The Kylie Ryans Series: Girl with Guitar, Girl on Tour, Girl in Love (extended edition)

by Caisey Quinn

  “Mr. Ransom.” The doctor regarded her with a suspicious stare. “Or Mr. Walker, as he prefers to be called.”

  “No, I don’t. He just startled me is all.” She gripped the materials she carried tighter to avoid fidgeting as the doctor led her to the cabin-style buildings he’d told her were used for housing employees.

  “My apologizes. It just seemed like there was…something between the two of you. And as you will learn upon reading the employee handbook, we can’t have you working with any patients, er, clients, that you’ve known previously.” The doctor sighed loudly. “Though I do have ears and I know several of my nurses on staff know full well who he is and are interested in getting to know him intimately. Even if it costs them their jobs.”

  A pang of an emotion she didn’t recognize stabbed sharp and deep in Stella’s mid-section, but she forced a smile. “Well I can honestly say I’ve never seen him before in my life, nor do I have any interest in getting to know him in any capacity other than as a patient. Um, client.” That distinction was going to be a hard one to get used to.

  The older man pulled out a key and regarded her with a genuinely pleased smile. “So you’re accepting the position then?”

  Stella nodded, though it felt like her intestines were practicing multiple knot typing strategies in her stomach.

  “Yes sir, I would like to.” Because it’s an amazing opportunity, not because of the captivating stranger who just scrambled my brain and my libido.

  “Well then, welcome home.” Dr. Ramirez opened a door that led to Stella’s impressive new digs. It was a studio style apartment where the small living area, kitchen, dining room, and bedroom were all occupying one cozy space. The only closed off sections were a closet and a bathroom with an old-fashioned tub and pedestal sink. Still, it was much nicer than the tiny two-bedroom apartment she and Tess had shared off campus. And it was already furnished. She thanked Dr. Ramirez and he welcomed her to the team before leaving to let her get settled in.

  She had a truck full of boxes to unpack and a million forms to fill out before Monday morning. She had to make a very stressful phone call to her mom as well. But at the moment, all she could do was collapse into plush living room chairs and try to recover from whatever the hell had just happened with the mysterious Mr. Walker-Ransom.

  Last Second Chance is available now

  Leaving Amarillo

  A Neon Dreams Novel

  CAISEY QUINN

  “Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together.”

  - Anaïs Nin

  Austin MusicFest – Day 5

  It’s times like this, times when I’m on, giving it my all as my bow dances across the strings like it has a mind of its own, that I feel like I can fly. Leave this stage, this crowd—this world even—and ascend to a higher plane.

  The deafening kick of Gavin’s drums beat steadily along with my pounding heart while Dallas’s guitar strums a rhythmic river flooding my veins and carrying me across the stage. The sound lifts and holds me while I play my heart out. The music flows around us and into me, lighting every single cell my body is composed of on fire from my toes to my head until I am blazing with the heat of it.

  The section of the audience that my eyes can reach is cast in a neon blue glow with hues of red streaking on the periphery. The colors are as vibrant as I feel and would be distracting if I weren’t playing, but I am focused. I am one with my instrument and its rich sound is so much a part of me it’s as if it’s coming from inside my soul instead of from the fiddle on my shoulder.

  We take the audience on a fever dream roller coaster of emotions with our sound. Dallas likes to begin and end on fast-paced songs and weave the slower ones through the middle. Whiskey Redemption comes just after a string of re-worked R&B hits that had everyone singing along. We play Ring of Fire and then my favorite Adele hit. All three of us chime in on the vocals for our version of Love Runs Out, playing it like a game of Round Robin.

  My favorite song is up next and I feel electric and on fire while we play it. It’s a mash up of a song called What Do Want from Me and another called Beneath Your Beautiful that we’ve altered to fit our sound. It’s our most downloaded cover online. Took me forever to get Dallas to agree to it and even longer for the three of us to get the timing right. But the hard work was worth it. I can see it on the faces in the crowd.

