by Caisey Quinn
He opens his mouth to argue but I put my hand up.
“Ugh. Don’t bother. Guess I misjudged you. I’ll just take my one hot kiss, hold the lame-ass apology and bullshit, please.”
My view of Sixth Street changes abruptly. Gavin is gripping me by my shoulders and has slung me around to face him.
“What guy do you want me to be? One who lies to his best friend and screws his little sister behind his back?”
Now it’s my turn to gape with wide eyes. Once I’ve lifted my chin from the ground and regained the ability to speak, I take a deep breath and meet his penetrating glare.
“No. That’s not who I want you to be at all.” I let my hands rest on his hips and pull him in just until my chest is lightly brushing against his. “I want you to be the guy who kisses me because he wants to, because he’s can’t not kiss me for another second. I don’t want you to screw me behind Dallas’s back. I want you to spend time with me because you want to, because we have a connection that we can only deny for so long, and because the thought of never having me is more than you can stand.”
“Oh, is that all?”
I smile up at him. “Is it really that much to ask? I know we can’t jump headfirst into anything and I get that it wouldn’t be good for the band right now. But you feel it, this thing between us. I know you do because you poured it into that kiss today.”
The moment he kissed me, we were connected on a level that far surpassed the physical contact. No matter what he does or doesn’t believe himself to be capable of, I felt it, the way he gave himself over to me, every feeling that emptied out of him when that wall between us finally came down.
Our kiss gave life to an idea that I hope will work—one I have no idea how to proposition him with. My mind continues to hammer down the specifics of what I need him to agree to in order to make him see that he is capable of so much more than he is allowing himself to have.
“Dixie. Listen to me.” Gavin’s face is a hard plane of determination. “I don’t do more than one-night stands. I don’t make promises about the future and forever and all of that nonsensical bullshit because it doesn’t apply to me. I could never give anyone that.”
He’s wrong. I can feel it. I felt it.
Gavin Garrison is capable of love, and I am going to prove it.
He closes his eyes briefly and shakes his head. My fingers tighten their hold on his hips before he can pull away. Music from the surrounding stages pulses and throbs against us as we stand in the sea of bodies coming and going.
“I have a plan,” I say just before a breeze whips a strand of hair across my mouth. I’m afraid to relinquish my hold on him to move it for fear he’ll back away from me. I don’t have to debate on those odds for long before he moves the hair for me, sending a shiver down my spine as he teases my lips with his fingers.
“A plan, huh?”
I nod. “I’m not asking for a commitment or a label, or even that we tell Dallas. Not right now while he’s so stressed-out, anyway. I’m nineteen, Gav. I’m not going to start shopping for rings or making lifelong-commitment demands. Obviously I won’t turn into a crazed maniac and stalk you like some of your other groupies have. Pretty sure I know where to find you most hours of the day.”
His lips press together in a speculative look of contemplation. So far so good. “So what exactly are you asking for, Bluebird?”
I swallow hard, pulling in a lungful of cool night Texas air and all the courage I can gather with it. This is it, my shot to make him see why my plan is a good idea.
“After MusicFest ends, I want one night. Me and you. Alone. We have things to discuss and . . . and well, if something else were to happen, we can figure it out from there. But I can’t keep hiding behind my brother and neither can you.”
Gavin fingers a strand of my hair, twirling it between his fingers and giving it a gentle tug while I wait for his response.
Looking up at him, I see that love-starved little boy I met ten years ago. Gavin Garrison the man is tough. Hardened by a rough life full of unfairness, he’s intimidating to the naked eye. But I see so much more than that. I see how closely he guards his fragile heart and how rarely he lets his actual feelings show.
“I was right about touching you,” he says absently, still eyeing the curl entwined loosely around his finger. “Now that I started, I can’t stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.” My confession is barely loud enough to be heard over the bedlam around us.
He clears his throat and glances around. I know he’s checking for Dallas and I try not to let it upset me. “One night?”
