by Mandy Baggot
She watched him take a pick out of his pocket and then without any hesitation he began to play. Straight away, the other guitars hanging on their hooks began to vibrate as Jared let fly. She knew her mouth was hanging open but she couldn’t help it. She’d never heard anyone play like that before. Not on stage and certainly never in the store. He had something special, something unique. It was grungy. It was bluesy. It was some sort of amalgamation of country and metal.
He took the volume down and smiled at her.
‘I couldn’t help hearin’ you singin’ there earlier. And it seemed to me that you were kinda fightin’ with the bridge,’ he started.
The mouth came up and her shutters went down. A cold, icy feeling spread from her boots, up through her body and ended in her shoulders. She flinched. He’d heard her sing. No one heard her sing now unless Countrified 103 played a track on their old school morning country show. Not that she ever heard it. She hadn’t turned on the radio in ten years. The only country music she listened to was piped through the store sound system and now it was as good as white noise.
‘Don’t get me wrong or nothin’. It sounded like a great song. It’s just you stopped right before the bridge and…you stamped your feet a little.’
‘It was nothing.’ She stuttered her words, giving away her apprehension.
‘Well, if it were my song I’d probably go for a long ripped-up guitar solo. But, bein’ as it’s not my song and you sound a little more traditional.’ He took off the electric guitar. ‘How about this?’
He grabbed an acoustic from the rack, put the strap over his body and started to play. Within a few seconds he paused, played again and this time added a line of lyrics.
And we couldn’t break through, no we couldn’t break through together
His voice had a gruff rock edge to it but the tone was tender. Something in her stirred. He’d just broken into song, in front of her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation, no awkwardness, just a line of music that fitted perfectly. She just looked at him, standing there in his shabby clothes, and waited.
I wasn’t enough, you were just too much for ever. So I’m leaving right now and I’m never coming back not ever
He was writing her song right in front of her eyes.
You need to let me go. It’s time to close the door
He strummed out the final chord and grinned.
‘I guess you had other plans for it. But, you know, if you like it you can use it. I won’t ask for any credit on the album.’
She stared at him, not knowing how to react. Who was he? How had he just written such a fantastic middle eight in two minutes? There was only one thing she could say.
‘Do you want the Gretsch?’
‘I think I’ll pass. Actually, Miss Blackwood…may I call you Honor?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I wanted to ask for your help.’
This was Larry. Whoever this guy was it was something to do with Larry. She just knew it. He’d be a reporter – wait, perhaps not, given the clothes. Maybe he was someone from a TV music show or someone new from the record company. He’d been sent here to persuade her to cut new material. That’s why he’d been so keen to help her finish her song. Well, she hadn’t decided yet and the more pushing that went on the more she’d back away.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t,’ she said, taking a step away from him.
‘You don’t know what I’m gonna ask you yet,’ he responded.
‘I know who sent you. And I haven’t made a decision yet. You can tell Larry that when I make up my mind I’ll tell him directly. He doesn’t need to send some…someone like you,’ Honor snapped, her eyes flashing with defiance.
‘No one sent me here. Well, that isn’t quite the truth…you sent me here. You and that voice you have.’ He lifted his head, set his eyes on her and she swallowed. Underneath the brim of the baseball cap was a pair of gray eyes. But instead of being cold or harsh there was a density and intensity about them. A sexy heat.
‘My name’s Jared Marshall… Jed Marshall and I’m lookin’ for a supportin’ artist for my upcomin’ tour. I was kinda hopin’ it would be you,’ he continued.
Jed Marshall. She’d heard that name. She’d heard that name a lot. She’d sold a large quantity of CDs with his name on the front. The cover had a Confederate flag on it. This was him. He was a successful recording artist. Not a down-and-out who was going to rob the store. And then what he’d asked her hit her like a train.
‘I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.’ She hurried the words out and turned away from him, picking up some leaflets about an upcoming rock festival from the counter.
