Leaving Amarillo

by Caisey Quinn

  “I didn’t realize playing dress-up was a part of this.”

  She shakes her head and gives me a sardonic smile. “I’ll leave you to get changed. See you downstairs.”

  I hear it, the words she places the most emphasis on, causing them to echo around the room once I’m alone.

  Get changed.

  I stare at my road-weary self in the mirror. The ruffled dress is cute, kind of innocent and pretty. Well suited to the old me. After my night with Gavin, I feel like I have changed. So I shove my body into the black one, holding my breath as I force it on like a second skin.

  Turning in the mirror I see someone else standing there. The dress is a few centimeters more fabric than lingerie and glimpsing the tops of my breasts and narrow valley between them, a part of me I don’t show to the general public, ever, I flash hot all over. If I spread my legs too far apart even my inner thighs will be part of the show.

  Oh-kay. Mandy Lantram is either high out of her mind or a madam trying to recruit me for a prostitution ring.

  I turn and look over my shoulder to see how it looks from the back and gasp out loud.

  There is no back. My ass is the only thing covered by the expensive-feeling fabric. My ink is on display and I feel proud of it for once, instead of the need to hide it. Taking a deep breath, I commit to this dress. I can do this. I can play and perform and . . . and who the hell am I kidding? I dig in my bag and find a black leather blazer-style jacket. Pulling it on, I feel a lot better. Hot and a little sweaty, but less exposed.

  My hair is a lost cause as usual so I stick a few bobby pins in to pull the sides and front out of my face. Putting on some mascara and a shiny lip gloss, I decide this is the best it’s going to get.

  My favorite black boots with the skull zippers await me and I slide them on and repeat the method that I still believe brought us here to begin with.

  I send up a silent prayer that this is it, for the band, for Dallas and Gavin and myself—the chance to stop living behind the shadows of a painful past and start living our dream.

  Chapter 25

  AFTER I’VE GOTTEN COMPLETELY READY, I CALL PAPA TO TELL him about the showcase. Once again I get his voice mail and contemplate sending Mrs. Larson over. But it’s nearing his bedtime so I picture him dozing in his favorite chair listening to his talk radio station while I give his voice mail a brief rundown that includes Mandy and the interview with the Indie Music Review and the showcase.

  When I step off the elevator, I see that the lobby is crowded with people congregating in small groups. I make my way down wishing that I’d gotten Oz out of the van instead of letting a stranger drive him to the showcase. Too late to worry about that now, though.

  “There she is,” Mandy calls out from across the room where she stands with Dallas and Gavin. Dallas is wearing jeans I don’t recognize but suspect she bought him and a sleek black sport jacket. My brother is much more of a T-shirt and flannel with cowboy hat kind of guy so I’m almost as taken back by him as Gavin seems to be by me. “Gang’s all here.”

  Gavin’s doing his glarey, broody stare, which I now know is his I-hate-that-I-want-to-fuck-you face. He looks almost as uncomfortable in his all-black attire as I feel.

  “Is that a tie you’re wearing, Mr. Garrison?” I say, giving the skinny black tie a tug as we fall in behind Mandy and Dallas and head to the car.

  “I don’t know,” he bites out at me. “Is that underwear you’re wearing, Miss Lark?”

  “Actually I’m not wearing any,” I whisper conspiratorially to him. “There wasn’t any room for them under this dress.”

  His eyes darken and the world around us falls away. He stalks past me without another word.

  Well now he’s just hurting my feelings.

  I don’t speak to anyone on the drive to the venue. I just watch out the window as the busy streets of Nashville blur by. Mandy makes a comment about my jacket but I don’t bother engaging. Whatever her game is, I’m not playing.

