I jerk upright and turn my back to face the hallway. CeCe does the same, and I guess we must look like two soldiers snapping to attention after a reprimand.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “We were looking for the manager or–”
“Owner?” the woman asks.
“Owner,” I agree, still not looking.
“That would be me. And I’m a little–”
“Occupied. You’re occupied. We can come back.”
She laughs. “Why don’t you do that?”
“Ah, are you looking for any bartending help?”
A couple beats of silence pass. “I think I just might be.”
“Good. How about waitressing? Need any?”
“That depends on the waitress.”
“That would be me,” CeCe pipes up, raising a hand and waving it in the air. She starts to glance over her shoulder, but I throw my arm around her and tuck her into my side, so she can’t.
“Why don’t you two come see me later this afternoon when I’m not–”
“Indisposed,” the man on top of her says with a chuckle. And in the notes of his laugh, I hear the voice I’ve heard on the radio a thousand times. Again, shit!
“Indisposed,” the woman agrees, laughing.
I hear feet hit the floor, just before the door behind us slams shut. And then Case Phillips: “Shoulda shut the damn thing to start with.”
“Come here and let me make it up to you,” she says.
Only then do I let myself look down at CeCe. She’s pressing her lips together, like laughter is about to explode out of her. I grab her arm and haul her down the hallway before she wrecks whatever opportunity we might have.
By the time we reach the dining room, we’re both running full out, through the foyer, the front door, all the way to Thomas’s truck before we collapse against the passenger side door and can’t hold it back a second longer.
We laugh until my eyes are watering, and we’ve woken up Thomas. He slides out and walks around to look down at us like we’re both insane.
“What the heck?” he asks.
I start to tell him, but I still can’t talk.
“We just saw Case Phillips naked as a jaybird in there on top of the woman who owns this place.” She tries to stop, then starts up laughing again.
“Was she naked, too?” Thomas asks, straight-faced.
“Oh, yeah,” I say.
“Well, all right then,” Thomas says.
CeCe is giggling so hard now she can barely breathe.
I glance across the parking lot and spot the black Ferrari tucked into a corner space. The license plate says JSTNCASE.
I point at it, and Thomas lets out a low whistle. “That’s the life I want. The car and the girl.”
“I hope I’m not the one that finds your bare linebacker ass on top of some hot babe,” I say, wiping my eyes.
CeCe giggles a fresh giggle. “Don’t need that visual.”
Thomas laughs. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
I get to my feet then, offering CeCe a hand up. She stands and for a second tips into my chest, her breasts soft and full against me. I feel the shock as if someone just stuck a hot wire to my back. Our gazes lock for a snap of a second, and I see the same awareness in her eyes.
I step away, too quickly, and hang my running shoe on Thomas’s enormous cowboy boot. I catch myself before hitting the pavement, and grab onto the bed of the truck.
“Good day, man,” Thomas says, “you are in such a world of trouble.”
“Shut up, Thomas,” I say, climbing in. “All I pay you to do is drive.”
Chuckling, Thomas shakes his head and pulls CeCe around to his side, waiting while she slides into the middle of the seat.
I lower my window, keeping as close to the door as I can.
♪
CeCe
So it’s decided once we get to the apartment that I will buy in as a roommate. Both Thomas and Holden say they don’t mind rooming together.
“I already know how bad his boots can stink,” Holden had graciously said.
“And I already know what kind of rattlesnake he is at six a.m.,” Thomas throws back, matching the dig.
What it adds up to is the two of them throwing me a lifeline. Since I am now starting out in Nashville from negative ground zero thanks to the explosion of Granny’s car, I don’t have any choice but to take it.
And I am grateful. I tell them both as much, promising to pay them every penny I owe them.
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Thomas says once we’re at the apartment, and I am again scouring the classifieds, Hank Junior asleep with his head on my lap. Holden had borrowed Thomas’s truck to go open up a banking account. I’m not holding out hope for the Case Phillips joint, considering that I’ve now seen the owner naked. Seems like a significant conflict of interest to me.
“I will worry about it,” I say. “I like to pay my debts.”
“In other words, you don’t like letting others do something for you.”
“Only a fool rejects a helping hand when it’s needed, but I believe in keeping the slate clean, too.”
“You and pecker head are more alike than you know.”
I glance up from the paper, raise an eyebrow.
“Holden,” he says, like who else would he be talking about.
I refuse to acknowledge the comparison, and say, “They’ve got openings at the Olive Garden.”
“Love the food, but how’s that going to help your music?”
“By helping me pay my way around here, feed myself and Hank Junior.”
“Holden’s right about putting yourself in a place where music stuff is happening.”
“In Nashville, that could be at McDonald’s.”
“True. But the odds are greater over there where Case Phillips is getting some.”
“Girl here. You and Holden are going to have to remember this isn’t a locker room.”
Thomas grins. “Spunk. I like it.”
Just then the apartment door swings open, and Holden bursts through, his big white smile the first thing I see.