I nod.
His brows dip inward as he contemplates my request. “And what are you expecting from this one night?”
The images of what I’m expecting form so quickly I’m afraid there’s a slide show presentation showing an erotic montage in my eyes. For you to see that you can love and be loved. There’s no way I can admit this. So I give him the only answer that I can.
“Nothing. No expectations. Just us, being honest with each other. No outbursts or brothers or meltdowns or waitresses in the way.”
“Why? Why is this suddenly such an issue?”
“Why did you wait for me to get home from my date last night?” I ask without thinking.
His eyebrows lift and then lower, drawing together as his gaze grows darker. “I needed to know that you were safe.”
“How very brotherly of you. But, Gavin, today, outside the warehouse, that wasn’t brotherly. At all.” My skin begins to tingle as a pulsating ache throbs between my thighs at the memory.
His hand reaches up to cup the back of his neck. I wait for him to call it a mistake again and crush every ounce of hope that his kiss gave life to.
“I’ll agree to your one night on one condition. Tell me why, Dixie. Why are you pushing all of this now?”
Because if we find our way into the spotlight, I’m afraid everyone will see what I’ve tried so hard to hide.
My hearts trips over itself and lapses into an erratic rhythm. “Because . . . I need us to . . . to address this thing before I implode and destroy everything. I won’t always be able to get my own hotel room.”
I can tell by the way he’s pressing his lips together he still doesn’t completely understand. I have the fleeting thought of just being honest, of telling him I want one night of him giving me everything, one night where I can pretend we have a future together as more than bandmates, so that I can put it in my internal memory box along with the few cherished moments I have left of my parents. If I can’t make him see that he is both capable and worthy of love, that memory will have to be enough for me, even if it’s all I’ll ever have.
“Okay,” he says, finally relenting, causing my heart to give a little squeeze. “But maybe we should just keep our distance for the next few days, okay?”
My mouth forms an involuntarily pout when he pulls out of reach and he smirks down at me.
“Friday night I’ll tell your brother I met someone, because, technically, that isn’t a lie. We did meet at some point. I’ll crash in your room if that’s really what you want. Not sure it’ll solve any problems, though.”
It will solve one. Because if everything goes according to plan, after Friday night I will know exactly how Gavin feels about me. And how it feels to have him inside of me.
He couldn’t hold anything back when we kissed. I’m betting my whole heart on the hope that making love will be as powerful in releasing his emotions as that kiss was, if not more so.
The sound of meaty fists slamming into bone interrupts our moment just as it begins to rain. Two sweat-slick guys beside us trade punches, startling me and sending several people careening into us.
“Let’s get you back to the hotel and safely tucked into bed,” he says, draping an arm indulgently around me. “Alone,” Gavin clarifies, ruining my hopeful mood as he steers me away from the circle forming around the brawl. “Before your brother sees us and does something that makes that lo
ok like a friendly handshake.”
When we get to my room, Gavin takes a step backward and shoves his hands into his pockets, making it clear that he won’t be coming inside. He doesn’t give me another earth-shattering, spine-jolting, tingle-inducing kiss, either, but he does rest his chin on my head and say, “Sweet dreams, Bluebird,” in a way that I suspect will ensure I actually have them.
Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.
After he leaves and I’m all alone in my room, I notice it’s not quite as late as I thought, so I pick up my phone.
Four rings later, still no answer.
“Hi, Papa. It’s me,” I tell his voice mail once the automated message finishes informing me that the person I’m trying to reach is not available at this time. “We’ve had a few late nights and I haven’t been able to reach you.” Sighing, I kick my shoes off and let them drop heavily onto the floor as I settle onto my bed. “I hope you’re doing well. Both shows have gone great and the audience here is the most enthusiastic I think I’ve ever seen.”