  We play Dallas’s favorite drinking song, one he wrote himself, and then our set ends with our updated version of When You Leave Amarillo, the applause is so loud it vibrates through to my core and the sensation is electrifying. It’s a serious struggle to catch my breath. We bow and thank the largest, most enthusiastic audience we’ve ever played for and escape backstage. I’m not even sure if my feet are touching the ground as we step off the stage.

  My brother is immediately swept into a darkened corner by some suit chatting him up, a potential manager probably. But Gavin is right behind me. He’s so close I can practically taste his adrenaline high as acutely as my own.

  “That was amazing,” I breathe, turning to face him. “I think it might’ve been better than sex.”

  He stops tapping his drum sticks on his knee and pins me with his stare. His hazel gaze darkens as he backs me into the hallway and out of my brother’s line of sight. “That was amazing because you were amazing.”

  The dim lights backstage are reflected in his pupils, making him look almost possessed, otherworldly. Somewhere the next act is being introduced and my brother is shaking hands and making a deal that will change the course of the rest of our lives. But here, where I am right now, Gavin Garrison is making love to me with his eyes. And I don’t want him to stop. Ever.

  Lowering his head enough that his lips are almost touching mine, he says the words that send my already racing heart into overdrive and halt my ability to form coherent thoughts. “But if you think that was anywhere near better than sex, those pretty boys you’ve been screwing around with have been doing it all wrong.”

  1

  There is a lot to be said for break up sex.

  No pressure. No worries about being perfect. Just give me one last orgasm please and thank you and goodbye. Have a nice life, or don’t. Peace out.

  Not that I’m an expert or anything. I’ve only had sex with one person. But I’m pretty certain that the last time was the best time.

  In Jaggerd McKinley’s case the breakup sex was decent enough that I was now having some firm second thoughts about getting back together just so we could break up again and have one last round. Lord have mercy, the things that boy could do with his hands. Apparently they weren’t just good for working on broken down cars. He’d been holding out on me in the year that we’d dated.

  “Dixie, that’s twice you’ve missed your intro.” My brother’s voice startles me. “Can you join us here, please? This space ain’t free, little sister.”

  “My bad.” I feel my face heat from the attention of him and Gavin. Usually it’s Gavin getting distracted and screwing up—typically because some chick has caught his eye or rung one of his drumsticks with the underwear she’s flung onstage—and my brother would be glaring at him.

  “You all right?” Gavin eyes me with concern. Last weekend we played at Midnight Rodeo, a nightclub downtown. My now ex-boyfriend had never been very supportive of our band, Leaving Amarillo, and had shown up drunk as Cooter Brown. Gavin and my brother both nearly pummeled him before security could escort him out and it wasn’t pretty.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Sorry. Let’s go again.” I shrug and bring Oz, my fiddle, up onto my shoulder.

  Two bars into the song, the music surrounding us cuts off sharply once more.

  “Dammit, Dix. It’s three chords we’re working with here.” Dallas’s ice blue eyes are laser beams and I am the target.

  I lower my bow and sigh loudly. “Sorry.” Taking a deep breath, I shoot him and Gavin both an apologetic smile. “Promise I’ll get it together. I’m good now.”

  “Did you ever get any sleep l
ast night?” My brother’s gaze softens, and I’m slightly surprised by his unexpected show of concern. When we’re rehearsing or recording, the music comes first. Usually. I don’t know if it’s the dark rings around my eyes caused by long nights of caring for our grandfather or my recent breakup that has him worried, but he waits for my answer before continuing.

  “I did. I’m really okay. Let’s go again.” I force a smile and raise my bow once more.

  We play half of our set without stopping and I fight through the exhaustion and the non-Jaggerd related painful memories plaguing me. Instinct honed by years of practice takes over as my bow flies across the strings.

  “Hell yeah,” Dallas calls out, fist-bumping Gavin when we finally stop to catch our breath. “That’s what I’m talking about!” He grins at me and I smile back at his enthusiasm.

  “Think we’re ready for Nashville?” I feel ten pounds lighter from playing, and from making my brother proud.

  “We’re on our way, little sister. On our way,” Dallas tells me before turning to Gavin. “Okay, let’s pick it up at the top of Ring of Fire and push through to the end of the set.”

