His to Own: 50 Loving States, Arkansas Page 25

  “Nah, that ain’t how you play that song, man,” Colin’s voice booms from overhead.

  The man lowers his violin and frowns, theatrically offended.

  Then another spotlight appears. A much bigger one this time, which stretches over an entire violin string section, playing the intro to “This is How We Alabam.”

  They get a little further along before Colin’s voice booms down again. “Nah, that ain’t how you do it either.”

  Suddenly a blazing fiddle sounds and the whole stage is hit with a spectacular array of lights as the red velvet curtain parts. The crowd starts screaming and yelling as Colin comes out. He plays the fiddle with such perfect country precision that I’m immediately entranced, right along with the rest of his screaming fans. And for a few minutes I forget to check in to see how Josie’s responding to his entrance.

  After Colin’s got everybody well and truly enthralled, he hands the fiddle off to a waiting guitar tech, raises his arms up, and yells, “This is how we Alabam!”

  The crowd goes crazy as the backing band starts up, and Colin takes us along on a two-hour tour of his musical life. There are raucous songs about trucks and partying on the road, angry songs about his drunk father, and a bittersweet one about his mother working her fingers to the bone to buy him a violin that some rich kid breaks “just cuz he can.”

  I know without having to be told that the rich kid he’s talking about is Mike Lancer, and my heart breaks all over again for the loss of his violin, even though it’s obvious he could easily afford one hundred more just like it these days. Unlike Josie, who continues to text off and on throughout the concert, my eyes stay glued on Colin. Especially during the song about his mother. After it’s over. Colin takes a moment of quiet introspection before he looks up toward the sky and says, “Thank you, Mama. For everything.”

  I doubt there’s a dry eye in the house at this point, but Colin doesn’t linger here too long. He nods and he and his band start right up with the next song, like his grief is just a blip on the radar.

  The next song, “Loose,” is one about feeling untethered from the woman you love while out on the road. And though I know not all Colin’s songs are autobiographical, I can’t help but wonder if he wrote this one about Josie—which then reminds me that this song is supposed to be my cue to start making my way backstage, so I’ll be in place when Josie comes to say hi. I’m so caught up in Colin’s performance, I almost forgot.

  But before I leave, I slide one more look at Josie. She’s standing like most of the concert goers, but she’s holding her phone by her side, with the screen turned up so she can see it. And she keeps glancing down at it, like she’s waiting for somebody to text her back. Somebody more important than the country singer on stage, crooning a song most likely written about her.

  I’ve got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach for real as I go backstage. One that only gets worse when I’m directed over to Colin’s assistant, Ginny, a brunette with a short hair cut and pleasant brown eyes.

  She looks me over. “Love the hair,” she tells me, nodding toward my bouncy, shoulder-length curls that I’d dyed a bright cherry red the week before. “The outfit though… maybe we should see if wardrobe has something we can borrow.”

  “No, I’ll be staying in this outfit. Thank you, though,” I answer, firm but polite. I’d worn a simple purple eyelet sundress down here—mainly because it was the only dress in my closet that matched my new hair color, but also because I took what Colin told me about Josie seriously. Plus, I doubt dialing my outfit up to ten will impress Josie, who showed up to the concert in jeans and a t-shirt.

  “Okay, we’ll see what Colin says,” Ginny says. “But first, let’s get you settled.”

  A few minutes are spent going down cinder block wall hallways, and then Ginny waves me into a small, softly lit room. It’s got a catering table filled with fruit, vegetables, protein shakes, a whole bunch of other real healthy looking foods… and one covered foil pan. I sniff the air above the pan, thinking it smells a lot like…

  I lift the lid off a foil catering pan and yes, it is. There’s a whole boat-load of fried chicken inside.

  “Colin’s one indulgence,” Ginny says behind me. “His rider says he has to have at least twenty pieces of fried chicken at every stop, either prepared by someone’s mother, or from someone’s mother’s recipe. It’s a little quirky, but you know Colin.”