Searching for the words to wrap up the call, I realize that I’m getting anxious. I always call Papa after every show and tell him how it went. It’s a mutually beneficial situation because I need to hear that he’s all right and he lives vicariously through the band. If he would’ve answered I’d have told him about the van ride right up to the stage yesterday and the fistfight I witnessed tonight. Then he’d regale me with similar stories from his brief time in a band when he was my age.
He’s told me one version or another of every memory he has about his days in his band. “I was in a band once,” his stories always began, as if we didn’t know from being told dozens of times over the years. “We thought we were really something,” he’d say, his kind eyes crinkling in the corners. “We broke up after a few years, though.”
“How come?” I’d always ask, just to keep the stories going.
“We didn’t make more than change. Played for free mostly,” he’d grumble, turning frustrated about the topic. “That was no kind of life for a man looking for a wife.”
The day he gave me Oz was the first time he told me the story of how Nana’s parents didn’t want her to marry him, a broke musician without a cent to his name. He’d joined the navy to get their approval and to save up to buy her a ring and a house, but even after he came home from his deployment, Nana’s parents still said no. They had their heart set on a banker who was a son of friends of theirs. No matter how many times I heard the story of their courtship and how they finally eloped, I felt the tingles of longing and pride each time. Such rebels, my grandparents were.
Years later, when Dallas and Gavin and I became more than just three kids messing around with used instruments from Papa’s old shed and from pawnshops, Papa became our biggest fan. He’d sit outside on a lawn chair and listen to us rehearse in that same shed where we’d stumbled across his bass guitar and drum kit. It was then that I’d catch a glimpse of that version of him I’d only seen in a yellowing photograph from before my time. Even now, if I don’t call him and tell him about nearly every show, he gets grouchy with me about it.
We’re the same that way, Papa and I. Both of us gravitate toward music the way a plant turns toward the sun.
While much to my brother’s constant dismay, I don’t dream of selling out stadiums or touring Europe, I do live and breathe music. The purity and the sanctity of it. I need it like I need air to breathe. I can’t even imagine what my life would be like without it.
Tracing the pattern on the hotel bedspread absently, I say my goodbye. “I miss you. I’ll try and reach you again tomorrow.” I know I’m running out of time on my one-sided conversation so I hastily add, “Love you.”
I disconnect the call, feeling slightly mollified by the fact that there is at least one man who will always be happy to hear that I love him.
Chapter 11
Austin MusicFest—Day 3
ON DAY THREE OF THE MUSIC FESTIVAL, THE AIR IS SO THICK WITH lung-sucking humidity I don’t even bother with makeup. It’d just melt off anyway.
I wake up to a text from Dallas informing me that he’s having breakfast with a manager he met the night before, Mandy Lantram, one of our first choices, who has a client list full of some of the hottest country artists currently topping the charts.
As much as I complain about Dallas being kind of a drill sergeant when it comes to the band, he has a knack for knowing how to make things happen. If anyone can land us a manager, it’s him and for that I am grateful.
Since I’m pretty sure Gavin isn’t going to change ten years’ worth of strictly enforced distance and come watch a movie in my room, I decide to call and check in on Papa again since I haven’t gotten in touch with him yet this week. When he hasn’t answered on my third try, I begin to worry.
Mrs. Lawson next door usually checks in on him when we have to be gone overnight, but I dread calling her because if I’m not careful, I’ll have to listen to an hour’s worth of stories about her ungrateful children and their offspring and a complete sermon on the spiritual healing powers of her cats.
But by noon, I’m panicking and pacing and Dallas isn’t answering his phone, either. I guess his breakfast meeting ran long, which I hope is a good thing.
Unlike my grandfather, Mrs. Lawson picks up on the first ring.
“Hi, Mrs. Lawson. This is Dixie. From next door,” I say loud enough for her to hear.
“Pardon? There’s a what next door?”
Dear God. Lowering myself onto my bed and bracing myself for a nice long chat, I repeat my greeting.
“Well, little Dixie Leigh. You hang up this phone and bring yourself right on over here this instant. I’ve already got tea made.”
