Becky Wicks - Before He Was A Secret (Starstruck #3)

by Becky Wicks

  ‘Tempting but I’ll pass,’ I say. I’m thirsty. I’m also kind of forcing myself not to look back at the blond. ‘I’ll see you at home.’

  ‘Don’t wait up,’ Lou says, and then she rolls her eyes, as if to say she’ll probably be home before me. I nod, lift my guitar into its hard case, snap it shut and finally look behind me. She’s gone.

  3.

  Stephanie

  Gretchen yells at me as she swings past into the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes - ‘Stephanie, table two need three more Cokes and there’s another spill on thirteen!’

  I salute her with the dishcloth and hurry to the bar, where Indie Pete is already on it with the Cokes. My boss, Gretchen has the loudest voice in Nashville and she’s not even a singer.

  ‘Are you closing up tonight?’ he asks me, looking up at the clock on the wall as he passes me the Cokes. I load the drinks onto my tray, just as the buzzer goes off to tell me the food for table nine is ready.

  ‘Sure am,’ I tell him, blowing my bangs from my eyes. ‘Then I have a hot date with my Kindle.’

  ‘I told you, you need to come over and jam with us,’ he says.

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ I tell him, honestly. ‘It’s been non-stop since two o’clock. My hair’s going to need four washes to get the smell of ribs out!’

  ‘You should taste my beard when I leave,’ he says, sticking his tongue down into it for a second and making an ‘mmm’ sound and I laugh, hurrying off with the Cokes. ‘It’s only a matter of time till I get you to my sweet home, Alabama,’ he calls after me, and I can’t help laughing even more.

  Indie Pete is cute in a skinny-jean-wearing, bearded, pale kind of way. His eyebrow is pierced with a tiny skull on a silver hoop. He told me he won the Southern Gentlemen Facial Hair Competition at the Tennessee State Fair last year, and seemed very proud of it. He really does just want to jam and sing, I think. He has a house full of musicians in Hillsboro – all kinds of people he says, who’ve moved here to surround themselves with talent. I really will go meet them all; soon as I get some time, but the last time I went out at all was that night at McFlannerys a week ago.

  The song rushes through my head again: ‘Cause what’s mine isn’t yours to be dragged through this war. And I need more time, I need more time…’

  I mop up the third Root Beer spill on table thirteen and hurry back to get the two plates of Southern style chicken and ribs. I don’t know why that song made me cry; or the one before it. I was tired I guess, and I’m all about needing time. It’s what I told Brock before I left. And when he threatened to move here with me and forced me to break things off. But that guy - Conor - had the kind of voice that glues you to someone’s mouth as it’s coming out of them.

  It was gravelly and low but more than that his lyrics twisted up my heart like strangling vines. I could feel every word he sang travelling out of his soul and right through me, like some kind of weird matching frequency. I was harmonizing quietly to every line but I felt his pain intensifying my own till there was tears rolling down my face and I felt like the biggest idiot alive. I wanted to talk to him. I almost wanted to stay after, but E-beth had locked herself out of the house and Tal dragged me away. I’ve been thinking about that last song for a whole week and it’s become a soundtrack for my own procrastination. I need more time…

  ‘Thanks very much, that looks delicious,’ the British guy in booth nine says politely when I put the chicken down in front of him. His T-shirt says I’m having a Honky Tonk good time and I know it’s one from the store down the street that sells two for twelve bucks. His brown leather cowboy boots look brand new. His wife, who’s now photographing her plate of ribs and laughing at the size of them has a white cowboy hat next to her in the booth.

  ‘Hey, pretty lady, can I get some more ketchup?’ a college kid calls to me, cutting into my thoughts as I clear a nearby table.

  ‘Coming right up,’ I say, taking the empty bottle from him on my way past. He leans right in like he’s about to smack my ass, but his friend pulls him back at the last minute and I pretend not to have noticed. It’s close to midnight and most people in The Nice Rack are drunk, laughing in the booths with friends, or making out against the red plastic seatbacks. They’ve come in from the bars and most of them reek of beer, but Gretchen likes them that way. She says they tip better, which is true I guess.