  I half-smile, half-grimace in reply, because the truth is I don’t know Colin well at all, and I’m a little surprised at his dedication to fried chicken.

  “Sorry,” Ginny says behind me. “Colin’s usually generous as can be with whatever he has, but he doesn’t let anybody touch his chicken, except him and his guitar tech.” I can practically hear Ginny rolling her eyes behind me. “You know how country singers are about their guitar techs. But you can have anything else on the table—Oh, Colin, you’re here! I was just about to come get you.”

  “That’s all right,” I hear Colin say. “I performed here enough times, I know the place by heart. Plus, Keith was there, too. No way I’m getting lost considering how many times he’s worked this place.”

  I look over my shoulder and see Colin, still dressed in the Johnny Cash t-shirt and jeans he wore for the entire concert. Guess he isn’t one of those musicians who believes in costume changes. Not that he needs to. The extra sheen of performance sweat makes the thin t-shirt cling to his long, lean body in way I’m sure his female fans found more than a little appealing by the time he was done with his concert.

  He’s got an older guy with him, I notice, with sandy brown hair even longer than Colin’s. Except his hair is a lot frizzier and comes with a bald spot on top. I assume this is Keith, because I recognize him as the guitar tech who switched out Colin’s guitars and violins during the concert.

  As if to prove I got his job title right, Keith comes over to the catering table and says. “Let’s see if this chicken’s really as good as you say it is, Fairgood. I still don’t think there’s anything that’ll beat that plate we had in Texas.”

  I can tell by the size of Keith’s potbelly that he takes his chicken very seriously and, most likely, his beer, too.

  “It’s better,” Colin assures him. “Came straight from the daughter of the best cook I ever met.”

  Somehow I know who he’s referring to without having to ask.

  “Josie made this for you?” I ask him.

  Colin looks at me, like he’s just now realizing I’m in the room. Then he says, “Yep, she delivered it to the backstage door herself.”

  I can tell by the triumphant smile on his face that he thinks this means he’s all but got her in the bag.

  And that makes me bold. I suddenly have got to taste this woman’s chicken, so I take a drumstick from the pile and bite into it before anyone can tell me otherwise.

  From the immediate silence that greets this move, I know I’m the first person who’s ever violated this particular rule of Colin’s.

  “I told her the rules,” Ginny whispers to Colin, sending me an exasperated look.

  Colin’s eyes narrow for one hot, angry second, but then the lazy smile comes right on back. “You know what, Ginny? I’m going to make an exception this time.” To me he says. “Let us know what you think of Josie’s chicken.”

  “It’s pretty good, actually,” I say with an approving nod. “And I’m very particular about my fried chicken, so that’s some kind of compliment coming from me.”

  Colin raises his eyebrows.

  “Pretty good?” he repeats. “Josie made this herself from her mom’s recipe. And lemme tell you, I been all over the world, but nobody makes fried chicken like Josie’s mom did.”

  I take another bite and shrug. “You may have been all over the world, but if you think this is the best fried chicken you ever had, that’s just because you haven’t had a plate of my grandma’s chicken. She makes it with a big dinner pretty much every Sunday from April to the middle of October, when it stops being w
arm enough to eat outside. We have family members from all over West Tennessee come in just to have a piece.”

  Colin inclines his head. “Did she teach you how to make it?”

  I finish off the chicken leg and deposit the bone in a nearby trashcan. “Actually, I don’t give folks that information,” I answer, wiping my mouth and hands on a napkin, which I also toss in the trash. “Otherwise they might start harassing me to make them plates, like they stay harassing my grandma—that’s how good her fried chicken is.”

  Colin steps closer to me, and suddenly his “I ain’t poor no mo’” cologne is all I can smell.

  “Maybe I’ll add that into our agreement,” he says. “If you want me to produce your demo, you’ll have to make me one plate of fried chicken.”

  Having him standing this close, smelling this good, makes a series of somersaults go off inside my belly. But instead of giving into the fear and stepping back, I lift my chin.

  “Like I said, maybe I know the recipe. Maybe I don’t.”

