Leaving Amarillo

by Caisey Quinn

  Let the Drummer Kick” is playing loudly wherever I am. The crash of instruments pulls me from sleep.

  Blinking myself awake, I see the bland décor of a hotel room. I sit up and glance over at my blaring phone.

  Gavin’s calling me. Why is Gavin calling me?

  “Hello?” I say, pulling the phone to my ear with one hand and rubbing the remnants of sleep away with the other.

  “Wake up, Bluebird. Your brother is flipping the fuck out.”

  His words soothe and panic me simultaneously. He called me Bluebird. Maybe I didn’t ruin everything with my stupid confession. But holy shit, what time is it?

  “What time is it, Gav?” I ask softly, becoming increasingly afraid of the answer.

  “Sound check is in five minutes.”

  “Okay. See you in five.” Even as I say the words, I know it’s impossible. Even if I were completely ready to go, it’d still take ten minutes to get a cab and get to our stage. There’s nothing in my stomach, so I have no idea why it feels like boulders are slamming around inside of it. Checking the alarms on my phone I see that I set them for a.m. instead of p.m.

  Dropping my phone, I leap from the bed and strip out of my jeans and Lynyrd Skynyrd tee. I fling the top of my suitcase open and find the cleanest thing I can. Short black shorts and a white button-down dress shirt that might not even belong to me. There are some black sequined suspenders still attached to the shorts from the last time I wore them so I keep them to add a little shimmer to my outfit. My hair is a hopeless mess, so I throw a black hat over it. Slipping on black stilettos that I pray elongate my legs enough to help me get a cab quicker, I head to the door.

  Glancing in the mirror on my way out, I realize I look a little like a slutty rockette, but there isn’t time to do anything about it. My shirt might be buttoned wrong and of fucking course I’d be wearing a black bra under a white shirt on a night when it might rain.

  My purse spills when I reached to grab it so I pick up a random tube of lip gloss and swipe some across my mouth. Mascara would be good, but I can’t imagine Dallas would accept separating my lashes as a viable excuse for completely missing sound check.

  Oz is still in his case so I lift it and my room key and literally run out the door. There’s no time to wait on the elevator so I jog to the stairs and pray I don’t break my neck in these damn shoes. The heels click like gunshots as I sprint across the lobby, where I collide with an elderly gentleman pushing a wobbly luggage cart filled with suitcases.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry, sir,” I say, continuing toward the exit.

  He gives me an appreciative smile and nods before adjusting his now-dilapidated pile of suitcases. Maybe he has a thing for slutty rockettes.

  I’ve just hit the sidewalk when I slam into a solid mass. Gathering my bearings and catching my breath, I realize it’s a man, well, a man-child with curly hair and a guitar case strapped to his back.

  Jesus. Austin is crowded.

  “Sorry,” I say for the second time in two minutes.

  He turns his twinkling gray eyes on me and raises a brow. “No need to apologize, beautiful.”

  Oh God. Okay, dude number two who appreciates slutty rockettes then.

  “Right. Okay, then. Excuse me.”

  I go to step around him and hail a cab.

  “You heading to MusicFest?”

  Sighing as no cabs bother to stop, I turn and frown at my second innocent victim. “Yes. And I’m late for sound check.”

  He adjusts his guitar case strap and nods to the left of me. “So are we. Headed there I mean. Not late for sound check. Need a ride?”

  A maniac on a bicycle tears past me, nearly knocking me into handsome man-child guitar player’s arms. “Whoa.”

  “Careful, there. Austin’s kind of crazy about fitness, apparently. That’s the fourth person on a bike I’ve seen nearly take out a pedestrian. Today.”

  “Well this pedestrian is late and if she isn’t on stage seven like ten minutes ago, her brother is going to murder her and stuff her body in a guitar case similar to yours. I’m sorry to be so rude, but I really have to go.”

  “We have a van and we know a shortcut,” he informs me.

  “A van?” I turn and see several guys around his age lugging equipment into a much nicer van than I’m used to traveling in. It probably even has air-conditioning. Which my frizzed-out hair is tempted by.

