Screw you, Lacey.
I wouldn’t be up here singing about fried fucking chicken if she’d bothered to show up for our set. My hand curls a bit more tightly around the neck of my guitar as anger floods my system. It takes every bit of self control to keep my rage contained, to keep smiling and singing like I actually give a shit about any of this.
A few more songs, I think, winking at a girl in the front row. Then enough whiskey to forget I had to do this. Again.
I nod to Lincoln as we segue into another shitty Top 100 hit that makes the audience go crazy. These people wouldn’t know good music if it smacked them upside the head. I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. After all, they came to hear Lacey perform.
The girl is hot as hell — her body’s got more curves than a goddamned rollercoaster. Unfortunately, she’s also a certifiable a mess on wheels. A train wreck in cheap perfume and cut-off jean shorts she fills out so well, it should be illegal to wear them out of the house without incurring a public indecency charge. If she couldn’t sing, she’d probably be wrapped around a stripper pole in some dim, dirty club as far from the neon lights of Broadway as you can get without crossing state lines, dancing for dollar bills from fat, middle-aged men fingering their belly buttons in the dark.
As it is, for reasons unknown, she was gifted with a voice that almost makes up for her long list of not so attractive qualities.
Almost.
Nights like tonight, when she doesn’t bother to show up for a gig, leaving me to strut around the stage like some prime cut of steak at a meat market singing cover songs I can’t stand, it’s easy to forget how hot she looks in those little jean shorts, or her unparalleled lung capacity that, it must be said, comes in handy for skills better suited to a bedroom than a stage.
Save the lecture.
I know I shouldn’t have fucked her. I blame the half bottle of Jack I’d slugged down before she slithered between my legs, clawing at my zipper like a cat in heat, and sucked me off with such enthusiasm you’d think she was auditioning for a career in porn. A bit over-the-top, for my taste… but, frankly, a shitty blow job from a chick you can’t stand is still a blow job.
I never said I was a saint.
“We love you, Ryder!” A pair of twenty-something blondes at a high top table scream in tandem. “You’re so hot!”
I smirk at them as if it’s my sole reason for existence and watch them giggle in response like schoolgirls with a crush. Christ, I’m shooting fish in a barrel.
I was born for this shit.
I could do it in my sleep.
That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. If I had my way, I’d happily stay far from center-stage, playing my guitar and singing backup vocals. I don’t need to be famous; I just need to land myself a one-way ticket out of this town before I wind up stuck here forever — another has-been sitting in the corner of some sad honky tonk, reminiscing about how he almost got a record deal a million years ago, back before his dreams went the way of his metabolism and his sex drive.
That’s not going to be me. I’m leaving Nashville and I’m never looking back. Not for anyone or anything. I just need to hitch my wagon to whatever horse is heading out the gate fastest. Right now, that happens to be Lacey Briggs — crossover pop-country star in the making, poised on the threshold of becoming the next big thing… assuming she can keep it together long enough to land a record deal.
That’s one hell of an assumption, seeing as this is the fourth time she’s failed to show up for a gig in the past month. I figured she’d at least make it to The Nightingale. This place is damn near impossible to get a slot at. Everyone in town with real musical aspirations is on the waitlist to play this stage. There’s a full house every night of the week. Plus, it’s almost a guarantee that at least one person in the audience has enough clout to make your wildest dreams come true. Reps from all the major labels make a habit of swinging by to scout new talent.
My eyes scan the swaying crowd, searching for a suit in disguise. They’re easy to spot once you know what to look for — usually sitting on their own at the edge of the crowd, watching a bit too intently with one hand permanently glued to their cellphone and an air of self-importance so thick you could bottle it. I’ve swept the whole left side of the room when my gaze snags on something by the bar.
Someone.
There’s a girl I’ve never seen before standing with Carly, wearing the typical trashy Nightingale uniform. It looks all wrong on her willowy frame, like putting a porcelain doll in pleather. Her waist-length hair is in a dark messy braid and she’s got the most delicate features I’ve ever seen — fine boned and fragile. As I watch, she glances up, straight at me, as though I’ve called her name. For the briefest of seconds, our eyes meet across the crowd.
Fuck.
My fingers stumble on the strings.
It’s an uncharacteristic mistake — so much so, Aiden shoots me a surprised look. Rattled, I force my attention away from the girl and back to the performance, doubling down on my guitar solo, throwing myself into the vocals with new gusto. Still, I can’t keep my eyes from wandering back to the bar in the brief pause between songs to see if she’s still there.
An unfamiliar bolt of anger flares inside me when I see Adam’s worked his way to her side, his eyes lingering on her like he’s already staked a claim. I suddenly want to leap off stage, stalk over there, and shove him away from her.
What the fuck? I shake myself, bewildered by my own response to a girl I’ve never met. You don’t give a shit about some random waitress. Get it together.
I tell myself my rage has nothing to do with her — it’s seeing that prick Adam getting close to any girl that sets my blood boiling.
I manage to keep myself in check as we play our final songs, harnessing the strange energy simmering inside me into the music. My body is rushing with adrenaline and something I don’t recognize. My fingers fly over the strings, my voice rasps with a richness I’ve only ever managed when I’m alone in my apartment, working on my own songs — the ones I don’t share with anyone.
