Dances Under the Harvest Moon (Heartache, TN 3)

by Joanne Rock

  “Someone’s hassling Megan. Sending ugly texts. Is that you, J.D.? Or one of your boys?”

  “Someone’s sending texts?” J.D. rolled his eyes, an expression she could see, thanks to the moonlight. “That’s girl shit, man.”

  “You think Bailey would do that?” Wade pressed.

  “Hold up. I don’t like hearing you say her name. And I definitely don’t want some high school dropout talking smack about my girl.” J.D. stepped closer, his shoulders squaring.

  “Don’t be such an ass, J.D.” Megan found her voice, anger surging that he’d try to intimidate Wade. “Whoever is harassing me sure sounds a lot like you online.” The whole business about her attending “Slutsville Academy” was the exact same thing he’d said to her in the cafeteria one day. “Or are you going to say you never put up a stupid website about me?”

  She could feel Wade’s surprise as he faced her. But her focus remained on J.D., trying to gauge his reaction. His shoulders fell. The heavy baseball bag he’d been carrying thunked to the ground.

  “What are you talking about?” J.D.’s voice cracked.

  “Are you going to deny you wrote that smut about me?” The fury she’d felt on seeing all those rude words burned like bile up the back of her throat. Later, she’d figure out what to say to Wade. How to make him keep it a secret.

  Right now it was all she could do not to fling herself at her ex-boyfriend and pummel him with both fists.

  J.D. held up both hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He hauled his bag off the ground and looped the strap on his shoulder. “Get out of my way.”

  “You’re going to get caught,” she yelled at his retreating back. “It’s illegal!”

  Wade dropped an arm around her shoulders, the warm weight taking some of the fight out of her.

  “Let him go, Meg. We’ll get it sorted out another time.”

  She sucked in a deep breath, the cool night air easing her fury and leaving her wrung out. Exhausted. Confused.

  “Did he look guilty to you?” she asked, startled when Wade jogged a few steps ahead to peer around the bleachers.

  “He’s gone and so are all the rest of the cars in the lot.” Wade dropped onto one of the bleacher seats, the metal bench clanging dully. “Sit for a minute.”

  “I. Um.” She stared at the empty space beside him and her throat went dry. “I really need to get home.”

  “What website?” He rested his elbows on his knees.

  Swallowing hard, she shook her head, her face hot. If Wade saw what was on there, she would die.

  “It’s too embarrassing. I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice rasped, a barely-there whisper. Just thinking about what it said made her close her eyes tight. She hated seeing it even in her mind.

  She didn’t want anyone else to look at it. Ever. Especially Wade.

  “I can’t help if you don’t talk to me. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think J.D. is sending those texts, but he looked freaked out about the website. Whatever that is.”

  “It means a lot to me that you helped me confront him.” She kicked herself for saying anything about the stupid website. “Please don’t ask me to talk about the...the other stuff you heard. I can’t do it.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stay warm. Too bad most of the chill came from inside her.

  “Keeping this stuff secret only helps the person who is harassing you. You know that, right?” Wade pushed to his feet and slid off his sweatshirt.

  He dropped it across her shoulders, a warm welcome weight.

  “You should keep it,” she argued, reaching to take it off.

  He gripped one of her hands to hold it still.

  “Let me fix one thing for you tonight. Okay?” He sounded so exasperated that she nodded.

  “Thank you.” Gripping the lapels with her hands, she tugged the fleece cotton tighter around her. “I hope you’re not mad at me.”

  He paused, staring at her intensely. “God no. I could never be mad at you.” Swallowing hard, he looked away but kept an arm around her shoulders.

  Together, they headed for his truck parked on the street at the far side of the field. The damp grass soaked through her canvas tennis shoes.

  He squeezed her shoulder once. “Don’t worry so much about how other people feel. You need to look out for you.”

  “I can’t help it.” She glanced up at him through her eyelashes. “I care a lot what you think.”

  He slowed his step as they reached his pickup, a vehicle he’d salvaged with his friends from shop class. Her dad would have called it “souped-up” since it combined parts from different kinds of trucks, but somehow worked together.

  “I’m glad. Because I care how you feel.” He didn’t touch her, but as they stood under one of the streetlights, she could see his face.

  The way he looked at her made her toes curl inside her shoes.

  Butterflies fluttered in her belly. She didn’t know what to say as she stared at him and hoped he did.

  He shuffled closer, his eyes never leaving hers. Even so, it surprised her when he touched her cheek, tilting her jaw as he bent over her. Covered her lips with his in the softest kiss imaginable.

  Vaguely, she registered the warmth of his body—close to hers, but not touching other than where he brushed her mouth with his. He didn’t grope and devour her like Mr. Covington had tried with Bailey’s mom. Wade took his time, as though the only thing he wanted from her—or maybe for her—was one perfect kiss.

  When he broke the kiss, he didn’t move away. Eyes closed, he rested his forehead to hers as if he needed a moment to catch his breath. Or maybe that was just how she felt.

  “I wish you trusted me more.” He spoke softly, but she didn’t miss the frustration threaded through the words.

