Chapter Ten
Lana went into room twelve because she knew off the top of her head that she’d left it unlocked earlier. She wouldn’t have to fumble for a key, even for a moment. His footsteps had stopped, but she wouldn’t let herself relax until she knew for sure he was gone.
Once in the safety of the room, she slid down the door so she was sitting on the floor, facing into the trashed area. The ceiling was open to the sky, allowing the sunlight to stream through. A pool of light fell on the toes of her boots, and her feet felt warm, which was nice since the rest of her was so cold.
They’d had one bad night. That was all. She’d told him too much. She regretted it. But she’d assumed that he was out of her life for good, except for the very welcome money she got from “Blame Me.”
She’d been fired by her agent group (though in the tabloids, they called it a “mutual split”, which was what they always said), and while she’d hoped that they’d put together one last small tour for her, all they’d gotten her was the Bluebird gig at the very last minute.
It was a Monday night, always the worst night of the week. Rumor had it she’d only gotten the slot because a bluegrass band from Boise had broken up on the revelation the fiddler was sleeping with the bass player’s wife.
The only people in the audience were tourists. It was always easy to tell who was from Nashville and who was just visiting. The tourists watched the stage for a while, eagerly waiting to be impressed. They held up their iPads and phones, hoping for a real country star sighting. When it was just her, when they realized that no one more famous than a girl who used to be in a female band that wasn’t the Dixie Chicks was on stage, they turned around and started showing each other pictures on their phones. Tourists always spoke in normal voices, as if they were at a bar anywhere, as if whoever was on stage was just background noise, like the cover bands at their watering hole at home.
Locals, on the other hand, stayed quiet. They waited in the dark to listen. Locals were ready to be impressed, but even when they weren’t, even when the act let them down, they stayed respectful. The space’s heritage demanded that. John Prine, Clint Black and Townes Van Zandt had played right in the spot where Lana sat by herself with her guitar. Locals were reverent to the space itself if not always to the singer.
While she’d played that night, Lana just sang over the tourists’ heads. They didn’t notice, of course, too busy looking at their phones. Instead, she sang into the back, where it was dark. She let herself imagine there was an indie label scout back there somewhere – a man or woman just looking for their next big break, and that it was her. They’d see her singing and rush the stage afterwards.
Somehow she’d missed Taft Hill when he came in. It wasn’t easy to miss a man like that, all shoulders and swagger and goodwill. He was like a friendly missionary, kindly smiling, then he got that glint in his eye, the one that made a girl feel like a woman. That’s what he managed to do on stage, on screen, on a television, looking out into the audience. It was nothing compared to what he could make a woman feel like up close.
And damn, he was getting close.
Lana watched him walk toward the stage. She pretended to be tuning her guitar, but under her lashes, she saw every move he made. Why was he coming her way? There were no free tables at the front – there never were, even though those were the people least likely to listen. Tourists who thought they liked country but really only liked Garth Brooks, and nineties Garth Brooks, at that. Was he coming up to try to play with her?
Lana tightened her grip on the neck of her guitar. Her finger slipped on the E-string and fed a sour note into the mic.
He pulled out a chair and said something low to the couple who’d been looking at their phones the whole time they’d been sitting down.
That was just weird.
So she sang. She tried to keep her eyes from drifting to him, but it took physical effort. Her gaze wanted to rest on him, to travel from that shock of thick sandy hair down to those darker eyebrows, to trace his square jaw, and wander down the muscled cords in his neck. He wore a western shirt (naturally), but it was subtle, a dark blue with the pattern at yoke in a darker purple.
Up close, well, damn.
He was hot.
Even sitting still – and he was sitting so still, like a piece of chiseled rock – he was magnetic. People in the audience had stopped taking desultory, obligatory pictures of her (Who is she? Is she someone? Part of a girl group, I think? The Honeys?) and had turned their cell phones on him and those impressive broad shoulders of his.
That was fine.
All Lana had to do was sing. Luckily, that’s what she knew how to do.
The last song on her set list was “Blame Me.” For a second, the intensity of his eyes on hers made her think about playing something else.
Should she play it tonight?
A staff person in the back dropped a tray of something glass. The resulting crash made everyone in the place jump, including Lana.
Taft didn’t jump, though. He kept his gaze on her, his hands open in his lap. He leaned back in his chair as if he were sitting in his living room, and suddenly Lana wanted to play the song.
So she did.
And even though the room was still bustling, even though people were still chatting and laughing, even though the really drunk woman in the back was finally getting politely escorted to the door, Lana felt every word move through her like she’d just written the song.
Blame me, the way I do.
Blame me, for not saying yes.
Taft nodded at the end. He nodded right at her, and Lana felt something in the pit of her stomach overheat. Taft Hill.
Huh. She’d heard his music, and she liked it, but then again, she’d heard a lot of country music over the years. Maybe all of it. His was as good as anyone else’s – not as good as his father’s but better than most.
The way he looked at her, though – yeah, that made her think again.