Missing Dixie

by Caisey Quinn

  “You got lucky,” I say, not in a sarcastic way but in an honest-to-God happy for him way. “Still . . . that’s a huge-ass risk, man. I’m glad it worked out how you wanted it to. Good thing Breeland kept her standards low all these years.”

  I’m screwing with him. I am also jealous as hell.

  “No shit,” he says on a laugh. “You know, it’s funny. I thought music was my first love. All I’d ever dreamed of was making it big. Then I did and I realized that without her, it didn’t even matter. None of it. You know?”

  Yeah, I knew. Or I could imagine a pretty close scenario at least.

  “I need to get back to work.”

  “Hey,” Dallas begins, sounding like he has one more urgent detail to share. “My sister is going to be pissed at first, but you know her. She loves you and when she loves someone, that’s that. She’ll come around eventually.”

  I huff my disbelief into the phone because he has no idea. Dallas knows mostly everything but not every single detail, not the details that will crush my sweet Bluebird if I don’t explain them first. I wish I had some actual dirt on McKinley, but for now all I can do is hope and pray he continues keeping what he knows to himself.

  After we disconnect our call I take my place behind the bar. Cal heads my way as soon as he sees me and I brace myself for the ass-chewing.

  Instead he slams a stack of bright yellow flyers with black block print on them in front of me.

  “Hang these up on your break. Matter of fact, plan to work right through all your breaks for the rest of the week.”

  “Got it.”

  I fill a few orders before I even look at what’s on the flyers. But when I do, I almost drop the shot glass I’m towel-drying.

  Dixie Lark is playing the Tavern this weekend. Like, playing playing. As in solo, as in all by herself. The flyer has a black-and-white photo of her with her head down and Oz on her shoulder. She looks beautiful—angelic. My inner demons roar to life.

  They want to dirty her up, fuck her deep and hard without giving a single thought to telling her the truth or protecting her from the darkness within me.

  Among the hissed whispers and dark desires, a sliver of hope, like a light slicing into a dark room through a door left ajar, carves a path inside my chest.

  Maybe she is ready. Maybe she misses performing and the band really will get a second chance.

  Maybe I will, too.

  11 | Dixie

  “NO YOU DID not do this.” I gape at the yellow flyer in my hands. “Are you outside of your mind? This is insane. I can’t do this!”

  Leandra shakes off my massive freak-out. “You already did, babe. Remember? I was there. I saw how amazing you were. The entire place was captivated.”

  I shake my head, wishing I could crumple the paper into a ball and make it disappear. “Lee, I know you mean well. But I can’t . . . seriously. I just . . . I don’t perform solo ever and—”

  “You do, Dixie. And you told me yourself you miss it. Anyone who looks at you can see how badly you need to play.” I didn’t realize she was paying such close attention. “You do so much for us. Let us do something for you. Everyone is coming. We’re going to be your cheering section.”

  “You doing something nice for me somehow turns into me having to perform alone in front of a live audience. You could’ve just bought me a box of chocolates or a cookie bouquet.”

  She laughs as if I’m kidding. “Girl, you are the most talented thing in Amarillo. You have a true gift—the kind most people would give their eyeteeth for. And here you are, holed up and giving free lessons to kids because you love to play. You need to play.”

  “I love these kids.”

  “You love everyone, Dixie, and I love you for that. But sweetheart, you’re young, you’re free, and you should be out there. Go on a date. Play a show. Have some drinks. Dance with a stranger. Kiss someone full on the mouth just because you can.”

  I give her a pouty frown. “You’re not that much older than me.”

  “Yes, but I’m a mom. It adds like five years to my actual age. Trust me.”

  I laugh and nudge her hard enough to nearly knock her skinny butt off the piano bench. “You’re gorgeous. You could have any guy you wanted.”

  I regret my words immediately.