  She forced her eyes open and backed up a step, unwilling to argue about the website with him. It was hard to trust anybody anymore.

  He drove her home with the same quiet, thoughtful competence he did everything. She felt safe with him. Happy, even. That kiss played over and over in her mind, the light bubbly way it made her feel, an almost magical sensation after the crappy few days she’d had.

  However, she couldn’t escape the fact that he was disappointed with her. And that disappointment hung between them in the silence, a dull pressure that wouldn’t go away and made her feel guilty for keeping secrets.

  It was the only thing that prevented the kiss from being absolutely perfect.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HEATHER LOVED A STAGE.

  Didn’t matter if it was the old auditorium in the high school where she’d sang the heck out of her role in Into the Woods or on the beer-sticky floor of Charlie Ray’s Rib Shack. She felt stronger, smarter, prettier and just plain better when she stepped into the spotlight. Even among musicians who did it for a living, that love of the stage ranked as a rare thing.

  Rock ’n’ roll icons regularly drank themselves numb before standing in front of an audience because stage fright was as common for most people as a fear of public speaking. Yet Heather never suffered from that particular issue. Maybe because she so rarely got the chance to perform. Now, thumbing through her music options near the karaoke machine, she chose a country tune that she knew backward, forward and sideways. The piece was a good fit for her vocal range and had a hook that would, with any luck, pump up the crowd.

  It might only be the Tuesday-night regulars at Charlie Ray’s, but they still deserved a good show. And for Zach? She wanted to knock his socks off in more ways than one tonight. She needed to show him why her dreams were worth pursuing. Why she needed to get out of Heartache.

  “You all set, honey?” a thin blonde with frizzy hair called over to her, her voice as raspy as if she’d smoked a couple packs a day since
birth. Or maybe she just had vocal cord problems.

  “Yes.” Heather gave her a thumbs-up and handed her the slip of paper with her choice written on it. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Sugar, I was born ready,” the older woman retorted with a wink. “How about you find your spot up front and adjust the mic stand while I cue it up?”

  “Do you have a mic back there?” Heather asked on a whim.

  “Sure do, sweetie. Just in case the crowd gets too rowdy, I can set ’em all straight.”

  “Would you mind giving me an intro? My name’s Heather.”

  “Heather, huh?” The blonde chewed her gum for two snaps before she nodded. “You bet. Go get ’em.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She planned to. Not just because she took pride in a good performance, but because Zachary Chance sat at a table watching her every move with moody, broody eyes, which made her aware of every nerve ending in her body.

  Setting aside the mic stand, Heather scuffed along the stage and found the stickiest spots. She’s seen performers take a header when they’d gotten a little too dance happy and landed a foot in beer—wet or dried.

  Behind her, the piped-in music quieted.

  “Folks, we have a treat for you tonight, courtesy of Charlie Ray and me—Dee Ray, your Queen of the Karaoke Machine.” She cackled so hard that Heather feared a coughing fit, but the crowd pitched in a few hoots and hollers for Dee until she returned to the mic. The lights lowered a little more. A pink spotlight swirled near Heather. “Ladies and gentleman, give it up for Heather.”

  The small crowd cheered, practically drowning out the intro to her music. She knew the shouts and hollers were for Dee Ray and not her, but she’d made a wise decision bringing the woman into the act, however briefly. Excitement buzzed in her veins, a warm pulse under her skin, better than a caffeine jolt.

  Draping herself across a table in a pinup girl pose, she let the pink lights swirl around her while the early melody rose. When the drumbeat kicked in, she shifted her shoulders, shot to her feet and launched into a fiery Carrie Underwood song.

  Before she hit the first chorus, Charlie Ray’s had gone silent except for her voice and her background music. Patrons set their ribs down. A cook wearing a sweaty T-shirt and apron shoved through a door at the back of the restaurant to see what was going on. A waitress tucked her tray under her arm and leaned a hip into the bar to watch the show. On the little stage, Heather shook, shimmied, but most of all, she sang.

  And not until the second chorus did she allow herself to look at Zach.

  He straddled the chair backward, arms draped along the back with his chin resting on his forearms. He gave her his full undivided attention when she strutted through the small crowd as far as the microphone cord would allow her. Then, her eyes locked on him, and the performance wasn’t just for fun anymore.

  It was all for him.

  Every breathy note. Every heartfelt high. She felt it from the bottom of her soul as she reached deep to deliver lyrics about a woman done wrong but ready to move on with a new lover. The moving-on part at least was true. And as she planted one foot on a chair to lean into a gritty hook line before the outro, she knew the part about wanting a lover was about her, too. She wanted Zach.

  Tonight.

  And she didn’t give a damn about the risks.

  Maybe that’s why she lifted her arm and pointed toward him with the song’s ending words. It wasn’t like the rest of her moves—part of the showmanship. That bit was unscripted. Unpracticed. And didn’t feel nearly as smooth as the rest of her delivery. Her voice vibrated with an extended note and her eyes closed as she held it for as long as she could, letting the moment last. Even with her eyes shut, she could feel the connection between them as he stared at her from forty feet away.