  It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes at the little sister part.

  Despite the fact that I’m nineteen, Dallas acts like I’m twelve most of the time. And like he’s my dad. Since our parents were killed in a car accident when we were kids, he actually filled that role every now and then.

  Gavin’s hazel gaze meets my mine and he nods to make sure I’m ready before he counts us into the next song. My heart does the little stuttering flip-turn it likes to do on the rare occasions we make eye contact for more than a split second.

  Just like that, one lingering look and I’m transported back in time to the first time I saw him.

  Gavin Garrison, our drummer and my brother’s best friend, was the first boy I’d ever had a crush on. From the moment he stepped onto my grandparents’ porch the day of my parents’ funeral with his cautious silvery eyes and his torn clothes and messy hair that was in serious need of cutting, looking like a stray puppy, the three of us had been inseparable.

  That day had been so surreal, with everyone—strangers mostly—tiptoeing around us, offering cookies and tea, and whatever else they thought would distract us from the fact that we were suddenly a nine and twelve-year-old pair of orphans.

  Dallas and I were sitting out front on the porch swing in silence, which was unusual for me as I typically had a hard time shutting up. But the heavy hands of shock and grief were still firmly clamped over my mouth.

  Gavin had walked up, nodded at the throng of people flowing in and out of the house and turned to us.

  “Party?” he asked without introducing himself.

  I watched my brother for cues of how to answer the stranger. Dallas swallowed hard and shook his head. “Funeral. Our parents.”

  Gavin ran a hand through his mussed hair, mussing it further. “Well…fuck.”

  It was the first time I’d heard the word out loud and on purpose and a thrill shot through me. My heart sped in my chest, which was surprising since all it had done since my aunt Sheila had told us that our parents were dead was thud heavily as if it were considering saying to hell with the whole thing.

  “Wanna go break shit?” Gavin asked.

  I turned to my brother, sheer panic and pure adrenalin pumping fiercely through my veins. Say yes, I pleaded silently.

  “Guess so,” Dallas said, hopping down off the swing as if we followed strange kids all the time.

  I walked with the two of them off the porch. Dallas introduced us. And Gavin did the same. He turned and shook my hand like adults did, and I swear on all things holy, lightning flashed right up my arm. It flickered in his eyes at the same time and I froze.

  “What were you doing? Why were you at our house?” Dallas asked, narrowing his eyes and watching our exchange suspiciously.

  “Um.” Gavin pulled his hand back and scratched his head. He glanced around as if looking for the nearest escape route. His eyes darkened, the wary edge they’d first held returning when he shifted his guarded gaze to my brother. “Looking for something to eat. Figured a party would have food.”

  The sound of drum cymbals shatters through my memory. My intro comes and I’m snapped back into the present and out of the past. I lift Oz and play my part until Dallas nods, satisfied that I haven’t royally botched anything this time but he can probably tell that I’m distracted. While he belts out the lyrics to the song we wrote about the past being more than just a memory, I glance back at Gavin.

  He’s changed a lot since that scrappy, overly thin boy he used to be. Thick muscles strain and flex against his charcoal-colored T-shirt, intricate tattoos painting a mural up and down his arms. I can’t tear my eyes away from him as he rocks the drums with everything he has.

  He’s different. More…vibrant. And his hygiene has certainly improved since he was a ten-year-old kid pretty much fending for himself. But there is still hunger in him. Still a deep, dark need that consumes me body and soul when I look into his fiery eyes.

  “Let’s take five,” Dallas announces when the song ends, throwing me a pointed get your-crap-together look. “I’ve got a few phone calls to make.”

  I don’t say a word to either of them as I leave the room. Grabbing a bottle of water, I make my way to the stairwell that leads to the roof. I try not to get lost in memories, but that day is looming over me like a persistent storm cloud.

  On that day, ten years ago, I ran into the house and grabbed as many finger sandwiches and brownies and cookies as I could carry. I nearly tripped over my own two feet in my rush to get back outside before the boys left me.

