The voice belongs to Ginny. The girl of my songs. The girl with blue eyes the color of a clear Texas October sky.
The girl I never stopped loving…
1
Luke
A few weeks before in Nashville, Tennessee…
“It’s showtime, buddy! Move it! Let’s go!”
My lead backup singer, Hank, grins at me before slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder and running out on stage. Taking a deep breath, I hurry right behind him followed by the rest of my band. The stadium filled with eighty-five thousand fans are already on their feet, waving their hands in the air and screaming for us.
When I reach the center of the raised platform, I look out over the crowd and stop for a second to take it all in. No matter how many times I perform, the thrill of walking out on stage never gets old. It gives me chills every single time. I’m the luckiest man in the world. To be able to write my own songs and play my music is a lifelong dream come true.
The fans are swaying in the warm June night and waving their brightly-lit cellphones side to side. Smiling, I slowly pick the notes of a chord and wait for the crowd to quiet down. When they do, I lean closer into the microphone to sing the opening lyrics to the number one charted song that made me an overnight country music star.
Blue Eyes of Heaven.
A song about a girl I lost many years ago back in my hometown of Sweet Rose Canyon. A girl who I’ve never stop dreaming about. As I sing, I try to ignore the enormous screens at the wings of the stage projecting my image. Sometimes when I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, I can’t believe it’s me.
The black cowboy hat and worn leather boots I’m wearing have been with me since my first performance on a small stage in Nashville. Every time I step out on stage, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come in the past few years. From a small-town Texas cowboy to a headline act at a huge country music festival.
The vibrations of my band’s instruments rise through the soles of my boots. My whole body is tingling; half from the vibration of the music, and half from the thrill of performing. It’s day three of the four-day festival, and each seat in the stadium is filled by a county music fan who loves what I do. Tonight is everything I ever thought I wanted.
When I finish the last song, the stadium erupts into applause. I raise my hand in thanks, then gesture to my band members behind me. They wave to the crowd before we leave the stage. As soon as we’re out of sight, the next band has already taken our place on stage.
I’m drenched with sweat, but on a high. I take my guitar off my shoulder and hand it to an assistant to store. She passes me my cellphone and wallet. I put them in my pockets and roll my shoulders to release the tension from the instrument slung around them for the last hour.
My manager, Harry, appears from the wings with a huge smile and slaps me on the back. “Great show, Luke! Honestly, it was fantastic. The best one yet.”
He’s wearing a blue jean jacket that is two sizes too small. A body that was once toned and fit is now on the heavy side and flabby from a life of fast food meals on the road. His thin red hair is slicked back with hair gel.
“Thanks, Harry,” I say.
“You’re well on your way to becoming a superstar,” he says. “One of the biggest ones country music has even seen! In six months, you won’t even recognize your life. You’ll be rich enough to buy your own luxury yacht. And a private island to park it on.”
I laugh and take a second glance back towards the stage where I can still hear the roar of the crowd. “That sounds awesome. How can it get any better than this, Harry? Are we living the good life or what?”
His lips curve into a grin. “Trust me, it can always get better. We’ll finish up this festival, and then we’re back on the tour again. This summer will be huge! By the time we’re done, there won’t be a single American who doesn’t know the name ‘Luke Collins.’”
I chuckle at his glowing praise. “Thanks. You’ve always dreamed big enough for both of us.”
“It’s easy when you’ve got talent like yours to work with,” he says, fawning all over me.
I smile, but don’t read too much into Harry’s praise. I know better than to let it go to my head. He’s a well-known suck up in the music business. Before he represented me, he was managing another rising country music star and many others before him. As soon as their five minutes of fame wore out, he dropped them and went on to the next flashiest thing. In this case, me. Harry follows the buzz. When things start to cool down, he’s out the door in a hurry.
Luckily for me, it seems I’m on top of the world tonight. Or at least the top of my world which is Nashville, Tennessee. The home of country music.
Harry keeps chattering away while tugging me towards a VIP room where the ‘Meet and Greet’ pass holders are gathering to get my autograph and take photos with me. He tells me about his upcoming plans while we dodge the throngs of people filling the hallway.
“See you back at the bus,” my backup singer Hank says, giving me a slap on the back as he quickly moves past me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I call out. “You can’t leave me here alone with a room full of screaming fans.”
“Back to the bus for an ice-cold soft drink and a large pepperoni pizza,” he says with a grin. “The fans are here to see you, not me. I’m just the sidekick. You’re the hero. Go get them, cowboy!”
“Don’t eat it all,” I tell him. “Save me at least a couple of slices.”
“We’ll try, but make no promises,” Hank says. “Have fun, buddy.”
Maverick, my guitarist, and Hank hurry down the long hallway and head for the tour bus while Harry follows me to the VIP room to meet my fans. I know the room will be packed tight with women holding cellphones and autograph books. I hadn’t been prepared for the success of my debut release, and even now, the heights of fame I’ve reached in just a few short years doesn’t seem real.