  This is a big night and it’s not about me, or her, or even Gavin. It’s bigger than each of us as individuals, more powerful than we could ever be on our own. This is about the band, about everything we’ve put in to the success of Leaving Amarillo. The sacrifices and the time and the dedication. Blood and sweat and tears and nights and days in vans and rehearsing for hours on end. Not just us, but Nana and Papa gave everything they had to support our dream, too. Playing helped heal us when we were three broken kids and I’m not letting anyone get into my head and get in the way of what we’ve worked so hard for.

  I glance over at Gavin and watch him drum his thumbs hard against his knees. My gaze lingers on his hands and for a brief second I remember how they felt on me. But when he feels my stare and turns my way, I resume staring out the window.

  No, nothing is going to get in the way tonight. Not even my stupid heart.

  The Palace is a fairly large venue. It’s half bar and restaurant, half stage and it’s full of men and women in everything from expensive suits to country western attire. A band called Black Revolver is leaving the stage and thanking the audience. Mandy ushers us to a sign-in table as another band called Cold September introduces themselves and begins to play. Their sound is more alternative than what I expected at a showcase in Nashville but it’s decidedly unique and I find myself paying more attention to them than Mandy’s instructions.

  “Dixie, did you hear me?” she says, her voice equal parts exasperated and annoyed.

  “Um, no. Sorry.” I have to shout a little over the music the closer we get to the stage. “What was that?”

  “I said, you have ten minutes to mingle and introduce yourselves. Then you need to be ready to play your opener.”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  Dallas looks eagerly at all of us. “Same set list as last night, okay?” He looks like he wants us to put our hands in and do one of those sports huddle cheers but Gavin is just listening and nodding passively and I’m still partially distracted by the band that’s playing. “Guys? We good?”

  “Yeah, D. We got this,” I say, reaching over and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

  He smiles at me, and Mandy nudges him. “You’re going to be amazing. You always are.” She means him, not the band. Just him. It’s obvious by the way she edges Gavin and me out with her shoulders, but I don’t even care. His smile widens and I’m happy that he’s happy.

  “Okay, then,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get out there and meet some folks, shall we?”

  I walk behind them, Gavin close beside me as if we’re silently competing for who gets to stand farthest in the back of our little group.

  The first table Mandy stops at holds two men in suits and an attractive woman in a jacket similar to mine. Mandy says their names and the label they’re with, one with initials that I’m not familiar with. Dallas turns on the charm instantly, introducing each of us and giving them a short rundown on our band and the places we’ve played. I smile when they nod at me, but this is so not my area.

  When I see that the woman at the table has returned her attention to the band onstage, I assume it’s okay to do the same. They’re older. These guys are probably in their forties or so. Before they finish their set, we follow Mandy to two men standing at a high-top table drinking liquor in short glasses.

  “Brian Eades and Lowell Kirkowitz, meet Dallas and Dixie Lark and Gavin Garrison—or Leaving Amarillo. My newest clients.” Mandy winks and flirts as they chat with us about our band, how we came to be and where we’ve played. Dallas fields most of the questions while Gavin and I nod along like puppets whose strings he’s pulling.

  Just as we start to walk away, moving on to another table, the one she called Brian, the younger of the two, catches my elbow. “Dixie, is it?”

  I nod, looking over to Dallas, who doesn’t notice I’ve been held up. “Um, yeah.”

  “I had a question for you. If you can spare a few minutes.”

  I look over to my group once more and see
that only Gavin has noticed my absence. He says something to my brother and I give them both a little wave. Mandy gives me a thumbs-up, which I assume means Brian Eades moonlights as a serial killer.

  “Sure. I guess I do.”

  He smiles and waits patiently for me to give him my full attention. After widening my eyes at Gavin, who looks as if he might like to set this entire bar on fire, I turn to Brian and lean close to hear what he’s asking.

  “Is there a difference?” is all I hear.

  “I’m sorry,” I call over the beat of bass and drums. “A difference between what?”

  His blue eyes twinkle as if he’s teasing me and I’ve missed the punch line. “The violin and the fiddle. Mandy said you played the fiddle and I was wondering if there was a difference between the two.”