  He squints down at me, eyes glittering just like they did that long ago night in Alabama. “I’ll find out what you know one way or another,” he tells me, his voice quiet and deep. “Trust me on that.”

  I think of the secret I’m keeping from him, the omission about the real first time we met, and a shiver runs down my back.

  Luckily Ginny chooses that moment to say, “Colin, there’s a question about Kyra’s outfit. I’m thinking maybe she should change into something a little more striking.”

  Colin looks over my outfit. “Nah, I like the dress. It’s nice. Simple.” His eyes trail up to my now bright red hair. “Like the new hair, too. I thinks she’s dressed just right for this,” he tells Ginny without taking his eyes off me.

  “Thanks,” I answer, confusion wrestling with all the alarm bells going off in my head. Ginny’s in on the scam, so why is he eyeing me all hungry like Keith when he first saw that pan of fried chicken? Is he some kind of method actor? Rehearsing for when the girl he really wants get here?

  A smart phone beeps somewhere in the distance, and I see Ginny tap her Bluetooth to talk to the person on the other end.

  “Josie’s arrived backstage,” she tells us after a short exchange.

  “Tell them to hold her there,” Colin says to Ginny. “I’ll come meet her.”

  To me he just says, “Showtime,” before leaving with Ginny.

  My heart sinks as I watch them go. I am really not at all looking forward to playing this part when he comes back. Especially since it’s for the benefit of a woman, who I’m hard suspecting won’t even care that Colin has a girl.

  “More chicken?” Keith asks me, his mouth full.

  “No, thank you,” I answer, suddenly not hungry at all, even though I haven’t had anything but that one drumstick to eat since right before I drove all the way down here from West Tennessee.

  I go sit on the couch and try to ignore all the bad feelings this situation is riling up inside of me. I don’t have long to fight with myself over it, though, because less than ten minutes later, Colin comes walking back through door. Without Josie.

  “Josie had to go,” he tells me, before I can ask. “She works at a domestic violence shelter, and I guess there was some kind of emergency. The director got called away, so she has to step up tonight.”

  So that was why her attention had been so divided during the concert. A new respect for Josie rises up inside of me and makes me feel guilty for my earlier thoughts. It wasn’t that she’d moved on to another dude while she kept Colin dangling, it was that she was a true do-gooder, through and through.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say to Colin.

  Then I wait with baited breath, hoping he’ll say something like, “Yeah, that’s too bad. But maybe it’s for the best since my plan is kind of stupid and insulting to Josie’s intelligence. Let’s just call this whole thing off, and of course, I’ll still produce your demo since you kept up your end of the bargain.”

  But instead of saying that, his face sets into a grim, determined line.

  “I made brunch plans with her for tomorrow, to talk about me possibly making a donation to her shelter,” he tells me. His eyes meet mine. “So I guess you’ll be staying at my place tonight.”

  Chapter 6

  Colin’s “place” turns out to be one of the penthouse suites at the Alabama Grand, the tallest and swankiest hotel in all of Birmingham. Following Ginny, I walk into a bunch of rooms filled with the kind of delicate, eye-catching furniture they use to sell magazines like Home Décor You Could Never Afford. Maybe that’s not a real magazine, but you get what I’m saying. Where Colin’s staying now doesn’t remotely look like the servants quarters of some rich family’s house. Everything about the suite is practically rapping “started from the bottom, now I’m here” with a fully produced studio beat behind it.

  I feel seriously out of place as Ginny shows me around. Too country to be kicking it with all this pretty carpet and ultra modern furniture. At the same time, I can’t help but think about how Josie will react to this place. Josie might not be in love with Colin yet, but do-gooder or not, she definitely will be a little bit impressed by how far he’s obviously come.

  “Sorry about the accommodations,” Ginny says after she finishes the tour at the sitting room’s sofa bed, which is where I’ll be sleeping. “It’s pretty much the best you can get in Birmingham, which isn’t exactly known for having five-star hotels. But Colin puts up with it because Alabama’s his home state. I hope you can manage to make yourself comfortable here.”