  “Yeah. I’m sure we have room for one more, long as you don’t mind being a little cramped.”

  Risk letting this guy and his friends gang-rape me and toss my body out on a back road, or face Dallas’s wrath . . .

  Sadly it takes me a full minute to decide.

  “Um, thanks but I probably shouldn’t—”

  “Look, I get it. Random dudes in a van, not the safest bet. But we’re All Grown Up, I promise.”

  “Yeah, we’re all adults here. And while I appreciate the offer—”

  His laughter cuts me off. “No, sweetheart. The band. We’re the band All Grown Up and I’m pretty sure judging from the fiddle you’re carrying and the fact that you’re headed to stage seven, you’re in the band that’s opening up for us tonight.”

  I literally want to slap my own face.

  “Oh my God. I know you. You’re Afton Tate. Holy shit!”

  The lead singer for All Grown Up was a child prodigy that the whole indie music world knows about. At only twenty-one, he’s already turned down deals from several major record labels and his band is still one of the most requested and downloaded.

  “Well that’s a new reaction.” He shrugs as we make our way to the van. “But yeah.”

  “I’m a fan. Wow. I can’t even . . .”

  He chuckles again as he holds the shiny black door of the van open for me. “You could give telling me your name a try. Since you’re my opening act tonight and all.”

  “Um, yeah. My name. It’s Dixie. Dixie Lark,” I tell him, realizing I am obviously fangirling all over him now. Ugh. Now I’m the stupid swoony waitress whose eyes I still want to gouge.

  A low wolf whistle rings out as I step into the van and sit beside a severely pierced-up guy that I’m pretty sure is Mikey Beam, their electric guitarist.

  “Easy, fellas,” Afton tells them as he gets into the driver’s seat in the van. “This is Dixie Lark and she’s in the band opening up for us tonight. She’s in a bit of a hurry, so we’re taking the shortcut.”

  A few of them nod at me, and Mikey steals my hat and puts it on his head.

  “Hey, mister.” I nudge his shoulder gently and he laughs. “My hair’s a mess. I need that.”

  “I think it’s more my style, what do you think?” He poses and readjusts it so it falls over one eye.

  The guys whistle at him and I roll my eyes.

  We’re all jostled as the van hits a bump and I glance out the front windshield.

  “Really, Afton?” The older man in the passenger seat who I hadn’t noticed before asks. I assume he’s some sort of handler since I know they don’t have a manager yet.

  “When a beautiful woman says she needs to get somewhere, you get her there,” Afton replies, successfully heating my cheeks several degrees.

  “Aww,” Mikey coos. “Afton has a crush on you, pretty girl. I’ll pass you a note asking you to go steady with him in a few minutes.”

  “That’s real cute, asshole,” Afton mutters, barely loud enough for me to hear.

  As he speeds toward Sixth Street on a road that I’m pretty sure is closed for the festival, I examine him more closely. Dark curly mass of hair over a handsome yet boyish face. And yet.

  He’s no Gavin.

  God I hate my subconscious sometimes.

  Before I have time to check out him or any of the other muscled mounds of testosterone, we screech to a halt and Mikey slides the door open. Afton has literally driven me right up through the crowd to stage seven.

  “Thanks for the ride, fellas,” I call out as I hop down out of the van. My right ankle stings a littl
e from the harsh impact but I don’t have time to process the pain.

  “Have a great show tonight,” Afton calls out.

  I’ve only made it a few steps when I glance up and see Dallas and Gavin both glaring at me from onstage.

  I offer them each an apologetic smile and a small wave as I make my way to the stairs.

  “Hey, opening act,” someone calls out from behind me. “You forgot this.”

  Turning around, I see Afton holding my hat and grinning.

  “Thanks.” I reach for it but he pulls it back. “Have dinner with me.”

  “Um, what? You know I have sound check.”

  My back is searing with what I know will be my brother’s infuriated glare.

  “After the show, crazy girl. Have dinner with me after the show.”

  He’s holding my hat just slightly out of my reach. Normally being taunted would piss me off. But somehow Afton Tate manages to be sweet about it. He’s watching me with this nervous hopeful expression and I’m too busy dreading facing my brother to think about what his invitation really is.