  “Ah.” I smile because this is a question I can actually answer. “Well, my grandpa used to say there was only one real difference.”

  “And what’s that?” he says, leaning in to hear.

  “You don’t spill beer on a violin,” I answer with a wink.

  His laughs, a low rumble vibrating between us, and his blond stubbled jaw catches my attention. He’s got a grown-up Justin Timberlake thing going for him and after Gavin slamming my dress, it feels nice to have someone be interested in actually having a conversation with me.

  “But fiddles are beer-proof?”

  Since he seems genuinely interested, I give him a real answer.

  “I think what he really meant was, violins need to be kept in pristine condition. But with the type of music played on fiddles, it’s the dents and the dings in the wood that give it a unique sound.” He nods appreciatively so I continue my tutorial. “The main thing that makes them different is the type of music that’s played on them. Classical music is played on the violin whereas when you’re playing something more folksy, it’s considered a fiddle.” We step closer together so that I can speak without shouting. “Both have four strings, though there are differences in the setup—meaning the changeable parts, like tuners and the bridge. I like my bridge flatter, for instance, than most of the traditional violinists did at the school I attended in Houston.”

  “A flat bridge, got it,” he says cheekily.

  “It’d be easier to explain if I had Oz with me and could show you exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Brian side-eyes me. “Oz?” He takes a sip of beer and I grin.

  “My fiddle. Yes, I named him. And no, you better not spill beer on him.”

  I tense a little in anticipation of his asking me why I named him Oz. I really don’t want to go into detail about my parents and how playing brought color back to my world, but I don’t want to lie or be rude, either.

  Turns out, Brian doesn’t get the chance to ask any more about Oz or even Houston, because strong fingers wrap my upper arms and tug before he says another word.

  “Time to go.” Glancing up at the livid expression on Gavin’s face, I assume I’ve messed up and lost track of time. Looking over at the stage, however, I see that Cold September is still playing.

  “Excuse me a moment,” I say to Brian before Gavin practically drags me over to the darkened area beside the stage. I nearly trip over chairs in my path as his momentum propels me forward. Over Gavin’s shoulder I see Dallas and Mandy chatting animatedly with an older gentleman who reminds me a little of Papa. Or maybe I’m just homesick.

  Once we’re out of sight of the audience, I jerk out of Gavin’s grasp.

  “What the hell, Gav? That felt a lot like a possessive boyfriend move and since you’re neither possessive nor my boyfriend, care to tell me why you just pulled me away from an adult conversation like I was an errant child?”

  “Adult conversations don’t involve staring at your tits. And believe me, he was doing a hell of a lot more of that than listening to what you had to say.”

  “You’re something else,” I say with a shake of my head. “If I had ever in my life dared interrupt you with one of your groupies, I can only imagine how pissed you would’ve been.”

  Gavin scoffs as if I’ve said something inane. “I wouldn’t have been pissed at all.”

  “How in the ever-loving hell would I possibly know that?” I don’t know why this conversation is making me so angry, but it is. The hot lights above feel like laser beams melting my jacket to my skin. “I mean, last night I finally got it—what’s so great that you feel the need to share it with the women who come asking for it. But Jesus, Gavin. How many of them have been paraded in front of me and I never said a word? That was a strictly professional conversation you just interrupted to act like a crazed caveman.”

  “Exactly. You never said a word,” he says, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “And you know as well as I do that last night wasn’t . . . wasn’t like . . . . whatever.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well that clears it up. Glad we had this talk.” I start to turn around and walk away because the last thing any record label executive wants to see at a talent showcase is band members arguing, but Gavin catches my wrist and pulls me to him.

  “Wait a damn second. I need you to hear me, okay?”

  I nod, rendered effectively speechless by the intoxicating combination of his smoldering stare and the needful lilt to his voice.

  “Last night wasn’t how it normally is for me. Neither was this morning. In fact, this morning, well, I don’t even have a name for that.”

  Lovemaking, I think but don’t say.