It’s the tightest set we’ve ever played.
“Ry, you killed it tonight!” Lincoln yells in my ear over the roar of the crowd as we walk off stage. “You were on fire out there!”
My eyes drift across the sea of strangers, searching for a long, dark, messy braid that’s been driving me to distraction since I first laid eyes on it. I’d like to set it free, to sink my fingers in deep, to hold it like a leash as I…
I shake my head to clear the unexpected, X-rated thoughts surging to the surface of my mind.
“Where did that energy come from?” Aiden is asking.
“No idea,” I lie.
“Whatever it was, keep it up! We’ve never sounded like that. Ever. Even with Lacey singing.”
“He’s right.” Lincoln claps me on the back. “And now, gentlemen, there are some pressing issues that require our attention.” He jerks his head toward a nearby table where three girls are waiting. They’re sipping vodka sodas and practically salivating at the sight of us. Their skimpy outfits and come-hither stares make it clearer than cling wrap that sex tonight is not just a possibility, but a certainty.
I run a hand through my hair and blow out a sharp breath. “Not really in the mood for groupies tonight.”
“Ryder Woods, turning down willing pussy?” Lincoln lays his hand on my forehead, as if to check my temperature. “You must be sick…”
I shrug him off. “Get away from me.”
“I’m just in shock. I’ve known you three years. Only time I’ve ever seen you say no is after so much whiskey your dick refuses to cooperate. And even then, you usually give it the old college try.”
“Linc, I mean it. Shut the fuck up.”
His blond brows lift. “Dude, what crawled up your ass and died tonight?”
I lock my jaw and look away from him. I wish I knew.
“Friendly reminder that some of us would like to get laid tonight,” Aiden says as he starts wa
lking toward the bar. “You grab the girls, I’ll grab the first round. Meet at our usual booth in five.”
“Make mine a double!” I shout after him.
With enough whiskey in my system, maybe I can drown out the strange energy that’s been simmering inside me since our set. Whatever this feeling is…
I’ve never felt it before.
And I don’t like it at all.
A feminine throat clears. “Hey, assholes.”
I look up from the cleavage three inches from my face to find Carly hovering a few feet from our booth, staring with distaste from the girls on our laps to the near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the table.
“Carly, baby,” Lincoln drawls, grinning at her. “What’s up?”
“Don’t call me baby.”
“Why so tense?” he asks. “Abstinence got you down?”
“Why so desperate?” she counters. “Viagra got you up?”
“Ah, you’re just flirting with me, now.” He waggles his eyebrows at her. “You want in on this action, just say the word.”
“Pass.” Her voice is flat. She doesn’t even spare him a glance, staring into my eyes instead. “Adam requested a word before you guys are too wasted to form coherent sentences.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol in my bloodstream or simply the idea of Adam beckoning me like a parent does a disobedient child, but suddenly I’m pissed. My head cranes back and though my voice is lazy, there’s a steel undercurrent that can’t be ignored.
“Tell his highness to stop holding court. If he wants to talk, he can come to us.”
“He won’t like that.”
“And I don’t like Mondays, but we all deal with them eventually.”
“Could you just cease being a prick for, like, two seconds?” she snaps, folding her arms over her chest. “We’re short staffed tonight because Dotty’s out sick, your lead singer didn’t bother to show up for her set, and busy I’m training a new waitress. I don’t have time to deal with your egos on top of all that — my hands are full enough.”
“They could be a lot fuller if you’d go home with me tonight,” Lincoln mutters.
Carly rolls her eyes and says something in retaliation, but my focus is elsewhere. Specifically, on her mention of the new waitress. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I shift the groupie off my lap with an apologetic wink and scramble to my feet. I’m a bit wobbly from all the Jack in my system.
Carly watches me warily as I move to her side. “How drunk are you?”
“Exactly drunk enough to deal with Adam.” I shrug. “Can’t make any promises I won’t be a prick, though.”
“Evidently, that would be asking too much.”
We make our way through the crowd toward the bar. I spot Isaac, the owner, polishing glasses and helping mix drinks elbow-to-elbow with his bartender. I’ve always liked that about him, since I first started coming here — he’s in the trenches with his employees, running things from the front lines… not hiding out in some back room like Adam, putting on airs of importance.
We slip through a door to the back. It’s eerily quiet in comparison to the bar. Muffled sounds of music and conversation barely permeate the thick walls as we make our way down the hall, passing the staff lockers, bathroom, and break room.
“So. This new girl,” I say casually.
Carly’s shoulders tense. She glances back at me. “What about her?”
“What’s she like?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Uh huh.” She looks doubtful. “Sure you are.”
“What? I can’t make casual conversation about the new waitress?”
“You don’t do casual. You always have an endgame. And that endgame is usually sex.”
“I asked what she’s like, not what color underwear she’s wearing.”
She snorts. “Just trust me when I say she’s not your type.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means she’s sweet as sunshine and way too young for you to corrupt.” She glances sidelong at me. “Plus, she doesn’t date musicians.”