  “I’ll think about it, okay? Kind of depends on whether or not my brother maims me for being late. The longer I stand here the more likely it is that I’ll be on a Missing poster soon.”

  Afton grins and sets my hat sideways on my head. “Okay then. Since it’s life and death and all. But find me after the show, okay?”

  I nod, annoyed that I’m not more excited. He’s Afton freaking Tate. Where are the butterflies, the flippy stomach? There isn’t a teenage girl or her mom alive who doesn’t drool all over him and his band. Instead I just feel flattered by the invitation and grateful for the ride.

  Walking the death march up to the stage, where I’m sure Dallas is about to berate me, I ignore the reason I’m not jumping at the chance to go to dinner with Afton. The same way that reason ignored me earlier in rehearsal.

  “Dallas, I’m sorry. I overslept. I set two alarms like you said and—”

  “Just play, Dixie. I really don’t want to hear it right now.”

  We play a few songs to warm up and make sure the acoustics are where we want them, and I am proving myself with every rake of my bow across the strings. Gavin breaks a drumstick at one point, glaring at me as if suddenly punctuality is so important to him as well. Neither of them even looks at me through sound check and as soon as it’s over, I make one last attempt at begging for my brother’s forgiveness.

  “I screwed up. It won’t happen again.”

  Dallas tells one of the MusicFest crew members that we’re good to go and then whirls on me. “What were you doing with Afton Tate? I thought you were taking a nap, not gallivanting with—”

  “Did you just seriously say gallivanting? I did take a nap, D. I was literally running out of the hotel and ran into him and he offered me a ride.”

  “So you just hopped into a van with a bunch of dudes, Dixie? What the hell? I thought you were smarter than that.”

  Shoving my bow into my case, I shake my head. “Just go ahead and say it. I’m irresponsible and immature. And you’d much rather I stay in college and tucked safely into an orchestra pit instead of being on the road with you.”

  He recoils at my accusation. “Dixie, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, you know what? I’m a big girl. I made a mistake. Hell, I’ve been making a lot of mistakes lately.” My eyes shoot to Gavin, who’s watching me warily from behind his kit. “But I’ve apologized, and frankly, I’m a human being. I’m not perfect. But I’m also an adult and a person who deserves the benefit of the doubt. All I can do is say I’m sorry and move on. If you can’t, then that’s you’re problem.”

  Clutching Oz, I turn my back on them. I’m frustrated in more ways than I can count and unable to really do much about anything. Gavin doesn’t want me, not like I want him, Dallas doesn’t want me on the road, which is the only place where I feel truly at home, and a seriously talented musician just asked me out and I can’t force myself to care.

  “Dixie Leigh. That’s not what I meant. I was just—”

  I cut my brother off with a wave of my hand and start moving. I have to distance myself from both of them now.

  The cracks that have been forming for years are widening beneath the surface. I feel each and every one of them. I’ve tried so hard for so long to keep it together. My whole life I’ve tried. Tried to accept my life as it is, to not complain, or live beyond my means, or want for more than I deserve. Tried not to let my welling ocean of grief from losing my parents overflow onto anyone else. I’ve tried to be what Dallas and Gavin needed, tried not to be any trouble as a kid and not upset grandparents who shouldn’t have had to raise children in their golden years, tried my absolute damnedest to smother the fiery flames of desire that flare anytime Gavin so much as looks at me.

  But doing all of that, holding everything back, has made a mess inside me, left me twisted up and hurting.

  Holding my heart in check while I was in Houston was almost easy compared to this. Maybe that’s why the thought of touring with the band seemed so appealing—why I never imagined there could be a downside. Knowing it will include a front-row seat to Gavin’s parade of groupie conquests is like multiplying how I felt when he flirted with the waitress in front of me by infinity.

  “Where are you going?” Dallas shouts from the edge of the stage.

  “I just . . . need a few minutes. I’ll be back in time for the show.” My voice wavers and I wonder if either of them hears the tremor in it.

