Facing the Music (4 page)

“Why not go out with him once to ease his curiosity? He’s cute. Firefighters are sexy.”

Pepper sipped her drink and laughed. “Yeah, and he knows it. But I’ve always had a strict rule: never date a Chamberlain.”

Ivy brought up her hand to throw again. “Wise words,” she said. As she was about to let go of her first dart, the familiar notes of her first hit song began to play from the jukebox.

Really? The tension level wasn’t high enough in here already? She spun on her heels to look for the offender who’d chosen the song. Lydia Whittaker was smiling conspiratorially as she leaned on the jukebox. Of course. Always starting something. Then the front door opened and Ivy’s gaze traveled to the hulking figure lurking in the entrance of the bar.

Her eyes met his as her voice drifted out of the speakers. There was an instant snap of electricity as they looked at one another. A recognition . . . a connection . . . an unspoken attraction that brought a heat to her cheeks. She thought she had felt something at the cabin earlier today, but she’d dismissed it. Now, there was no ignoring the warmth in her belly and the tightness in her chest.

The connection was severed as he turned to look at the jukebox. As he realized what was playing, there was a dance of emotion across his face. Pain, embarrassment, anger, sadness . . . Maybe all of it rolled together; she couldn’t tell. When he looked back at her it was gone, and his cool, detached expression had returned. His jaw flexed tight as he swallowed hard and turned away from her.

Never date a Chamberlain
. Wise words indeed.

“Emmett, I will pay
you a thousand dollars right now to take that damn song out of the jukebox,” Blake said as he approached the bar.

The bartender shook his head. “Sorry, man. Your brother paid me two thousand to keep it in.”

“Which one?” Blake demanded. There would be hell to pay. The joke was old. It was bad enough that he’d had to listen to that stupid song on the radio for the past five years. He shouldn’t have to listen to it in his local bar.

“Which do you think?” Emmett said, cocking his head to the side.

Blake followed that direction until he saw his brother Grant sitting in a booth with some woman he didn’t recognize. Flavor of the week. “Nice,” he said between gritted teeth.

But Grant hadn’t played the song. He was firmly embedded in a seduction plot and didn’t even realize Blake had come in. No, that dubious honor went to Lydia Whittaker. The evil smile curling her thin, bitter lips spoke volumes. Namely that she was ready for him and Ivy to have a knock-down, drag-out fight while she watched. No doubt Lydia intended to console him when it was over.

He never should’ve gone out with her. He had been hoping she’d realize there was no chemistry and she’d finally leave him alone. Too late he realized Lydia didn’t care about chemistry. Since seventh grade, she’d wanted his name and the social status that went with it.

Blake had tried to let her down gently a few weeks ago. She hadn’t taken the hint. And now adding Ivy back into the mix, even temporarily, would stir things up. The two girls had always been fiercely competitive, and at times downright catty. Lydia had done her best to make Ivy’s life hell when he and Ivy were dating, and tonight she seemed to be back to her old tricks.

Why did she have to show her ass tonight? Blake had deliberately loitered outside talking to a friend to avoid going into Woody’s right behind her. He’d known the bar would be a powder keg the moment he saw Ivy slip in. The last thing he needed was Lydia throwing sparks.

“How much do I have to pay to make sure an Ivy Hudson song doesn’t play in this bar ever again?”

Emmett’s brow knit together in thought. “Ivy Hudson? Holy crap!” he exclaimed. “You mean the woman that came in with Pepper is the one singing that song?”

Blake glanced back over at the two women playing darts. “That would be her.”

Emmett leaned onto the bar. “I didn’t get the connection earlier. So what’s the deal? Did she write this song about you?”

“Yes.” If only that stupid reporter hadn’t revealed that the song was about him, he could’ve licked his wounds privately. Ivy never confirmed or denied it publicly, but it didn’t matter. She let the press torture him for hurting her.

Emmett shook his head and tried not to laugh. “What the hell did you do to her, man?”

“It’s not what I did to her,” Blake admitted. “It was what she caught me doing to a cheerleader in college.”

Emmett’s eyes got wide. “Ahh . . . So, you want a beer?” he asked, artfully changing the subject.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Emmett slid a full mug across the counter and Blake grabbed it. Ignoring his brother and both his exes, he took an empty seat at a table with a couple of the guys he went to school with.

