a door with a green exit sign illuminated above. I put my hand on the doorknob, ready to leave. Ready to run.
I shake my head, my laugh bitter. Here I am thirteen years later, once again dealing with one of my mom’s choi
ces; the choice not to tell me about Rex. Yeah, that little gem.
And what do I do? Open myself up to some cute girl about it all by singing her a song.
So mature.
The memory of her face when I got back to the table flashes before my eyes. I could tell she knew I was singing that song for her. She knew I was trying in my stupid, clumsy way to show her who I am, what I’ve been through. To let her in.
The tension in my neck builds and I rub it. It’s no use. The stiffness remains because no matter how hard I try, I keep going back to the one thing that feels right in this insane mess: Gabby.
I pace the hallway. What is it about her? Between work, singing at the bar in Nashville, the girl at the hotel, I meet plenty of women. Sure, I’ve had my share of them, and yet I couldn’t tell you much about any of them. But Gabby. Shit. The way her hair skims her back at bra level, the chunks of gold in her green eyes, the way her firm body feels against mine. And that’s just the physical, the obvious. There’s so much more to her. Her courage, her kindness, her determination. I’ve seen it all today. With her sister, her friends, even dealing with that bitch of a band manager.
She knows who she is and what she wants, and that is so damned attractive to me.
There are so many reasons why I shouldn’t go for it with her. But the way she makes me feel? This is new. It feels wrong to risk losing it.
Screw it. Decision made.
I push through the door into the club. A woman is singing and playing a guitar up on stage. It’s unashamed light pop, and its happy tempo helps to shake me out of my vulnerable state.
When I reach the booth, Gabby looks directly up at me from her seat. The sadness and confusion lurking in her eyes makes my chest tighten, and I want to collect her in my arms again, tell her it’s me who’s messed up. To make it all right.
“Are you okay?” she asks. Her hand is placed across her heart, and I know I caused her pain.
Yup, I sang her my story, and she inferred every broken part of my life.
Tentative, I mumble “yes” as I take my seat beside her. She looks at me like she can see my very soul. And I tell her, because I have to, because I need her to know me. After what she showed me up on the stage, the way she made herself so vulnerable, I know I need to balance it, somehow. Show her my soft underbelly, too. “That song is about me. About who I was as a kid, what I went through.” I keep my voice low so only Gabby can hear me. “It got a bit much, so I ran. But I came back.”
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