  I handed them both the goods and stuffed a brownie in my own mouth so Gavin wouldn’t feel like a charity case. In the brief time since my parents had died, I’d already had my fill of sympathy and I didn’t like the bitter taste of it. At all. He and I were the same in that way, I could feel it. So I didn’t ask, didn’t say a word about why his clothes and hair were filthy, or why he was roaming around town alone in search of food.

  We ate on the short walk to an abandoned lot where we proceeded to throw discarded beer bottles against a brick building until I couldn’t lift my arm.

  Each beautiful shattering explosion of glass brought me back to life, bringing to light the emotions I’d covered with a heavy black blanket. The world had turned gray the day our parents died, literally. It’d been rainy and gloomy in Texas every day since. But that release, “breaking shit” as Gavin put it, brought color back to my world like sun peeking through the clouds. It felt so good. Too good. Guilt for enjoying myself weighed on my nine-year-old brain.

  “Fuuuckkk,” I screamed out, just to release some of the pain and confusion.

  Gavin stopped and stared at me. Dallas kept throwing bottles while I crumpled to the ground. Letting my long tangled mess of curly hair provide a dark curtain between myself and the boys, I cried—really cried—for the first time since we’d gotten the news. At some point the sound of glass breaking ceased.

  “Don’t touch her.” My brother’s voice was frighteningly calm, but heavy with the threat of violence. “She’s fine. You want to be friends? You don’t ever touch her.”

  Lifting my head I saw Gavin approaching me. He’d been coming to comfort me from the looks of it, but Dallas’s warning had stopped him in his tracks. Gravel dug into my knees and the palms of my hands while I watched conflicting urges battle for control in the depths of the boy’s mysterious eyes.

  “Get up, Dixie Leigh,” Dallas said, his voice softer than before. “It’s time to go home.”

  Home. That was a joke. Home was a brick house in a suburb half an hour outside of Austin where we rode bikes and played with our friends. Home included our mom and dad, pancakes for breakfast, and Saturday morning cartoons. We were going to a rickety old shack with no TV and a dilapidated front porch on a dirt road in Amarillo to live with people we usually only saw on holidays.

  Home h
ad died with our parents. We weren’t ever going home again.

  As I burst out of the stairwell, metal door clanging behind me, I take in a deep lungful of damp air. It’s cloudy in Texas today, just as it was on that day ten years ago.

  Dallas and Gavin and I don’t roam the back roads of Amarillo like a pack of strays anymore, but in a lot of ways, our lives are still the same. Except now we make our way across Texas in Emmylou, the used Chevy Express that hauls us and our equipment from gig to gig, playing music for anyone who will pay us to. Even though sometimes they just pay us in food and tips from a jar.

  We started playing in our grandparents’ shed when I was fifteen but we didn’t really decide to make it official until we placed third in a competition at the State Fair when I was a senior and the boys had both graduated. I play the fiddle in Leaving Amarillo and I’m good at it. Our opening act usually consists of me playing Devil Went Down To Georgia all by my lonesome to get the crowd’s attention. Most of the time it works. Unfortunately, by the time we realized Leaving Amarillo might be more than just a hobby, I’d already accepted a scholarship to the most prestigious music school in Texas.

  Last year I spent a semester and a half at Shepherd School of Music in Houston becoming a classically trained violinist headed straight for an orchestra pit. When our grandfather had a mild heart attack just before spring break, I was able to put my scholarship on hold and came home to help with his care. Once he’d made a close to full recovery, Dallas and Gavin let me join back up with Leaving Amarillo for a few shows. And then a few more. Now that we’ve gained some momentum, I’m hoping I’ll never have to go back to wearing all black and being herded in and out of an orchestra pit again. But if a manager with legitimate connections doesn’t sign us by the end of the summer, it’s back to college for me in the fall.

  Despite the many times I’ve told my brother that being in an orchestra pit makes it impossible for me to breathe, Dallas has made it clear that he won’t allow me to throw away my scholarship in order to live cooped up in a van with him and Gavin while working for scraps. Other than music, a girl like me doesn’t have too many more attractive career options. If I drop out of school and the band doesn’t make it, I’ll likely end up spending my days asking folks if they want pie with their coffee.