“Hey, Jesse,” he said. “Curt.”

His friends welcomed him, all three trying very hard to ignore the obnoxious song playing in the background and discuss today’s Auburn football game. It wasn’t working.

“
Size matters
 . . .” the recorded Ivy belted out.
“I said it didn’t, I didn’t mean it. I told you everything was fine, but size does matter.”

By now, a couple of folks in the bar had taken to singing along with the chorus. Great.

“I’ve had just about enough of that,” Blake finally said. Pushing back from his seat, he crossed the bar to the jukebox and without hesitation unplugged it from the wall. Grant had paid Emmett to keep the song in the jukebox, but nothing said the jukebox had to be operational.

The song instantly silenced, the machine going dark. A few people in the bar applauded; a few others ribbed him for not having a sense of humor. Ivy stood quietly, turning away from him to throw her darts when their eyes met.

“That’s more like it,” he said. Blake glanced up at Lydia. She looked temporarily defeated, but that wouldn’t stop her scheming for long. She was a smart girl. It was a shame she used her powers for evil. “Got any more quarters left, Lydia?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Good. Stay out of this.” He turned and started back to his table. He was halfway there when he heard someone shout from near the pinball machine.

“Ivy? Are you just going to let him interrupt your song like that?”

Blake stopped in time to see Ivy stiffen. She was never good with confrontation; she preferred to leave her cutting words for her songs. But when she was backed into a corner, she was like a small dog—quick to bite. He watched as she took a deep breath, and then turned to face the crowd with the sweet smile that had charmed America while spewing her vitriol.

“No,” she said. “It’s fine. This is just one jukebox in one bar. That album went quadruple platinum, and ‘Size Matters’ is the second-longest-running number one single in iTunes history. Blake can’t unplug every iPod in America. And even if he could,” she added, looking him in the eye, “the damage is done.”

A few people chuckled. Blake wasn’t one of them. She was right. The damage was done, and so were they. Any flicker of attraction between them was just biology conspiring against him. He supposed it was time to put the last nail in the coffin and move on.

“I wish I could,” he retorted. “I would consider it a public service—protecting the general population from bitter, autotuned, subpar pop music.”

“First,” she said, taking a few steps toward him. Her spine was ramrod straight and defiant, pressing her breasts against her silky top and giving him unhelpful flashbacks to today’s earlier encounter. “My music is
not
autotuned. I am
not
a belly-baring teenage pop princess. I play my own instruments. I perform live. I write my own music. And if that music is bitter, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

“Blame?” Blake laughed. “I think I should get a cut of those four million sales. Before I broke your heart, your songs were nothing but the sad refrains of coffeehouse open mic nights.”

Ivy’s mouth fell open, her response stolen from her lips.

It was a low blow and he knew it. Ivy had struggled with her music for months. He knew how hard she’d worked and how her professors just hadn’t seen the emotion and spark that made her songs special.

Grant sidled up. “That’s probably not the best idea,” he noted. “Never piss off a woman with a dart in her hand unless you fancy an eye patch.”

Blake smiled and shook off his brother’s suggestion. “I’m not too worried about that. I remember watching her out on the field during gym in high school. Her aim was never that great.”

“It may not be,” Ivy said, recovering herself. “But at least if
I
stuck something in
you
, you’d notice.”

A roar of voices and laughter followed her insult. Blake sighed. Why did she always go for the small-dick jokes? He didn’t have one. He wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs, but it would only make him look like he protested too much. No one would believe him, and he wasn’t about to start wagging it at strangers on the street to prove his point. It was above average. And an excellent performer, too, if his reviews could be trusted. He’d never heard any complaints.

Ivy, of course, didn’t count.

She left him no choice but to strike back. Blake had been subjected to years of embarrassment because of Ivy and her song. He’d lost the Iron Bowl when the Alabama marching band played it, causing him to botch a crucial play. His season fell apart. His dream of a Heisman had vanished along with the Tigers’ bowl game chances and his first-round draft selection. Yes, he’d made out with another woman and probably would’ve slept with her if Ivy hadn’t burst in on them. It was a stupid mistake, and he’d regretted it every day since then. And not just because his entire life unraveled because of it.