  She’s told me her story over the past few months. When she showed up at my door asking about Over the Rainbow, I was obtuse enough to ask what happened to Maisey’s dad. I had no idea it would be such a painful story to hear and tell.

  She’s a beautiful blond girl with a swimsuit model figure and magazine cover face. When she was sixteen, she was madly in love with the varsity quarterback at my rival high school. Then she had too many drinks at a party, got assaulted by some disgusting pig who never should’ve been there, and got pregnant. Golden boy couldn’t deal and ran away to college, leaving her in the dust. I don’t think she’s ever recovered from the heartbreak.

  Her smile is there but it’s small and doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not looking for a man. I just want to focus on Maisey and being the best mom that I can be. But I’m happy with that. I don’t think you’re happy, Dixie. I think you’re settling for safety’s sake.”

  She’s always been honest with me, even when the truths haven’t been easy to tell, so I’m honest with her. “I do miss it. Performing. Being onstage. The band.” I sigh loudly. “But it’s a big dream. Sometimes a terrifying one. One that takes a lot to chase and has no guarantee of coming true. I’m okay with my life as it is.”

  Not to mention the fact that Gavin is so tightly entwined into my dream that I can’t figure out how I feel about it from one moment to the next.

  “Okay? You’re okay with your life? Lame. We’re talking about your dream,” she practically moans. “They’re supposed to be scary. If they aren’t, you aren’t doing it right. And it’s within reach. Do you know how rare that is for most people?”

  I nod, because I do.

  “Friday night. We’re all going to be there. Cheering you on.”

  I close my eyes. “Even if I’m terrible?”

  “Even if you shatter glass and make the local dogs howl like banshees.”

  “Garrison, one of your girls is asking for you,” a red-faced heavyset man calls out.

  Of course that would be the first thing I hear when I step into the Tavern Friday night. I came early in an attempt to shake off the pre-performance jitters.

  So much for that.

  After entirely too much deliberation, I pulled out a black leather top and a short, black lace skirt. The McQueen ankle boots I got at an estate sale years ago had been collecting dust in my closet pretty much since the showcase in Nashville. Slipping them on, I began to feel like me again. Who knew shoes had so much power. I didn’t. Until now.

  I put on some eyeliner and mascara and a quick coat of my one splurge in life, Marc Jacobs lip gloss in a bold shade of red, tossed my hair up and down a few times, and called it good.

  It wasn’t until I was just about walk out the door that I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the living room.

  Eyes wide and shining, lips full and glistening, and my skin creamy and just flushed enough to make me look alive. I was holding Oz’s case and for a moment I was transported back in time. Austin. Music. Performing live and setting my soul free.

  Somehow I’d lost sight of what that meant to me, of what it did for me, for my heart and soul and general well-being. Now I remember. I need music like I need oxygen. But I’d been depriving myself for so long because . . . because it seemed indulgent. Selfish, even, after Papa died. Joy in the midst of grief felt so wrong . . . and yet, now I could see that it was so very necessary. I read somewhere that when you’re happy you enjoy the music but when you’re sad you understand it. Music was my salvation, it always had been. But when Dallas was leaving to follow the dream we’d shared for so long, I felt like I was abandoning the memory of my grandfather.

  Give yourself permission to dream, little one, my Na
na used to say. Dream big and wide and run full speed with arms stretched out wide to catch those elusive dreams.

  Did I forget that? Did I forget her?

  No. I forgot me.

  It’s as if I’ve awakened from the dead. I place my hand over my mouth to keep the sound of surprise from escaping.

  There I am.

  More important, Where have I been?

  Hiding behind messy topknots and sweatpants mostly.

  Maybe Leandra was right. She smiles and waves at me from across the room as she plops down at a table near the piano where Cassidy and Jaggerd are already sitting. I wave and they wave back but Jag looks strangely unsettled.