  On my way back from delivering the ketchup, the door opens and a party of four guys and one girl walk in. I sigh to myself. ‘Never be the person who comes in just as the kitchen's closing. Just don't be that person,’ Indie Pete says with equal dismay and annoyance as I head back to the bar and stick my notepad into the pocket of my daisy dukes. They’re standard uniform here, along with the white boots and red shirt. They’re also what the production team made me wear on Deserted, so they don’t exactly stop some people recognizing me, even if these ones are spattered in BBQ sauce, rather than sand and saltwater. I catch Indie Pete doing a double take at the group, and he rolls his eyes as he grabs an empty pitcher. ‘Oh, unless you’re Travis Flynn, obviously,’ he adds, filling it with ice. ‘If you’re Travis Flynn you can order what you want, whenever you want.’

  ‘Who’s Travis Flynn?’ I say, turning to look.

  He makes a snorting sound. ‘A girl in Nashville who doesn’t know Travis Flynn? You just made me like you even more, Alabama.’

  ‘Him?’ I say, nodding my head at the sandy-haired guy standing at the end of a booth with his hands on the end of the table. He’s leaning over a brunette now, grinning drunkenly with whiter-than-white teeth. He sways slightly as he goes to sit next to her, drapes an arm around her, till all I can see is the back of his head and a muscular arm in a fitted black, short-sleeved shirt. I notice a couple of people turn around and look at him too, before going back to their business.

  ‘Is he a celebrity?’ I say, feeling stupid.

  Pete puts the pitcher on the bar, fills it with water. ‘He won the last Nashville songwriter of the year competition, so yeah, kinda,’ he says. ‘He’s been on the circuit a while. I think HotFlush are after him now but he’s been told to come up with more material. One of my roommates was in the studio before him last week… she overheard some phone call.’ He leans towards me conspiratorially as the pitcher fills between us. ‘Between you and me, his own songs ain’t worth a lick. I think he slept with one of the judges.’

  ‘You’re mean,’ I tell him, shoving his arm over the bar, just as Gretchen flies out through the kitchen doors with her giant chest heaving beneath her apron, and throws me a look. I grab the full pitcher, hurry to the booth and straight into the glare of Travis Flynn. I note his dark brown eyes widen as he sweeps my body up and down with an appreciative gaze that makes me feel more than a little self-conscious.

  ‘Well, hello,’ he drawls up at me from his seat. I put the pitcher on the table, pull my notepad from my pocket, take the pen from behind my ear. The brunette actually grabs his face and pulls him back towards her for a kiss.

  ‘What can I get for you?’ I ask them all, trying not to look at the make-out session now taking place in front of me. A dark-haired guy in glasses throws a straw at Travis, then a wad of napkins, till his lips are parted from the girl’s.

  ‘Cut it out!’ Travis yells, running his hand slowly and drunkenly across his mouth as he finds his focus. Everyone in his crew is laughing but his face is straight as he sweeps my body again with his eyes and locks them onto my chest. ‘Isn’t it buy one get one free night?’ he asks my boobs. ‘If so, I’ll take you. Sarah here won’t mind.’

  The brunette slaps his arm hard. I assume she’s Sarah. She’s laughing like the others, but I can see a flicker of danger in her eyes. I stand up straighter. I can see he’s more drunk than I first realized. I can also see how stupidly handsome he is with his chiseled cheekbones and sandy colored eyebrows that match the faint stubble around his jaw. His biceps are strained in his shirt sleeves.

  ‘There’s nothing free in here,’ I tell him now, forcin
g his eyes to mine with my tone. ‘We at The Nice Rack pride ourselves on high-quality offerings, and those will cost you.’

  ‘I have money,’ he tells me.

  ‘Money can’t buy everything.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  My breath catches. The guy who threw the straw and napkins is kicking him under the table. ‘What are you saying?’ I ask him, feeling the fury start to spike in my veins. The guy’s an asshole.

  ‘Dude, seriously, cut it out,’ his friend tells him, turning to me as I bite my tongue. ‘We’ll get three racks to share, three fries and five Coronas. Sorry about the douchebag.’

  ‘We don’t have Corona,’ I say, forcing myself to keep calm. I can feel Travis’s eyes still on me and I will myself not to look at him.