“You’re probably right,” he said, swallowing hard. “Judging by your songs, you’re an expert on getting things stuck in you. How many men in LA have you slept with, Ivy? Or is it easier to count the ones you haven’t gotten to yet?”

Ivy’s lower lip trembled for only a moment. Then she marched up to him and slapped him hard across the face. He took the stinging blow, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing it hurt. Instead he smiled widely. That only made her face turn a deeper shade of crimson.

“Welcome home, Ivy Grace.” With that, he tossed some cash onto the table, gave a wave to his friends, and left.

Chapter Four

After a fairly
unsuccessful night on the town, Ivy had called a cab and left Pepper at Woody’s talking to Emmett. She intended to go home, shower off the inch of makeup Pepper had painted on her face, and call it a night.

It didn’t take long to realize that she was far too wound up to sleep. Instead, she went out onto the screened porch with her notebook and a tall glass of lemonade mixed with sweet-tea-flavored vodka. She managed one song while she sat watching the last fireflies of the season disappear into the trees.

Kevin would not approve, but she’d had a miserably aggravating day. She wasn’t going to sit down and write about love and puppies. Instead, she’d written about what she’d seen in Blake’s eyes this afternoon at the pier and again at Woody’s. He’d wanted her, and he’d taken no pains to hide that fact. Ivy could still feel the tingle that danced across her skin as his gaze raked over her body. Without a touch, he’d stoked a fire deep in her belly that had ached miserably all afternoon.

And then, at the bar, he’d opened his mouth and ruined everything. Ivy didn’t care if he wanted her, or even if she wanted him. It wasn’t going to happen.

That’s where the song began. It was about being blatantly wanted by a man, seeing the need in his eyes as they devoured every inch of her body . . . and about knowing there was no way in hell she would ever let him hit that.

She titled it “Do You (Want Me?)” and she was pretty pleased with it. She’d funneled all of the day’s irritation and confusing emotions into the lyrics and it flowed pretty easily. It was still rough, but it had single potential as an anthem for any woman being harassed at a bar by a guy who is too clueless to know it isn’t going to happen.

There ain’t no way in hell I’m ever gonna—

Do you . . . want me baby?

’Cause I ain’t gonna—

Do you . . . think about me at night?

The next morning, she’d polished the song like a shiny gem. If she closed her eyes she could hear the music in the background and envision singing it onstage. Later that afternoon, she’d tried the chorus out with the acoustics of the small shower while she got ready for Sunday dinner at her parents’ house. It sounded great—the perfect Ivy Hudson song.

For now, she’d revel in the glory of that and not focus on the “new sound” she was supposed to be coming up with or the fact that her ex had seen her pretty much naked and called her a slut in front of the whole town.

So far this had been an enlightening weekend, to say the least, and she was happy to make it to the safety of Sunday and the upcoming workweek. Hopefully then, everyone in town would be focused on their jobs and forget about the rock star hiding out at Willow Lake.

Although she’d busied her mind with the new song, the past kept creeping into the forefront. Before yesterday, she hadn’t seen Blake since the night of the Auburn party almost six years ago.

After they’d survived their first year apart while he was at college and she was finishing high school, Ivy had thought things would get easier. Instead, they’d ended up at different colleges, their schedules got busier, and she could tell he was starting to feel neglected. When Auburn locked up the SEC Championship, the team threw a huge party and he’d asked her to come. Unfortunately, she had an evening choral performance that same night. It was her final for the class and there was no getting around it. With a three-hour drive between their two campuses, she hadn’t relished the idea of driving that late. But when she got done early, Ivy decided to go and surprise him. And surprise him she did. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw her. He was mid-fondle with the cheerleader, seconds away from a “touchdown,” and had nowhere to go or hide.

She was devastated. She’d run from the room and he’d chased after her, catching up just as she reached her car. To this day, she wasn’t quite sure where she’d summoned the strength, but she’d kneed him in his very sensitive and recently handled junk, told him they were through, and jumped into her car.

The last thing she saw was his pained expression in her rearview mirror as she tore off back to Tuscaloosa. She didn’t know if it was the pain of losing her or the nuclear explosion in his crotch that she saw flash in his eyes. It didn’t matter. He deserved both.