  I sang at Dallas’s wedding but it’s not something I typically do unless it’s backup vocals. That night I saw Gavin for the first time in months, I was just messing around because the girls talked me into it. This was not what I pictured for my life, but I can finally see how Dallas did find some joy in performing solo. It’s like doing a trapeze act with no net.

  Somehow my life has taken an abrupt left turn as of late.

  I’m not sure how I feel about it.

  Excited.

  Scared.

  Anxious as hell, really.

  My eyes scan the room without my permission. I pretend I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I know exactly who I’m hoping to see.

  He’s probably busy working, Dixie, I tell myself. He may be getting off soon but he might not be leaving alone. His complicated blonde could be here.

  I feel sick.

  Nothing I try to console myself with is really helping matters much. I feel like all of my nerves have been stretched to their absolute breaking point and I’m on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

  A few minutes after I’ve stepped into the small backstage area, which apparently also doubles as storage for stacked cardboard boxes, someone closes in behind me.

  “Hey there, Bluebird. Or should I call you Songbird now?” His breath tickles the back of my neck and the delicious heat shimmies down my spine.

  “Gavin,” I say, turning to face him. “Heard there was a girl looking for you.”

  His gaze doesn’t even waver. “Oh yeah? Too bad for her. I already found the girl I’m looking for.”

  My nose scrunches, my unfailing tell that I am confused. “What’s with you these days, Mr. Smooth Pants? You sure are laying on the charm lately.”

  “And here I thought I was just being nice.”

  There’s something about the way he says the word that lulls me into a false sense of security. I feel like I’m being hypnotized by the seductive lilt to his voice, the liquid warmth in his eyes. It’s disorienting and mesmerizing.

  “Nice isn’t really the word I’d use to describe you, Garrison.”

  “And what word would you use?”

  Being put on the spot so suddenly flusters me. I’m unprepared for this pop quiz. “I, um, I’m not—”

  “I don’t want to distract you tonight. I’m looking forward to seeing you play, but if my being in the crowd will throw you off or something, I can—”

  “Arrogant, Gav. That’s the word I’d use.” I smirk at him. “And don’t worry, I can perform just fine with you front and center.”

  He appears to take my defiance as a challenge. He leans forward to whisper in my ear and it’s everything I can do not to melt into a puddle. “You sure? Be honest, Bluebird.”

  Heat creeps up my neck and spread across my face. His voice lowers as he leans in closer.

  “Tell me you don’t want me here and I’ll walk out the door right now. No questions asked.”

  “I want you. Here,” I say, hearing the waver in my voice.

  “Good. Because I want you, too.” He rests his forehead on mine. “Here,” he says, gently kissing me on the temple. “Here,” he breathes while brushing his lips down my jawline. “And a few other places not appropriate to place my mouth on in public. Unless you’re into that.”

  My blood has turned to gasoline and Gavin Garrison has tossed a match on me.

  “Gav,” I whisper, turning away shyly because we’re visible to the folks sitting at the front tables. “People can see us.”

  One person specifically appears particularly disconcerted about our exchange. Jag’s normally handsome face is twisted into a mask of unadulterated disgust.

  I shoot him a questioning “what the hell is your problem” glance and he looks away as if he can no longer stand the sight of me.

  Surely he’s not jealous. He’s here on a date and anyone with eyes can see he’s enamored with Cassidy.

  Men confound me and I’ve realized it’s because deep down, they’re mostly little boys in oversize bodies.

  “Five minutes,” a guy calls out as he walks by. “Then you’re on.”

  “That’s Cal, my boss,” Gavin says, nodding at the man’s retreating figure. “He’s kind of a dick but running a bar this size can be stressful. His bedside manner isn’t the greatest.”

  “I bet. Maybe that’s what he’s got you for.”

  “The only person seeing my bedside manner is you, baby.”

  I roll my eyes to cover the effect his words have on me and I glance at the piano sitting in the corner. Taunting me. Daring me. Beckoning me. Musical instruments call to me in some strange way—as if they beg me to tame them. Gavin’s soul calls to me in a similar fashion—only his is a siren song promising unimaginable ecstasy at the price of utter and complete obliteration. “Guess I should get out there.”