  ‘PBRs then, thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure he needs a beer?’ I say, motioning to Travis, who’s twirling a straw in his teeth now, still looking at me through slanted eyes. He pulls it from his mouth at my words and holds it out.

  ‘You calling me a drunk, now?’

  ‘I’m surprised you heard me, your head’s so far up your own ass,’ I reply. The words come out of me before I can even control them and the whole table bursts into laughter as Travis’s eyes widen. He’s about to say something else but the brunette clutches his arm.

  ‘You deserved it Travis, now shut your mouth,’ she hisses. I can tell she’s pissed. She sits back in her seat with her arms folded. I scribble the order on my notepad and force a smile back to my face as Gretchen bustles past with another tray and Travis puts the straw back into his mouth, watches me, a grin spreading across his face.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ I tell them chirpily, making for the kitchen and yelling for the beers on the way. Indie Pete throws me a look as he springs back into action and I roll my eyes. I almost want to tell him Travis probably did sleep his way into winning that competition, but that’s not entirely fair – the guy’s wasted. I sigh to myself; pushing the negativity from my mind and aura. You create your own universe as you go along - that's what The Secret says. Be nice, and get nice things back. It’s been a long night. I don’t need any drama. I just want everyone out of here ASAP so I can go home to Bob Barker and my Kindle.

  By the time everyone’s out, it’s way past midnight.

  ‘You go, I’m fine,’ I tell Indie Pete. He’s sitting on the bar stool on his cell phone, waiting to see me out. He’s such a gentleman.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure, thanks.’

  ‘OK, well, we’ll be jamming till the early hours if you change your mind?’

  ‘I’d love to, another night, OK?’ I tell him, blowing him a kiss as I stack the last of the chairs and untie my apron. ‘You go. I’ll be out of here in ten.’

  ‘OK, Alabama,’ he says, jumping off the stool and saluting me. ‘Have it your way. Be safe, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I say, as he heads for the door and I walk through to the kitchen, put my apron into the washer with the others and turn it on. I check the locks out back are secure and turn off the lights. I lean against the warm stove for a second and sigh again. I see more of this place than the house; not that either is ideal. I know I need to explore more, stop being so anti-social… stop making excuses to start arranging gigs. Maybe I should go to Pete’s, meet all his friends.

  But I really am beyond exhausted.

  I need more time. I need more time...

  I shove my hair up into a ponytail, pick up my purse and walk through the empty restaurant. The street is quiet outside as I lock the door with the padlock and pull the shutter down over it. I’m just bolting it to the latch on the sidewalk when a shadow looms over me. ‘Did you bring any more insults out with you?’ a voice sounds out behind me. ‘Or do those specials end when you lock up?’

  I drop the keys, stand quickly, turn to face him. Travis Flynn is standing here, arms folded. His expression is amused, but he’s even more drunk. He left the restaurant thirty minutes ago, but he seems to be alone. Did he wait for me? My instincts are primed. The island left me paranoid.

  ‘Where are your friends?’ I say, feeling my palms turn clammy. I grip my purse. He ignores me, steps forward till I’m flattened against the locked door. My heart rate increases as he breathes down on me, way too close to my face. He smells of beer and faint cologne. I hold my hands to his hard chest as he wedges one denim clad knee between my bare legs. I gasp as his hands come up and press on the shutters either side of me, trapping me.

  ‘You need to let me go,’ I say, trying to push him suddenly, but I’m no match for the force of him as he catches my wrist and grips it. ‘Ow!’ I cry out. ‘Are you crazy, what are you doing?’

  ‘You turned me on in your little uniform,’ he slurs into my ear. His biceps are flexed as he keeps on gripping me. He presses his knee further up into my crotch. ‘I also like a girl who can fight her corner.’

  I shove at him with all my strength now, but he doesn’t move. ‘You’re on CCTV, are you stupid?!’ I yell.

  ‘Aww, come on, Stephanie,’ he slurs.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘The TV,’ he says. ‘My friends back there kindly reminded me how you had that jock all wound up out there on that island. We can go to my place; you can do the same to me if you like, minus all that sand…’

  ‘Are you serious? You’re disgusting, Travis, and you don’t even know me! You need to leave before the cops come by.’