At times I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find it’s all a dream. That I’m still a broke, country boy on a ranch back in Texas, baling hay on hot summer days and driving around in a beat-up truck.
The doors of the VIP meet-and-greet room fly open and the pass holders begin to file in. I blink at the sudden flash of cellphones and cameras and can’t protect my ears from the squeals of young girls and middle-aged women.
“Luke! He’s here!”
The event organizer manages to line them up into an organized queue. She motions for me to take my place in front of the festival backdrop for the required photographs.
The first girl comes tottering towards me in heels and short blue jean shorts. Her hair is bleached a strange shade of blonde, turning it almost gray, and her blue eyes are wide. When she reaches me, she throws her arms around my waist with a delighted gasp and hugs me tight. I’m so accustomed to fans touching me at this point that I don’t even flinch.
“I love your music!” she gushes. “I have both your albums.”
“Thanks,” I reply with a sincere smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed them.”
I put my arm around her shoulder and pose for the photo. The young woman giggles in excitement while waiting for the camera to flash. After the photograph, I take the autograph book gently out of her hand and sign it.
Sometimes the fans are so overwhelmed with emotion when they meet me that they forget what they’re doing. It’s up to me to keep the line of women moving along swiftly. Before going on to the next person, I take a moment to ask her where she’s from.
“New Orleans,” she says, almost in tears, knowing her turn is over. “We drove all night to get here. We love you, Luke!”
The next girl steps up and it goes on and on. One fan after another taking the place beside me for a photograph. When I played my first real show as an opener for a bigger artist, I’d been thrilled that anyone had wanted my autograph at all. Now, keeping a pen in my pocket is second nature.
Soon my arm begins to ache from holding it around the shoulders of dozens of wome
n for a thousand pictures, and the carpal tunnel is acting up in my wrist from signing my name. It would suck if I couldn’t play my guitar due to damage done from signing too many autographs. My cellphone starts vibrating in my pocket. The camera flashes again, then I quickly steal a moment to peek at the screen.
It’s my brother, Matthew.
That’s unusual since he normally shoots a quick one-line text message instead of calling. I feel a stab of guilt in my stomach, but I don’t take the call. There’s still a line of fans waiting for a few seconds of my time. I can’t let them down. Without my fans, I’m nothing.
My oldest brother will have to wait.
Matthew will understand.
He always does.
After the meet and greet, I quickly make my way outside the arena to the band’s luxurious tour bus. It’s a huge double-story motor coach with all the high-tech fittings and expensive furnishings. On the top floor of the bus, there are beds for each band member, separated by dark curtains. In the downstairs of the bus, there is a living/kitchen area and a separate bathroom.
Home sweet home.
Or at least it’s my home several months of the year when we’re doing a concert tour. I open the mini-fridge under the counter and take out a energy drink, then sit opposite Maverick and Hank on the tan leather seats. Maverick does his best to play the part of an edgy country music singer but comes across as though he’s trying a little too hard. He’s wearing dark denim jeans and cowboy boots with detailed whirls and patterns on the leather. He never goes out in public without a dark cowboy hat that he wears low down over his forehead.
Hank is a little bit older and wiser and doesn’t feel the need to work so hard. He’s also wearing blue jeans, along with a simple tight black t-shirt. Instead of a cowboy hat, he wears a baseball cap turned backwards. He still has his trusty harmonica arm strapped around his neck. He reaches up to unstrap the instrument and then rolls his head in small circles to loosen his muscles.
“Our noble leader returns,” Hank teases. “Did you have fun fighting off all those women?”
“Nah…it was just a few photos with the fans. Same old thing.”
“Anyone special catch your eye? I saw a couple of women in the hallway that I’d like to meet.”
“No such luck.” I rub a tired hand across my face. “Not that I was looking or would even care who was there. We’ve been on the road for weeks and I’m bone- tired. I’m not interested in women right now. I don’t have the energy for it. Or the desire. The only thing I want to think about is getting back into the studio and making music again. I miss that.”
Maverick leans forward on his knees with a wistful expression. “How come there’s never any wild, crazy fans waiting around to meet the guitarist? Someone want to tell me the answer to that? I’m single and available. Hank, maybe we should start doing our own meet and greets with the fans. Spread the love around the band a little more.”
“Don’t count me in,” Hank replies, shaking his head “I’m not interested. I can’t wait to go home to Tammy.” He turns to me. “Touring is fun, and we’ve had a great time, but I miss my life. There’s a chance I might not be coming back on the second leg of the tour.”
“Who wants to cut and go home now?” Maverick says. He gestures around the bus. “You’re nuts, Hank. This is the life other people dream of. A different crowd to play for every night. Who in their right mind would give that up for one woman? I’m telling you, Hank, you’re making the biggest mistake of your life. Luke is a rising star on his way to the very top. We can go straight up with him. You’d be the biggest idiot in the world to quit now.”
Hank shrugs his shoulders. “What can I say? Going on this tour has been the experience of a lifetime, but after a while, I’m ready to settle down. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just tired. Wait until you guys hit thirty-five and you might see what I mean.”