  I take a step forward and Gavin pulls me into the shadows. “Knock ’em dead, Bluebird. I’d say good luck but you don’t need it. You have so much more than luck when it comes to music.”

  I lift my eyes to his penetrating gaze. “I want to believe that.”

  “You will. One day. Promise.”

  “Hope so.”

  He nods like he was expecting this answer even though I can see the pain that flashes behind his eyes. “I’ll spend every day reminding you if you’ll let me.”

  “That would mean spending every day with me, Gav. Which clearly you have no intention of doing anytime soon.”

  “I’m trying, babe,” he says with sincerity. He winks at me and I try not to melt into a puddle in the floor. “A few weeks and I’ll be off probation and if the battle goes well, maybe we’ll be back on the road together soon. If you want that, that is.”

  “Of course I want that. It’s just—”

  A booming voice announces me onstage and there is a surprising amount of cheering from the audience. I start to turn my head in that direction but Gavin catches my jaw with a firm but gentle grip. “Have a great show, Bluebird.”

  Without asking for permission, he lowers his mouth to mine and gives me a tender kiss full of unspoken promises.

  “Don’t tease me, Garrison.”

  “Never.” He kisses me gently again, then once on my nose and once on my forehead before squeezing me into a hug. “Not a tease, sweetness. A promise.”

  I give myself a few seconds to enjoy the warmth of him, to indulge in the clean, male scent of him.

  Reluctantly, I pull out of his arms and make my way to the stage.

  Never in my life have I been so grateful for glaring, blinding stage lights. I can’t actually make out any faces in the crowd, which is probably for the best.

  I introduce myself and am greeted with a surprising second round of cheers. Sitting down at the piano, I shake my head, because truthfully, I am not a solo act and I’ve never wanted to be one. Yet, here I am.

  “Here goes nothing,” I mumble under my breath to myself.

  My fingertips familiarize themselves with the keys, caressing them once before I launch into my first song.

  And then . . .

  Then I am lost.

  And found.

  Then I am free.

  12 | Gavin

  “WHERE IS HE? Where’s my baby?”

  The first word that comes immediately to mind is No.

  “Baby?
Are you here?” A loud rapping sound comes from the bar and it’s almost loud enough to be heard over Dixie playing onstage. “Gavin Michael! Gavy-poo! Where are yooouu?”

  I nearly knock over Jake the barback in an attempt to get around the bar and silence the woman calling for me in the singsong voice.

  Cal steps in front of me before I get to her. “I don’t care who she is, just get her the hell out of here. Now.”

  “On it. Um, I might have to leave to get her to—”

  “Do whatever you need to. I can dock your pay for the rest of the night if needed. Cara and Jake can handle this crowd.”

  Cara is an extremely capable bartender and her girlfriend Missy works security here so I know she’s got this. Jake has also proven himself lately and has even learned to make a few drinks and use the taps. Which is good, because I have a feeling I am not coming back to the Tavern this evening.

  “There he is. Isn’t he handsome?” She practically knocks over the drink of the lady sitting next to her. “Hey, baby. I saw the flyer about your little friend playing tonight and thought maybe me and my date here could get a few drinks. You know, on the house, since I’m related to the bartender. They have a family discount, right?”

  She giggles at her own joke. She’s slurring her words, barely standing upright, and her eyes are so glazed over it’s a wonder she can see me. The man with her gives me a once-over, then leers at a young girl on the other side of him. I recognize him. He’s been over a few times—one of the local dealers and I’m pretty sure a bruise my mom was sporting on her neck a few days ago came courtesy of him. He practically runs out the door every time I walk in, which has been the one intelligent decision he’s made in his life.

  I have a strong suspicion I might be going to jail this evening.

  So much for light at the end of the probation tunnel.