My brows pull together. “What kind of bullshit rule is that?”
“Probably a smart one if she’s going to be working here.” She raps her knuckles against Adam’s door twice, then swings it open and peeks her head inside. “Hey, boss. Ryder’s here for you.”
I hear Adam sigh as though it’s a tremendous inconvenience; as though I’m interrupting his night, not the other way around. My hands curl into fists.
“If you punch him, he’ll never let you play here again,” Carly whispers as she walks away. “Don’t take the bait.”
With a grimace, I unclench my fists and step into the small, closet-like space. There isn’t even a window. It’s so stuffy in here I can barely breathe, though that may have more to do with the man seated behind the desk than the air circulation.
He watches me walk in, arms crossed over his chest. I collapse into the uncomfortable folding chair across from him, staring back in stagnant silence. I refuse to speak first. I’m not the one who called this little detente.
“We need to talk.” His voice is tight.
“You gonna ask me for my phone number again? ‘Cause the answer’s still no.”
“I’m serious,” he snaps. “This is about Lacey.”
“What about her?”
“Where the fuck is she?”
“I’m not her babysitter. How should I know?”
He stares at me, jaw ticking like a bomb on a countdown clock. You should know, his eyes accuse. After what you did.
“Listen.” I blow out a breath. “I don’t know what went down between you and Lacey after…”
He stiffens with rage.
I lift my hands in supplication. “I’m just her bandmate. That’s it. And I know better than to try to control Lacey. She does what she wants, when she wants. Always has, always will.”
“Trust me, I’m aware,” he snaps. “But if she doesn’t show up for your next gig, you aren’t going onstage.”
“Wade doesn’t have a problem with me filling in.”
“Wade may coordinate the lineup, but he’s not here to enforce it. I am. I’m in charge.” Adam’s voice is almost gloating. “And I’m telling you — one more screwup, you’re done. Not just here, either. I’ve got friends at every bar in town. I can make performing a distant memory for you just like that.” He snaps his fingers.
God, he’s a tool.
Apparently, this is his revenge for that night. I took something of his, so he’s taking something of mine. The only difference is, Lacey was never his to begin with. She’s never been anyone’s; she’s far too selfish for that.
“It’s not personal,” he says, smiling coldly. “It’s business.”
I rise to my feet, struggling to keep my rage on a tight leash so I don’t throttle him. My voice is emotionless. “She’ll be here next time.”
Even if I have to drag her by her fake hair extensions to get her onstage.
“Good,” Adam sneers. “Now get out. I have shit to do.”
I slam his door so hard it rattles the frame and stride down the hall. I’d love to punch something. Hard. Preferably Adam’s jaw, but since that’s not an option, I’ll have to settle for a wall.
I’m too revved up to go back to the booth, so I shove open the emergency exit, stumble down three steps, and find myself in the dark staff parking lot. I search my pockets for a cigarette and curse when I realize my pack is sitting on the table inside. Bracing my forearms against the cool cement exterior of the building, I bow my head, breathing hard. The muggy May air feels like syrup in my lungs.
“Are you okay?” a soft voice asks.
I flinch, startled, and swing my head to the left. There’s a girl sitting on the steps, barely visible outside the faint pool of light from the nearest parking lot lamp. I barreled out here so fast, I didn’t even see her.
“I’m fine, excepting the heart attack you just
gave me.”
She laughs and it sounds like a melody. I squint into the dark as she rises to her feet and steps out of the shadows so I can see her face. I feel my heart clench inside my chest when I realize it’s her. The new waitress. The one I couldn’t take my eyes off earlier, during my set.
“Sorry.” Her smile is tentative, almost out of practice. “I didn’t mean to surprise you. You just… looked upset.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“Right,” she says flatly, peering up into my face. “Because it’s totally normal to hang out in dark alleys. Alone.”
“I’m not alone. You’re here.”
She sighs. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Why are you hiding out here in the dark?”
“It’s my fifteen minute break.”
“Ah.”
I tilt my head, examining her up close. Carly was right about her age — she’s definitely young. No matter how much eyeliner she’s caked on to convince the world otherwise, I’d bet my left nut she’s no more than nineteen. She’s also prettier than I’d originally judged. Distractingly so, with those huge, expressive eyes, a pert nose, and a plush little mouth made for kissing. When I finally locate my voice, it’s got a bit more rasp than usual.
“Isn’t that what the break room is for?”
She shrugs, a slight lift of slender shoulders. “I needed some fresh air. It’s a bit… overwhelming in there.”
“I’ve never seen you here before. You must be new.”
“First shift,” she confirms. A faint blush stains her cheekbones, even in the semi-dark. Her hair has fallen mostly out of its braid, as if the thick strands have a will of their own.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. I feel my cock twitch to life inside my jeans.
“I meant new to Nashville,” I say softly, taking a step closer to her. “Not new to The Nightingale.”
“Am I that obvious?” She smiles again, wider this time, and I feel my pulse stutter. “I just moved here. Literally, about…” She glances at the slim silver watch on her wrist. “Twelve hours ago.”
Faded (Faded Duet Book 1) Page 3