‘You were a platinum-sellin’ artist not so long ago. I know what happened but…’ Jared started.
‘Everyone knows what happened. It’s written all over the right side of my face!’
She’d lost control. Rage was bubbling under her skin, waiting to pop out. Instinctively she pulled at her hair, tried to hide the mark behind a section of dark curls. She wanted him to leave. Just go away and leave her on her own. She didn’t want what seemed to be daily reminders lately of the person she used to be.
He took the guitar from across his body and leant it up against a snare drum. Her breathing still rapid, she watched as he un-tucked his t-shirt from his jeans and began to pull it upwards. A ripped six-pack was revealed, along with the edge of two large tattoos at each side of his torso, but his fingers went to the middle of his abdomen.
‘It’s faded a little now, but it runs from my breastbone down to my navel. I came off my bike and I swear they used half a cow to put me back together.’ She tried to hold it in but it was no good, a smile was at her lips.
‘But me and the cow parts, we get on with things. Because now is all we have. Can’t go back and change the then,’ Jared said, covering himself back up.
She didn’t know what to say. Her cheeks had pinked and the room was suddenly like a sauna. She didn’t feel comfortable.
‘I’m…I’m really flattered by the offer Mr Marshall but I haven’t been on a stage in ten years and that’s the way it’s going to stay,’ she responded.
He sucked in a breath then nodded his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Honor, truly I am. Because, just so you know, I don’t give up easy.’
She furrowed her brow as she looked at him. He slipped his jacket back on, adjusting the sleeves until it was in place.
‘What does that mean? There must be hundreds of country artists out there who would fall over themselves to support someone as high-profile as you on a tour. Use one of them.’
‘I don’t want one of them. I want the girl with the voice of an angel.’
His eyes were on her again and she felt the need to take a stance. She put her hands on her hips and tried to appear in control.
‘This is my cell number. My number, not my advisor. You ring this any time, night or day when you’re ready to say yes.’ He wrote on one of the concert leaflets on the counter and pushed the paper along to her.
‘I’m not going to say yes,’ she told him.
‘I’m not gonna stop askin’ ‘til you do.’
‘I can’t.’ Her voice came out thin and wavered with emotion. What must he think of her? He was a country chart-topper offering her the chance of a lifetime and here she was turning him down like he was a telephone salesman offering her free S’mores for life if she took up a broadband contract.
‘I want you to know that I would never let anyone hurt you. I would personally make sure my security detail is the best there is. I would personally vet the entire guest list for the backstage areas. I’d do anything you needed me to do to make you feel safe,’ he told her.
Those eyes were promising the truth, she was sure of it. But she’d had cast iron guarantees before and nothing could take away the fear. She shook her head.
‘I appreciate the compliments, really I do, but my answer’s still no,’ she said.
He nodded his head, pushed the paper with hi
s number on a little closer to her.
‘I respect your decision but I don’t accept it. It was a real pleasure to meet you, Honor. You take care.’ He held his hand out to her.
Thick rings adorned fingers on both hands. She took hold of it and gave a business-like shake. The heat that hit her from their connection jolted her like a bolt from the sky. He let her hand go and turned, heading for the door.
‘I’ll be at Black Monkey Studios, Friday, if you wanna finish that song,’ he called.
She watched him push open the door and head across the parking lot to his bike. Creeping closer to the door in stealth mode, as though she shouldn’t be looking, she watched him climb aboard the bike. He quickly swapped his hat for his helmet, then brought the machine to life, revving up the engine. He wheel-spun out and roared away up the road.
She clutched at her stomach. She needed to vomit.
Chapter Five
The alarm clock on his nightstand roared like the engine of his Harley. He couldn’t open his eyes. They felt raw and gritty like someone had snuck in overnight and poured salt in them. As he moved, a sharp pain hit his neck and he put a hand to it. Falling asleep with a guitar underneath you wasn’t to be recommended. The strap had chafed the skin on his collarbone. He was lucky it hadn’t strangled him. He untangled himself and lay the acoustic down on the bed. Pulling himself up into a sitting position, he rubbed his hands over his face, then his head. This was what not drinking did for you. He’d felt better after half a dozen beers.