Ivy had fantasized about the moment she’d see Blake again for years. How she’d look, what she’d say . . . but that all crumbled when he stepped off that boat and she dove into the bushes. She didn’t know how to handle seeing him. And she certainly didn’t know how to handle the way he looked at her.

Even with six years of bad blood between them, Blake still wanted her. She supposed she should be pleased that she still had the power to crank his tractor. She just didn’t know what to do about it now.

Blake was undeniably handsome, with classic features and short brown hair that begged a girl to run her fingers through it. Even his knowledge of that fact couldn’t ruin it. Ivy had expected him to look as good as she remembered, but the years had done wonders for him. He’d filled out substantially from his thin, athletic days. He had been muscular in high school and college, but still had the build of a boy on his way to becoming a man. The NFL’s rigorous training program had transformed him. Now he was all man, with broad shoulders; thick, muscular arms; and a square, hard jaw. His skin was tan from hours outside and the faint laugh lines around his eyes gave him character.

It was a huge change from the pretty boys she’d gotten used to in LA. That whole town was crawling with metrosexual men who spent more time doing their hair than she did. Ivy’d had to adapt or she wouldn’t have ever dated.

But seeing Blake again reminded her of what men could really be like. He was rough around the edges, and she’d liked it. Add that she was a sucker for a pair of baby blues and his mere presence tested her resilience. Thank goodness his smart mouth always interfered before she did something stupid.

It was an emotional pendulum. Her brain kept flipping from their run-in at the cabin to their fight in the bar. His smirk as he noticed her predicament. The roll of his eyes as her song came on the jukebox. His approval of her mostly naked body. His easily spouted insults. His refusal to go for the jugular when she was virtually unarmed. His lack of hesitation when they were on even footing and surrounded by his supporters . . .

Part of her had hoped she would come home to find him looking like a cast member of
Duck Dynasty
. It would’ve been easy to ignore him then. But his looking like he did made it hard to focus on why she couldn’t like him anymore. Hopefully, she could get through the next few weeks without spending a lot of time with him. Her mother had told her when he got the job as the assistant football coach at the high school last summer. If she had any luck at all, he wouldn’t have a role in any of her fund-raisers. Tomorrow she would find out for sure. Today was about barbecue and family time.

Ivy had to use her GPS to find the new house. She’d paid off her parents’ mortgage on the house she’d grown up in, a small, 1960s-era brick rancher with two bedrooms and one bath. It was tiny by modern standards, but well maintained, and just enough for their little family. She’d offered to help her parents buy a new place, but they’d refused. Then, a year and a half ago, they’d put the rancher up for sale and used the money along with their savings to buy land and build a new home.

She felt terrible about it, but she hadn’t seen the new place yet although they’d moved in a year ago. As she drove down a small country road, she realized she was heading toward Lydia’s family home. The entrance to Whittaker Farms was a mile up the road, but nearly everything you could see to the right of the highway belonged to them.

Her parents had mentioned they’d built out this way, but she hadn’t realized how close they were to her old stomping grounds. Her mother had always admired the area when she drove Ivy out to the farm for parties and sleepovers, so she shouldn’t be surprised.

The GPS announced that her destination was on the left. Pulling her car into the gravel driveway, Ivy paused to look at the bright yellow two-story farmhouse with the wraparound porch. It was charming, exactly what her mother had always wanted. She drove around the house, parking behind the two-car garage. The old house had a one-car garage, but her father had closed it in when she was a kid and used it as a studio to teach private music lessons.

This one was just for cars, she noted as she saw a small building away from the house with a sign that said
MUSIC LESSONS
over the door. Finally, her mama wouldn’t have to listen to the tortured strains of a freshman tuba player.

Off the back of the house was a large, partially screened-in wood deck. Ivy got out of her car and bypassed the back door for the stairs to the deck. Her daddy was there, poking around at the grill with his back turned to her.

Trent Hudson had been the stereotypical band geek in his day. He was tall, thin, and wiry, no more than a hundred and forty pounds after a good meal. He wore thick glasses and had a cowlick in his dark hair that refused to lie down.