  Gavin rakes a hand through his hair and continues. “And I care about you more than I have ever cared about any other woman, and it pisses me off that you don’t seem to get that. The reason we never did any of . . . of those things before was because you mean more to me than that.”

  “And because of Dallas,” I say, because I know it’s true even if I don’t know why exactly.

  He nods. “Yeah. That, too.”

  My brain is processing his words at the speed of churning molasses but my heart and lungs seem to grasp them immediately. My chest swells between us, grazing his with the considerable effort it’s taking to breathe normally.

  “Bluebird,” he begins, lowering his face to mine so that our noses are almost touching. “Seeing you in this dress is killing me because I know how other men are thinking about you when they see you in it. For instance, that Brian guy was practically salivating.”

  “He wasn’t—”

  “He was. He still is.” Before I can check over my shoulder, Gavin lowers a hand to my hip and speaks low into my ear. “Give me a break, baby. I know we had our night and that’s that, but you haven’t even showered my scent off you yet. So forgive me for still maintaining an alpha male sense of ownership over your body. You’re going to have to give me a little more time before I can stand idly by and watch another man wish he had what I did last night.”

  “And this morning,” I add with a sly grin.

  “And this morning.” For a moment we’re just sharing a secret smile, locked in a mutual memory I’m ready to relive as soon as humanly possible.

  “Everything okay?” Dallas says, his voice bursting the lust bubble that had formed around Gavin and me.

  “Yep,” I say, taking a step backward as Gavin releases me. “Just going over the last-minute details.”

  “We straight, Garrison?” he asks Gavin without looking at me.

  “As an arrow, Lark. Time to go on?” We look up to see Cold September starting their last number.

  “Almost. Let’s head backstage,” Dallas says, casting a wary gaze that lingers over the two of us.

  “Lead the way, big brother,” I say, anxious to get this over with.

  Sweat rolls down my back and I decide to play without the jacket. Once we’re backstage, I remove it and set it on a chair. Mandy’s eyes meet mine knowingly. She shifts her smug gaze to Gavin and lifts her chin.

  Damn it. She knows.

  A full-blown panic attack looms on the horizon as Dallas runs through the set list with us one more time.

  S
he’s been paying closer attention than Dallas has and now the one person I don’t trust knows my biggest secret. She sits back like an ominous voyeur as we prepare to set up. I start to wonder how much she’s seen, how long she’s been watching. My stomach twists and turns while it sinks it that she has something on me—on me and Gavin, really.

  “In every aspect of life, there are players and moves to be made. There are winners and there are losers.”

  I finally understand exactly what she means. She’s the player with the advantage now. That advantage being knowledge of something I never intended for my brother to find out.

  Question is, what will she do with it?

  I don’t have to wait long to find out how Mandy plans to use her leverage. We have twenty-five minutes from the time Dallas says, “Welcome, y’all. We’re Leaving Amarillo, managed by Mandy Lantram. Thank you for having us,” into the microphone until we sing “When You Leave Amarillo,” an obscure song from long before our time that Dallas found on YouTube and had us put our unique twist on.

  The butterflies come to life in my belly in perfect time with the tingling that begins in my toes and ends at my head. I tame the fluttering creatures with my notes, finding my peace on stage when they begin to dance to the music I’m creating instead of slamming around wildly.

  The audience seems divided, more of them perking up and paying attention when we play “Whiskey Redemption” while several of them return to texting or chatting with the person next to them during our covers. I stop noticing them and focus on playing, on putting the passion Gavin poured into me into Oz. I live between the strings, playing as though my soul is trapped there and the only way to set it free is to play every note perfectly.

  I almost miss a cue because Dallas notices that the standard country covers aren’t holding anyone’s attention and throws in a few more originals and a reworked R&B hit we’ve only rehearsed a few times. By the time it ends, I can’t breathe. I’ve been so caught up, I don’t know if we blew the room away or fucked it up completely.