It was almost nine. The alarm must have been going off for an hour. Instinctively, like he’d done every half hour since he’d met Honor Blackwood, he checked his iPhone. Nothing. No messages. No missed calls. Three emails. How would she have emailed? He checked them anyway. There was one about sponsorship Buzz had copied him in on; another from Vistaprint and the third was full of coupon offers. He tossed the phone back down and got off the bed. It was Friday. He was heading to the studios with his band. They were recording new material for the next album. Trouble was, the only song going around in his head was a ballad called Goodbye Joe.
‘Good morning! Whoa! Hold up! Where did you go last night? You look like you did twelve rounds at Tequila Cowboy, doll,’ Mia greeted as Honor entered the music store.
Honor managed a smile but her head was spinning. Last night, she’d drunk a bottle of wine alone and summoned up the courage to call Larry to tell him she’d get back into the studio. Then, after he’d whooped with delight, she’d needed a couple of tumblers of bourbon to convince herself she was doing the right thing.
‘Please don’t put me on Dolly Parton fan duty today. The high notes will make my brain explode.’ Honor came behind the counter and put her bag in the bottom drawer of the cabinet.
‘Sounds like a great night. Where did you go?’ Mia questioned.
‘Nowhere. I drank at home, alone.’ She paused. ‘But I called Larry. I told him I’d get back into the studio.’
Mia let out an excited yelp and clapped her in a hug she could have done without.
‘I’m so excited for you! I’m so excited for me! I’m going to be selling your new album right here. We must have a signing, get a BBQ in here. Could we tie it in with the 4th of July do you think?’
‘Hold up. I haven’t even done anything yet. It’s up to the record company when or if it’s released. There’s no guarantee.’ That was the trouble. Nothing was guaranteed in this business. She might have decided to give things one more shot but that didn’t mean the industry was going to show any interest. It was more than likely most people would have forgotten who she was. She’d almost forgotten who she was.
‘Oh sucks, they’ll be falling over themselves to sign you up to everything. You wait, before you know it, there’ll be making Koozies with your name on them and selling them in Target,’ Mia told her.
‘Is that meant to sound like a good thing?’ Honor said, sighing.
‘Sure it’s a good thing, doll. And so is this. Want to tell me about it?’
Mia fluttered a leaflet about the rock festival in the air. Honor could see clearly, written in Sharpie marker, the phone number Jared Marshall had written down. Her stomach rotated. He hadn’t been off her mind all week. She’d used the bridge he’d written to finish off her song. She was thinking of recording Goodbye Joe when she visited the studios next week.
‘It’s a phone number. A customer left it,’ Honor said. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger.
‘Uh huh. So, what did they want? Did you order something for them to pick up? There’s nothing on the system I don’t know about,’ Mia prodded.
‘No.’ She was going to have to say something. But what?
Mia shrugged her shoulders, then opened her arms, palms raised to the ceiling, waiting for an explanation. It was useless thinking of something more sensible to say.
‘It’s Jed Marshall’s number. He came in the other day when you went to see the bluegrass band.’
Mia’s eyes very nearly came out of her head. ‘Say what? Did you say Jed Marshall? The Jed Marshall…came here…to my store! Did he freaking touch anything?’
‘A couple of guitars,’ she replied. My hand. The memory of the handshake that had sent a heavy current down her spine caused a moth-like sensation in her belly.
‘Jeez, Honor and this is the first I hear of it? What was he doing here? You know he doesn’t exactly need to buy guitars. Fender practically throw them at people like him,’ Mia exclaimed.
Honor’s eyes went to the wall where the walnut Gretsch was hanging. She’d almost wept when a pensioner who was into Waylon Jennings had played it so badly earlier in the week. It was like the passionate rock-fusion sound Jared had made with it was being wiped away with every finger-picking note.