  I won’t be late. I just might not be whole, either.

  Chapter 7

  “SO I TAKE IT YOUR BROTHER WAS PRETTY PISSED?”

  Afton’s voice is sincere as he approaches me outside of a small bar where I’d sat alone at a round table. I’d been too busy cursing myself for not bringing my phone to notice him.

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “Sorry. If I hadn’t kept you talking outside the hotel—”

  “I was already late. Not even remotely a possibility that any of this is your fault.”

  He ducks his head and peeks at me from under his eyelashes. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  I can’t help but smile at him. “Thanks. It was a valiant effort.”

  “So, not that it’s any of my business, but this looks pretty intense for being late to sound check.”

  Tracing the carved ivy pattern on the iron tabletop, I shrug. “Yeah. There’s, um, other stuff.”

  Not that I plan to tell you any of it.

  “I see,” he says quietly. “Well, maybe we can talk about that tonight at dinner? There’s a Mexican place on the other side of town that stays open late.” I smile up at him but the ever-present gleam in his eye dims. “How many times can I ask you to dinner before I start to seem desperate?”

  “If you’ve had to ask her more than once, she doesn’t want to go. Bluebird never turns down free food.” Gavin’s voice startles us both.

  And what the hell? He’s never called me that in front of anyone. Ever.

  Afton’s eyes go wide and he puts his hands up. “My bad¸ man. She never mentioned having a boyfriend.”

  “That’s because she doesn’t have one,” I inform him. I finally get it. Gavin can dish it out but he can’t take it. Standing so that I’m level with both of them, I give Afton my full attention. “And I’d love to have dinner with you. Just find me after your show.”

  A wide smile breaks across his face. “Cool. Have a great show, Dixie Lark.” With a wink, he disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone with Broody von Glareyface.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What are you doing?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.

  “Saving your ass so your brother doesn’t kick you out of the band or take away your solo.”

  “Ah. It’s time, I guess?”

  “Yeah. It is.” Without another word he turns and I follow him back to the stage. The crowd near the bars is thick, a sea of bodies we have to maneuver through. B
ut as we get to the stage it’s a bit sparser.

  This is the trouble with being the opening act. Everyone is still sober and that makes for a much less forgiving audience. It’s still dusk and not quite dark enough for the stage lights to work their magic. Dallas isn’t completely wrong when he says we need to be perfect and not half-ass it. The sound guys are still working bugs out so there will be glitches during our show that we can’t prevent.

  For Dallas, this is unacceptable. For me, it’s just part of it. The bumps and the bruises, the memories of everything gone wrong, of playing through the hiccups—that’s part of what I love about it. Music is an experience. It’s alive. Untamable. You can try to plan it out, pin it down, and bend it to your will, but it can’t really be done.

  I was born to be an opening act, to fly by the seat of my pants and make the best of it. But my brother is a headliner.

  And Gavin . . . I don’t know exactly what he is. The encore, maybe. The one nobody can get enough of.

  As much of a train wreck as I am right now, I can’t help but notice the way his black jeans are slung low across his hips, drumsticks sticking out of one pocket. And how taut his shirt is pulled across his broad back and the way his ink moves as the thick ropes of muscles shift in his arms.

  When we reach the stage, Gavin goes straight to his drums. He’s angry. At me, I think. I can feel it. I’m just not exactly sure why.

  Sighing and retrieving Oz, I’m surprised when Dallas comes over to me.

  “Dallas, I really am—”

  I don’t finish my millionth apology because my brother wraps his arms around me. His words are low in my ear as his hands thread through my hair.

  “I know it’s been ten years, and I know you miss them. I’m sorry, Dixie Leigh. I’m so damn sorry.”

  The shock of affection combined with the force of emotion weighing in his voice makes an impact the cracks beneath my surface nearly shatter under.

  All I can do is nod against his warmth.

  “It will be better. You will have a better life. I promise. No, I swear, Dix. I swear on their memory that you will have everything you deserve.”

  “Dallas,” I say, clutching his shirt but pulling back to smile at him. “I already do. I have music and I have you. That’s enough for me.”