“Um, yes, ma’am, I would. But I’m not next door at the moment. I’m in Austin.”
“What in the Sam Hill are you doing in Boston?”
“Austin, Mrs. Lawson. I’m in Austin, Texas. For a . . . never mind. I’m just out of town. Can you do me a big ol’ favor and check on my granddad next door? He’s not answering his phone.”
“Well I’m not surprised. You know your granddaddy’s deaf as an oak tree.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, smiling.
“Just last week I saw him at the mailbox and I hollered over at him, and that man didn’t hear a word I said. He just went right on back inside.”
Papa has a hearing aid. I’m betting he was playing possum on poor Mrs. Lawson. Her husband had to go stay in an assisted living facility after his last stroke and Papa said Mr. Lawson was probably just faking the paralysis so he could get away from the motormouth of the South.
“I’m sorry he didn’t hear you, Mrs. Lawson. I guess he isn’t hearing his phone, either. Do you mind going over and knocking just to make sure he’s alive and kicking in there? I’m getting worried.”
Lord help, she’ll probably chat him up for over an hour. That’s what he gets for not answering the phone Dallas and I bought him. Bet he’ll be sure and get it next time I call.
“Sure thing, doll. I’ll head over now. You want me to call you back after I check on the old goat? Tootie Lou and Mr. Darcy have been extremely in sync with the spirits lately and I could have them read your tea leaves over the phone.”
“Gee, Mrs. Lawson, that sounds . . . educational. But um, if you could just have my granddad call me, I’d really appreciate that so much.”
“Sweet girl, missing your granddaddy. I tell you, my kids couldn’t care less. I could’ve been over here rotting all month long and wouldn’t see hide nor hair of either of them.”
“I’m sure that’s not true, Mrs. Lawson. You’re just such a strong, independent woman. They probably figure you don’t want them meddlin’ in your business.”
A huffy sound comes through the phone and I shake my head even though she can’t see me.
“Tell you what, you go check on Papa for me, and I’ll make sure we have a nice, long visit next time I’m in town, okay?”
The things I do for
that man. First thing I’m doing when I get home is changing his ringtone to “22” by Taylor Swift and turning the ringer up to sonic boom.
“All right, darlin’. I’m a-headin’ over there now. I’ll tell that stubborn old cuss to call you.” I hear the creak of her screen door opening and sigh with relief.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Lawson. Kiss Tootie Lou and Mr. Darcy for me.”
“Will do. Best of luck with whatever you’re doing in Boston, sweetie.” Once she hangs up I jump in the shower. I figure it will be at least an hour before she leaves him be and he calls to bless me out for sending her over.
I’ve just finished towel-drying my damp hair and stepping into a simple, short black dress for the show tonight when my phone rings.
Assuming it’s Dallas calling to remind me that I have to be in the lobby an hour earlier because Ms. Lantram wants us to meet her for dinner, I answer without checking the caller ID.
“Dixie Leigh, what have I told you about siccing that damned woman on me?” My grandfather is exactly as angry as I expected him to be. And he sounds healthy as a horse so I feel like I can finally breathe.
“Papa, we got you the phone so we could check in. You worry me sick when you don’t answer it. You don’t answer, I send Mrs. Lawson. Capisce?”
“She spent forty-five minutes talking about those caterwauling felines. I was trying to listen to the Rangers game. Missed the last inning and the final score thanks to her yammering.”
“Sorry. But you know I worry.” I balance on one foot and slip on a black leather ankle boot while holding the phone to my ear. “You taking your pills like Dr. Rogers told you to? Are you using that case I got you that has the days of the week on it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Y’all behaving in Austin? You keeping an eye on those boys?”
“Yes, sir,” I promise him. “Funny thing is, they think they’re keeping an eye on me.”
He chuckles softly. “Well now, they’d have to have two sets of eyes each to keep up with you, wouldn’t they?” He asks how the shows have gone and I recount the past few in vivid detail.