‘He asked me to support him on his tour.’ She hadn’t meant to say the words out loud but out they’d flowed. Mia fell into the chair, scattering copies of the latest edition of Rolling Stone all over the floor.
‘Holy crap! Are you playing with me?’
‘I said no. I actually had no idea who he was until he said his name,’ Honor admitted. A woman waved at her from over by the sheet music.
‘You had the hottest piece of country ass in the store and you didn’t know who he was? He offered you a supporting artist role and you said no! Had you been drinking then too?’
‘I need to serve this lady,’ Honor said, heading out from behind the counter.
‘You need to visit your shrink! And we need to talk!’ Mia called after her.
By the time the band arrived Buzz had told him about seven companies that wanted to sponsor him and get him wearing/eating/drinking/playing with their brands. Of course he wanted to be successful but the money and the free stuff didn’t mean anything to him. He was in it for the music. Spreading his sound to as many people as he could. The world was actually on the cards and he’d never really believed that was possible.
‘Pure Nectar is sending over a crate of their juice today. That should keep you in fruit smoothies for some time,’ Buzz spoke, poking at his iPad.
‘Because I drink those all the damn time,’ he commented.
‘Don’t knock it, Jared. There are people out there who would appreciate a month’s supply of Pure Nectar.’
‘Then let’s give it to ‘em. Hell, Buzz, I don’t mind being sponsored by them and I’ll drink the occasional carton but man, a month’s supply! Get it sent to one of the homeless shelters,’ he said, lifting his head. He’d been scribbling down lyrics while Buzz was talking. When inspiration struck you couldn’t ignore it. And Miss Honor Blackwood had inspired him. He knew her story, the facts of what had happened to her. But what was behind the headlines? What was she still feeling now – ten years down the line?
‘I can’t do that. I …’
‘Give me that iPad if it ain’t glued to you and I’ll do it,’ Jared said, reaching to take it.
‘No…no. I’ll get it organized,’ Buzz backtracked.
‘Good
. Are we done? Because the band is waitin’,’ Jared said. He indicated the musicians behind the glass screen with his thumb.
‘We need a supporting artist for the tour. I’ve been talking to a UK group called Raintown, Claire and Paul. They’re contemporary country, kind of like Lady Antebellum minus one and no beards,’ Buzz started.
‘Whoa. You told me to find someone and I’ve found someone,’ Jared said, throwing his pen down on the table.
‘Who?’
‘She’s got the voice of an angel,’ Jared said. Involuntarily his eyes closed and the memory of the sound of Honor’s voice flowed over him.
‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Who is it?’
‘Honor Blackwood.’
The dark-skinned man paled and reached for his plastic cup of water, sucking it in and closing his eyes. Jared observed him with interest, gauging his reaction.
‘You almost gave me a heart attack. I’m on pills for that you know. Now, do you have someone or am I going to do a deal with Raintown?’ Buzz asked.
‘I want Honor Blackwood,’ Jared responded. His eyes were trained on Buzz. He now knew this was going to meet with real opposition. Despite her lack of confidence, there was no disputing her talent. She had something pure, untainted by industry pressures. She just needed encouragement, a reassurance that no one would hurt her again. He had made her that promise and if he made a promise he kept it, no matter the cost.
‘Do I know her? Well, let’s see. She was an almost overnight sensation twelve years ago. She produced two platinum-selling albums and then some crazy guy attacked her on stage. She had eighty stitches in a facial wound and she’s never released another record,’ Buzz concluded.
‘But she still writes. I’ve heard her. And it’s great, Buzz. She’s still great,’ Jared informed.
‘She’s yesterday’s news. You go out there on the street and you’d have trouble finding someone who remembers who she is,’ Buzz carried on.
‘I can change that,’ he responded. The depth of his passionate response shocked even him.
‘You’re not her counselor, Jared. And you don’t have time for a humanitarian project right now. We’re trying to organize a tour,’ Buzz snapped.