“You’re not going to believe who I just saw in Whole Foods!”
Thomas and I both stare at him, waiting.
“Taylor Swift.”
“Seriously?” Thomas throws out.
“Picking out apples in the produce department.”
“You suck,” Thomas says. “Did you ask for her autograph?”
Holden tosses him a look. “Right after I taped that sign to my forehead that says ‘New to Nashville and gawking at every star’.”
“Well, you’ve seen two already today. You might want to let someone else borrow your sign,” Thomas argues, sounding irked.
I laugh. I can’t help it. The two of them are pretty ridiculous. “Y’all are like two old ladies at a bachelor auction,” I say.
“I’ve got a lyric I want to work on,” Holden says, ignoring me and grabbing a Coke from the refrigerator before heading for the back of the apartment.
“To give you a heads up on the vernacular,” Thomas says, looking at me, “that means don’t come anywhere near him until he comes out and gives the okay.”
“Ah,” I say.
“If you do bother him, I recommend a shield of some sort. A baking sheet works pretty well.”
“Because?”
“He’s gonna throw something at you.”
I laugh again. “How in the world did the two of you ever get hooked up?”
“Football was the original connect. He had a daddy to prove wrong. And I had a mama to prove right.”
“How so?”
Thomas digs his spoon into the half-gallon of chocolate ice cream in front of him. “Holden’s father didn’t think he had what it took to play ball.”
“Why?”
Thomas shrugs. “The real answer is he’s pretty much a jerk. He kind of thinks being a musician waters down any athleticism gene.”
“Why would he think that?”
/> “Heck if I know. Why does anyone think stupid stuff?”
I find myself feeling a pang of empathy for Holden. My mama and I never had much, but if I said I wanted to fly to the moon, she’d start helping me make the wings. “What did you have to prove to your mom?” I ask.
“That I was as good as she thought I was.”
“That’s nice.”
“Better than Holden’s version for sure.”
“How long has he been writing?”
“Since kindergarten.”
“I mean lyrics.”
“Since kindergarten.”
We both smile, and I say, “He’s the real thing, huh?”
“As it gets.”
“He’s lucky to have you to write for.”
“Actually, I’m the lucky one. I can sing until the cows come home, but hand me a pencil and tell me to write something that’s gonna strike a chord with somebody, and my brain freezes up like lemonade in Alaska.”
“You’re lucky to have each other then.”
“I’ll go with that.” He looks at me a moment, and then, “What’s your dream, CeCe? Why are you in Nashville?”
“To sing and write.”
“If you had to pick one, what would it be?”
“I love both, but unlike Holden, other than myself I don’t have anyone else to write for, so if I had to pick one, I guess it would be singing.”
“You’re good, you know. Real good.”
I hear the sincerity in his voice, and I start to brush off the compliment like it’s no big deal. Actually, it is. I bask in it for a second or two. “Thank you for that. I appreciate it.”
“I guess you know there are hundreds of others here just like us. Fresh off the bus. Totally sold on their talent. Ready to share it with the world.”
“Yeah,” I say, the seriousness in his voice instantly sobering me up from the high of his praise.
“So you wanna know what the difference between me and them is?”
Again, “Yeah.”
“I’ve got the work ethic of a dozen mules. If someone offers me a gig down on the corner of Broadway at two in the afternoon, I’m gonna take it ‘cause you never know who might be walking by. Every single chance I get to open my mouth and sing, that’s what I’m gonna be doing. And I ain’t averse to shakin’ some hands and kissin’ some babies either.”
Laughter bursts up out of me, part delight, part amazement. “You’re going the politician route then?”
“It don’t matter what talent you’ve got if people don’t like you first. If you’re an ass, they won’t bother looking past that long enough to see any other good in you.”
“Aren’t you a little young to be this wise?”
“My granddaddy was in Georgia politics. By the time I was six years old, I’d watched him win voter after voter just by being nice to them. It wasn’t an act on his part. He genuinely liked people. Enjoyed hearing what they had to say. He taught me that you end up with way more in this world if you go at it by giving back first.”
“You’re amazing,” I say and mean it.
He looks surprised by that and practically blushes. “Naw.”
“You are.”
“Holden’s right about my boots,” he says, grinning.
I laugh. “Even so.”
He gets up to throw away his ice cream carton and put his spoon in the sink. I want to thank him, but the words stick in my throat, and I can’t force them out. “Thomas?” I say, my voice cracking.
“Yeah,” he calls back over his shoulder.
“I’m really glad y’all stopped yesterday. I don’t know how I got that lucky.”
He turns around then, studies me as if he knows just what I’m trying to say. And when he says, “No, CeCe, I think Holden and I are gonna turn out to be the lucky ones,” I know for sure Thomas would make his granddaddy proud.
♪
Holden
CeCe hasn’t said a word since we left the apartment. I’m matching her silence beat for beat, determined not to speak first.
“Don’t you think this is a waste of time?” she finally asks just as we turn in at the restaurant parking lot.