But even then, it was no mystery why her mother fell for him. When her daddy picked up a musical instrument, he might as well be a rock star. He had the stage presence of Mick Jagger, the guitar skills of Eddie Van Halen, and the wicked smile of Jon Bon Jovi. He could play any instrument, look at any sheet of music and perform it flawlessly.

Ivy was fairly certain that she got not only her musical talent but also her ability to charm an audience from her father. Why he opted to stay in Alabama and teach marching band instead of going to Nashville and breaking into the music business was a mystery she’d never solve.

She did have a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the hot brunette in the kitchen. The back door opened just then and her mother stepped out with a plate of marinated chicken breasts.

Sarah’s eyes lit up as she noticed Ivy standing on the porch. “Hey, baby.” She handed Trent the chicken and came over to give Ivy a hug. “You found us! I’m so glad you could make it today. I can’t believe you haven’t seen the house yet.”

“Of course I made it, Mama.”

Her dad threw the chicken on the grill and closed the lid before coming over. “Sneaking up on me, are you?” He wrapped Ivy in a big hug and readjusted his Alabama ball cap. “How are you, Peaches?”

“I’m good, Daddy.”

He smiled wide and threw his arm around her shoulder. “Good, good. How do you like the cabin?”

“It’s perfect. You chose well. Aside from the view.”

Trent laughed and walked back over to the grill. “I thought you always said the mansion was beautiful.”

“Yeah, well,” Ivy said, “that was before all the unpleasantness. I see you built this place across from Whittaker Farms. I’m noticing a trend.”

“Yes, we’ve deliberately chosen our home sites to make you uncomfortable. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, isn’t that what they say?”

“You’re just messing with me.”

“I know. We chose this spot because it was for sale at a great price. It’s a little ways out of town proper, but we both just love having the space. Sarah, honey, why don’t you give her the tour while I finish up dinner?”

“Sure,” her mom said with a smile, ushering Ivy through the French doors into the great room. “Now I’m sure this won’t be anything as glamorous as those Hollywood Hills homes, but we’re pretty excited about how it turned out.”

The great room was a combination family room, kitchen, and dining room. It had high ceilings and a large stone wood-burning fireplace on one wall. The dark hardwood floors, whitewashed cabinets, and mottled tan granite countertops came together for a homey feel. Most of the furniture was older, but the updated surroundings had given it a new life. The combination of old and new made the house seem comfortable and familiar.

“Our master suite is through here.” Sarah gestured toward the open door of the room. “I got a Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom. I was so excited and wouldn’t you know, I’ve only used it twice?”

Ivy followed her into the hall and up the stairs to the second floor.

“There are two more bedrooms and a bath up here. One is a guest room and the other is my sewing room. We’ve also got this big bonus area we aren’t sure what to do with yet.”

The large open space had a television in the corner and her daddy’s old recliner parked directly in front of it. There were various musical instruments on a nearby bookshelf and leaning against the wall. “Did Daddy claim this space or did you banish him here?”

“The windows downstairs make it hard for him to watch the game, so he watches up here. Fine by me, of course, with all the yelling. And his instruments, yes, well, these are the extras. Most are in the backyard. I presume you saw Daddy’s music studio back there?”

“I’m sure you’re loving that,” Ivy said.

Sarah laughed. “You have no idea.”

They heard the door slam and Trent shouted up the stairs, “Hope you guys are hungry! I’ve cooked up a storm.”

Ivy frowned. “Dad cooked?”

“No. You know how it is. I make the potato salad, the coleslaw, the baked beans, the rolls, and the cobbler and marinate the meat. He throws the meat on the grill and takes credit for the whole thing.”

Chuckling, they headed downstairs to the screened-in patio to eat.

They were a few bites into their meal when her dad spoke up. “You should stop by and visit my kids while you’re here. I have varsity marching band first period, although that might be too early for you. They’d die to meet you in person. I think most of them still think I’m lying when I tell them you’re my daughter. They look at this scrawny musician and can’t imagine I’d produce something as lovely and talented as you.”

“Well, that scrawny musician attracted a pretty lady,” Sarah said, leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “And together, we created the ultimate genetic combination—a beautiful, talented musician.”

“And from what I hear,” her dad added drily, “a magnet for trouble.”

Ivy paused, her forkful of coleslaw in midair. “Trouble? Me?”