Maverick turns to me. “You’re not for that domestic life either, are you, Luke? You and I are kindred spirits; nomads, made for life on the open road.” He locks his hands behind his head and leans back against the leather seats. “We get bored and restless after a while with staying in one place.”
“I don’t know,” I say after a moment. “Maybe Hank’s got a point. After a while, life on the road gets old.”
“You two are crazy,” Maverick says. He grins over at me. “You’re just having an end-of-tour-slump. Take a couple of weeks off, put your feet up, spend time with your dog or whatever you do. By the time you’ve spent a month in the real world, you’ll be throwing yourself back in the tour life again. You just need some rest, that’s all.”
“Maybe,” I say. I sit back against the leather and take off my cowboy hat. I place it on the seat beside me and run my hand through my still-damp hair. Recently, I’ve been thinking more and more about who I was before my first album became an overnight sensation. And about the woman who inspired my music.
Ginny.
“Maybe it’s best I stay laser-focused on the remaining tour,” I say. “It’s a pretty big deal. It could make or break me.”
Maverick waves a hand at me. “What do you mean? You’ve already made it. Look around at all this! You’re a superstar now.”
“In his own mind maybe,” Hank jokes. “Don’t give him the big head. We need to keep Luke’s feet firmly on the ground. I’ve been around this business long enough to see all the bad things that can happen when money and fame comes too quick.”
“That’s right,” I say. “I depend on you two to keep me grounded and sane. Speaking of sane, quit hogging all the pizza and hand me another slice. Or three. After the show we put on tonight, we deserve it.”
Maverick grins and hands me a paper plate piled high with pizza.
“That’s the spirit,” he says. “Chow down, cowboy.”
2
Ginny
I walk through the drugstore on my way to the pharmacy counter located at the back and notice someone has knocked a box of candy bars onto the tile floor. I reach down to pick them up while keeping an eye on a young woman in the cosmetics section.
“Do you need some help?” I offer, giving her a warm smile when she catches my eye.
She shows me the lip gloss she’s holding. “I’ve got a date tonight. Do you think this color of red is too dark?”
I smile and shake my head. “It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date, I don’t know what the girls are wearing anymore. I’m the wrong person to be asking.” I study her carefully. “I think you can pull it off, though. Although I’d recommend this other brand. It’s the same thing in different packaging. You’ll save a few bucks.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Interacting with the store’s customers is my favorite part of the job. I’m always shocked at the things people are willing to tell me. People trust a pharmacist with all their secrets. I walk behind the pharmacy counter and nod to my co-worker, Tina, who is busy stocking shelves with prescription medications. She squeezes past me and nudges me playfully with her hip.
“Hey, girl. Or is it Miss Phillips now? Or should I just call you the ‘boss lady?’”
“You can call me Ginny, same as before. Nothing’s changed.”
“It’s okay to give yourself a pat on the back, you know. You earned this promotion fair and square.”
“Thanks, Tina.”
I smile gratefully at her. Tina and I have worked at the local drugstore pharmacy for five years. Now that I’ve been promoted, I’m running the pharmacy.
“I’m glad you got the job,” Tina continues. “I think you’re going to be a great boss.”
“Let’s hope so. I don’t want to screw it up. You know I love this job.”
“And everyone loves you. Speaking of, there’s Matthew Collins.” She points toward the front door of the drugstore. “One of our most handsome and loyal customers. He looks like he needs some help. I’ll be happy to volunteer.”
I follow Tina’s gaze to see Matthew striding towards the counter
with a grim expression on his face. Many years ago, I dated his brother, Luke. In recent years, things haven’t been easy for Matthew, and we’ve become casual friends through his regular visits to the pharmacy.
“Good morning, Matthew,” I say. “How are you today?”
Matthew lets out a tired sigh. He’s an attractive man, with smoldering eyes and a smile so rare you feel honored to receive one. His dark eyes are tired, and he leans on the counter wearily, letting out a long breath as he fills me in.
“You know how it is when you’re dealing with Alzheimer’s,” he says. “There are good days and bad days it seems. I never know what to expect with Dad.”
“You’re doing a great job,” I tell him. “Dealing with dementia is never easy.”
He meets my eyes and smiles gratefully. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for saying that. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Are you here to pick up Charles’s prescriptions?”
“Yes, if you have them ready,” he replies. “I called them in last night. Every day or two he has a new one coming up for refill.”
I pull his father’s name up on the computer and disappear behind the counter to search for the prescription bottles. After running my eyes over the rows of labeled bottles, I find what I need. I return a few minutes later with a paper bag full of medications that I plop down on the counter in front of him. “Do you have any question about the medications before I ring you up?” I ask.
“Yeah, one big question,” he says while checking the labels on the bottles. “Does any of this junk work? Dad’s on ten different medicines for everything from blood pressure to memory. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s all for the big drug companies to make the bucks.”
Every Good Cowboy Deserves A Second Chance Page 2