“Actually, no, I don’t,” I say, swinging into a spot at the back. I glance at the corner of the building where the Ferrari had been parked earlier. “Looks like Case is gone anyway.”
“Oh, good,” CeCe says. “I’ve seen enough naked country music stars for one day.”
“You sure about that?”
“Quite.”
“I mean we could ask her when he’s coming back,” I say, enjoying myself.
“No, thank you.”
We both get out of the truck, slam our respective doors and walk side by side into the main entrance of the restaurant. Unlike earlier, now all the lights are on, and wait staff bustle around table to table getting the place ready for evening business.
A man in a dark suit and a blazing red tie walks up and says, “Can I help you?”
“We’re here to see Ms. Trace,” I say.
“Is she expecting you?”
I nod yes, hoping like heck she remembers.
“Just a moment.” He walks through and disappears down the hallway behind the bar.
CeCe and I stand poker still in the foyer, and if I feel like a fish out of water, it’s clear that she does, too.
Ten minutes later, the blonde woman we’d met in her birthday suit just a few hours before walks in wearing a sexy-as-all-get-out black dress that leaves little to the imagination as to why Case Phillips hangs here.
“You came back,” she says, looking directly at me.
I sense, rather than hear, CeCe stepping up close behind me. I move aside so Ms. Trace can see her too. “Yeah,” I say. “We were hoping you’d have a moment to talk to us.”
“Sure.” She waves us both to the bar, pulls a chair up and sits down. “Have a seat.”
Remembering my manners, I pull out one for CeCe, causing the woman to raise an eyebrow in approval. I take the next chair over.
“So you’re looking to bartend,” she says, her assessing blue gaze on me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“And I was hoping you might have a waitressing position open,” CeCe throws in.
“What kind of experience do you both have?”
“I tended bar around the University of Georgia,” I say.
“You go there?”
“I did.”
“Played ball, I bet.”
“Yeah.”
“You any good?”
“They seemed to think I was.”
“But music’s your real love,” she says.
“Yeah,” I admit, wondering how many guys just like me had sat here asking her for a job. Based on her look, I’m assuming a lot.
“How about you?” she asks, glancing at CeCe.
I hold my breath, hoping she’s not going to tell her about the veterinary clinic.
“I’ve never actually waitressed,” CeCe says, while I cringe inside. “But I am a really hard worker. I’ve watched some great waitresses in places where I’ve had gigs. I’d like to think I’ve filed away what works and what doesn’t.”
To my surprise, Ms. Trace looks impressed.
“Hm. Most girls would have told me they had experience even when they didn’t.”
“The truth is a lot less cumbersome,” CeCe says.
“You’re right about that. It just so happens I do have a couple of open spots. The bartending position is about thirty hours a week, the waitressing one more like fifteen. You okay to start with that?”
“Yeah,” we both say in unison.
“Can you start tonight?”
“Yeah,” we echo again.
Ms. Trace smiles. “Uniforms are in the back. The ones hanging in plastic have been dry-cleaned. See if you can find something in your size, and we’ll get started.”
She stands and leads the way, showing us where the uniforms are.
“All right, then. I’ll tell Mich
ael, the manager up front to show you two the ropes.”
“Thank you, Ms. Trace.”
“Yes, thank you,” CeCe adds.
She looks at me then, her gaze direct and unless I’m mistaken, slightly interested.
“It’s Lauren,” she says.
“Thank you. Lauren,” I say.
“You’re welcome. Both of you.” And with that, she turns and heads to the main part of the restaurant.
“Wowww,” CeCe says once she’s out of earshot.
“What?”
“That look.”
“What look?
“You know what look.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“What are we? Six?”
CeCe smiles. “She doesn’t think you’re six.”
I roll my eyes and start looking at pants hanging in the closet. I find a pair of thirty-twos, pull out those and a white long sleeve shirt in large.
CeCe steps up and rifles through the skirts in her size. I notice that she finds a four and a white blouse in a small.
“I’m not changing in here with you,” she says.
I roll my eyes again. “Like I want you to.”
I leave in search of the men’s room, figuring she can find the women’s on her own. Once I’ve changed, I head for the bar. Michael, the guy in the black suit, is waiting there. He starts showing me the setup behind and spends the next ten minutes or so telling me who some of their customers are, what they like, the drinks the restaurant likes to push. Some of the names he drops are pretty impressive, I have to admit.
“Here’s what’s not cool,” he says. “I’m assuming you’re here for the music business, and this is a secondary gig to you.”
I don’t bother denying it.
“When these folks come in, they want to be away from all that. Not ever cool to pitch a song, ask for a card, give a card, a lyric, a CD.”
I laugh. “I take it that’s been done before?”
“Ohh, yeah.”
“Got it. Not cool.”
He turns to CeCe then where she’s been waiting at the end of the bar for him to finish with me. “Why don’t we start there? Did you get that part?”
“Yeeaah. I got that part. Does that include live auditions while I’m serving dessert?”
The Heart That Breaks Page 17