  When she finally ripped off the note and straightened to stand, the guitars on the karaoke machine strummed through the last notes. But once again, she could hardly hear them from the applause. Every person responded in some way—applauded, whistled, stomped or shouted. The praise humbled and gladdened her. It had been a pure pleasure to entertain the small room with a talent that had been a fortunate gift of her genes and not something for which she could take credit.

  Still, it felt nice.

  Even if there was only one man’s response she was interested in. And with so many people on their feet, she lost sight of him as Dee Ray swirled more lights around Heather—blue this time.

  “Nice job, darlin’,” the woman called to her from behind the table where she operated the sound system. “Although I’d be surprised if we get anyone else to take the stage after that. You’re gonna be a tough act to follow.”

  The applause died down, and Heather stepped off the stage to accept a few congratulations. The older couple who’d sung earlier in the evening was the first in line, standing shoulder to shoulder as if they moved as one.

  “That was beautiful, honey,” the woman told her. She wore a plaid Western shirt with silver snaps in contrasting colors to her husband’s. Silver pins from a square-dancing association flashed on their collars.

  “You must be one of those Nashville acts polishing the moves before you take to the road,” the gray-haired gentleman inserted, his bolo tie slightly askew as he put an arm around his wife. “I sure hope we hear more from you, Heather.” He winked.

  “Me, too.” She shook both their hands. “Thank you so much.”

  After a few more kind words from some of the patrons—including Charlie Ray’s insistence that dinner was on him anytime she wanted to come to karaoke night—Heather finally saw Zach standing in front of her.

  “No wonder they think you’re a Nashville singer.” He shook his head slowly. Disbelieving. “That was...” He shrugged “The word fantastic doesn’t do it justice, but I can’t think up anything else that would sum up your performance.”

  “You liked it.” She smiled like a girl in a toothpaste ad. Her grin that wouldn’t stop.

  “My God, Heather. Your voice.”

  “Are we set with dinner?” she asked, peering toward their table.

  “The waitress refused to let me pay for dinner, but I did leave a fat tip.”

  “Good. Let’s get out of here.” She grabbed his hand, pulling her sweater off the table.

  “Are you sure? There’s still some food left. I don’t want to rush you out the door.”

  “No.” She hooked her arm through his, the adrenaline still singing in her veins. “Remember we talked about a private performance?”

  She felt the change in him. An alert tension in every muscle.

  “Yes, ma’am. I do.” He lowered his voice and picked up his pace as they headed for the exit.

  She smiled. “I think I’m ready to deliver.”

  * * *

  HE COULD BE sitting beside country music’s next superstar.

  Zach weighed the idea as they sped back into Heartache that night, the top down on the convertible despite the chill in the air. He hadn’t understood the level of Heather’s talent until tonight. Until he’d seen her take command of the backwoods restaurant with her jaw-dropping voice and natural stage presence. He would have never guessed the local music teacher who volunteered for the rec department hid so much talent.

  And while that was exciting for her and the career she seemed to want on a bigger stage than rural Tennessee could offer, it became all the more real to him that once she left, she might not come back.

  Glancing over at her in his passenger seat, strands of red hair whipping in the wind—despite her hand clamped around the bulk of the thick mane—he memorized the way she looked right now. She sang along with the radio as they cruised to a stop sign outside town. Lit by the soft glow of dashboard lights, she crooned with her eyes closed, her chin tilted up as if to catch the breeze. Maybe he’d been stopped at the sign too l
ong, because she opened her eyes, catching him staring.

  “I’m making a spectacle of myself, aren’t I?” She readjusted her hold on her hair, scraping more loose pieces into one closed fist. “Sometimes I can’t stop singing once I start. Or put down my guitar after a few minutes of playing. It’s a sickness.”

  His eye drifted to the exposed length of her neck where one stubborn red wave still clung to her creamy skin. He wanted to trace the trail of hair with his finger down to where it disappeared in the collar of her shirt.

  “It’s a damned entertaining one.” He reached across the console to tug the strand free, his knuckle skimming her throat. “But I wouldn’t say you’re making a spectacle of yourself. It’s a fairly common condition that I can’t take my eyes off you.” Zach stepped on the accelerator, more than ready to have her all to himself.

  He wanted to think about that—being with Heather—and not whatever tomorrow might bring. He wasn’t wasting this chance to be with a woman who fascinated him the way she did.

  “You do have a way with words, Mayor Finley.” She shifted in the leather seat, her thin bangle bracelets jingling as she moved.

  “I’ve tried to step up my game since I took office.” He turned down the long private driveway leading to his house. “Although the part about me watching you isn’t flattery. That’s the truth.”

  Had he surprised her with his honesty? His gut told him she was wary about getting too close too soon, no matter what she’d told him back at Charlie Ray’s. Part of him wondered if her singing came from nervousness.

  He pulled up to his house and left the car engine running. “Heather.” He turned in the seat to face her. “I’m sure performing kind of supercharges emotions when you have to bring so much energy to the stage. So I understand if what you said at the bar was a result of that energy rush. We don’t have to take this further—”

  “No.” She shook her head, letting go of her hair so it fell around her in a wild tangle. “What I said back at the bar came from the heart. That wasn’t the performance talking. I want to be here.”