  Well, I don’t know about comfortable, seeing as how I’ve never so much as set foot in the sort of place that even offers penthouse suites. But as for the rest, I tell her, “I’ll be fine, thanks. The only thing I’m worried about is finding some pajamas.”

  “Maybe you can make use of one of the hotels robes,” Ginny suggests. “But we will have to look into getting you another dress for tomorrow.”

  Oh yeah, tomorrow. I’d temporarily forgotten about the brunch with Josie. Forgotten or deliberately tried to put it out of my mind. One of those.

  “I’ll set an alarm,” I tell her. “Get up early and go shopping for something.”

  “No, no, no,” Ginny says. “I’ll take care of the dress, keeping in mind Colin’s notes about simplicity.”

  She pulls a cloth measuring tape out of nowhere and straps it across my chest.

  Her eyebrows go up when she sees the number. “You’re very well endowed.”

  Yeah, I might not be as thin as Josie with her willowy frame, but my other assets, namely a big set of tits and plenty of ass, have attracted enough attention over the years to make me glad I usually wear scrubs to work. Especially for those male clients who don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. I swear, some days I think Viagra is a curse sent straight from the devil himself.

  “I’ll also keep that in mind,” she says. “See you at eight, bright and early.”

  “See you,” I say to her back, a little sad to see her go.

  The truth is I’m not used to being alone. I’ve always stayed with my grandma between live-in gigs, and now being somewhere all by myself feels, I don’t know, wrong, I guess. Like sitting on the marble steps, waiting for Rose Gaither’s son to arrive. But this time I don’t have a guitar.

  I turn on the TV for some “company” as my grandma likes to call it when she leaves hers running while she’s going about her day.

  The first Star Trek reboot is on Fyos, which is my favorite cable channel, but one I hardly ever get to watch at home with grandma, since she has a hard rule about not watching anything with aliens or monsters or any other mess that don’t make sense. So soap operas and talk shows, yes. Sci-fi, no.

  I curl up on the couch, figuring I’ll watch this one movie, then go find that robe Ginny mentioned, unfold the bed, and go to sleep.

  At first, it’s a little hard to concentrate after what happened tonight and what might happen tomorrow. But eventual
ly the story draws me in, just like it always does. I’m really enjoying what’s got to be at least my eighth viewing of this flick, when a voice above me says, “Star Trek, huh?”

  I look up and there’s Colin, standing at the top of the sunken living room steps, in a fresh t-shirt—this one features a black-and-white image of a man I think might be Woody Guthrie, playing the guitar. He’s also switched out his white Stetson for a wide-brimmed, black cowboy hat that casts a long shadow over his face.

  “Hi,” I say, my eyes going to the foil catering pan tucked under his arm.

  “Hey,” he answers. He hesitates at the top of the stairs, but then decides to come sit on the couch, too.

  “I was planning on taking Josie out for a nice dinner tonight after you left,” he tells me, setting the foil catering pan down between us on the couch. “But I guess cold chicken and a movie will do.”

  However, he wrinkles his nose at the conversation Kirk and Spock are having on the TV.

  “Like Star Wars better myself. Josie and me used to spend all day in the backyard when we were kids, re-enacting the big Luke-Vader fight.”

  I don’t even ask who played Vader, because I already know.

  “Yeah, Star Wars had some really good fights. But Star Trek’s got good fights and good characters. Star Wars is all about the battles, and Star Trek’s all about the people.”

  Colin takes the top off the foil catering dish, unleashing the good smell of Josie’s fried chicken.

  “Stars Wars is about the people, too. Anakin, Luke, Yoda—they’re people.”

  I take a piece of chicken, not bothering to wait for another invitation. It’s been a long day and I’m powerfully hungry.

  “Yeah, but Star Trek’s more about the people. Plus, I like Spock more than I like Yoda.”

  Colin grunts and takes a bite of chicken. “Why don’t you flip around a little?” he asks with his mouth full. “Star Wars has gotta be playing somewhere. Always seems to be no matter what hotel I’m at in the world.”