  He leans in further and for a moment I think he’s actually going to force himself on me, right here on a lit up street on camera, but in a split second his body is slamming up hard against the shutters next to me and I’m jumping back in my boots. I watch as someone’s fist flies up in Travis’s face, hovers in front of his nose.

  ‘The lady asked you to leave,’ comes a voice that sounds familiar, only colder.

  Travis is holding his hands up. ‘We were just talking, man, what’s your problem?’

  ‘Conor?’ I say, in shock. The word comes out as a mime, not a sound as he clutches hard to the front of Travis’s shirt. I realize my arms are around myself. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing.

  ‘I think the lady had a problem, from what I just heard,’ Conor tells him now, pulling him to the curb so fast that Travis almost goes flying. Conor motions for a cab heading past and it screeches to a stop. He drags Travis towards it, flings open the door. ‘Take this guy home, and don’t let him stop on the way, anywhere,’ he says to the driver.

  ‘Get your hands off me,’ Travis roars. He goes to shove Conor backwards, but he misses and stumbles back against the cab. He’s so stupidly drunk he can barely stand.

  ‘Can you remember where you live?’ Conor asks him and I hear Travis mumble something in angry defeat before shoving at him again and finally getting into the car. Conor shuts the door hard after him, hands the driver some money from his pocket and we both watch as the cab speeds away.

  I turn to him as he does the same and I watch the surprise cross his face as he recognizes me, too. ‘Thank you,’ I mouth, stepping towards him. I realize I’m shaking.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks. I meet his eyes as I grip my purse to me. They’re dark, shining with concern in the glare of a neon pink sign flashing on the wall behind us. He’s wearing a backpack with gym shoes poking out of a side pocket, jeans and a green T-shirt. His dark, wavy hair is cutely scruffy around his ears and I take in the dimple in his chin, the slight black stubble as he studies my face.

  ‘I heard you sing,’ I start at the exact same time as he says, ‘You were at McFlannerys.’

  We both laugh and I’m instantly glad he said that, and not that he also knows me from the TV show. He’s gorgeous. The words of his song fly back through my head again, along with the look on his face when he sang them. ‘Small world,’ he smiles. ‘I’m Conor Judge.’

  ‘I remember,’ I say, blowing at my bangs as they fall in my eyes. ‘I’m Stephanie. Stephanie Jackson. Th
anks for… well, that.’

  ‘That was Travis Flynn, wasn’t it?’ he says, eyes narrowed again.

  ‘Yeah, he was in the restaurant.’

  ‘Man, he must have been wasted to try that on in public. People know who he is.’

  ‘He was pretty drunk,’ I say. ‘Were you playing tonight?’ I notice he doesn’t have a guitar with him.

  Conor shakes his head, picks up the restaurant keys I realize are lying on the sidewalk where I dropped them. He hands them to me. ‘Not tonight. I work at Fret.’

  ‘The guitar store?’ I say. Our fingers brush as I take them.

  ‘Yes ma'am. Handling all your musical needs since 1947.'

  ‘But it’s after midnight!’

  ‘I stay and play alone sometimes. Saves me waking up the roommate, you know? I’ll walk you to your car.’

  ‘Thanks.’ My heart’s still beating hard. What a weird, weird world it is that he found me - of all the people in Nashville. We walk the one block south to my Toyota and I don’t say a word but Conor laughs when he sees the car, walks ahead with a spring in his step and runs a hand over the hood.

  ‘Does this thing even run?’ he asks, incredulously.

  ‘Like a grandmother,’ I reply. I can’t help noting how manly and strong his arms and hands look in the streetlights as he pats the scratched up metalwork like a dog and grins. I saw his strength when he slammed that asshat up against the shutters, too. Our eyes meet again briefly. I fumble at the lock, aware of his gaze still on my face. Then I realize I’m trying to open the door with the restaurant keys. He says nothing as I fish in my purse for the right ones and throw the door open, flustered. I instantly regret the KFC carton and all the dog hair still on the passenger seat. My heart still hasn’t slowed.

  ‘Well, you be safe out there, miss Jackson,’ Conor says, raising an eyebrow as I sit down at the wheel.