Read Nashville 1 - Ready to Reach Online

Authors: Inglath Cooper

Tags: #Romance, #Young Adult

Nashville 1 - Ready to Reach (9 page)

BOOK: Nashville 1 - Ready to Reach
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“Ah,” I say.

“If you do bother him, I recommend a shield of some sort. A baking sheet works pretty well.”

“Because?”

“He’s gonna throw something at you.”

I laugh again. “How in the world did the two of you ever get hooked up?”

“Football was the original connect. He had a daddy to prove wrong. And I had a mama to prove right.”

“How so?”

Thomas digs his spoon into the half-gallon of chocolate ice cream in front of him. “Holden’s father didn’t think he had what it took to play ball.”

“Why?”

Thomas shrugs. “The real answer is he’s pretty much a jerk. He kind of thinks being a musician waters down any athleticism gene.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Heck if I know. Why does anyone think stupid stuff?”

I find myself feeling a pang of empathy for Holden. My mama and I never had much, but if I said I wanted to fly to the moon, she’d start helping me make the wings. “What did you have to prove to your mom?” I ask.

“That I was as good as she thought I was.”

“That’s nice.”

“Better than Holden’s version for sure.”

“How long has he been writing?”

“Since kindergarten.”

“I mean lyrics.”

“Since kindergarten.”

We both smile, and I say, “He’s the real thing, huh?”

“As it gets.”

“He’s lucky to have you to write for.”

“Actually, I’m the lucky one. I can sing until the cows come home, but hand me a pencil and tell me to write something that’s gonna strike a chord with somebody, and my brain freezes up like lemonade in Alaska.”

“You’re lucky to have each other then.”

“I’ll go with that.” He looks at me a moment, and then, “What’s your dream, CeCe? Why are you in Nashville?”

“To sing and write.”

“If you had to pick one, what would it be?”

“I love both, but unlike Holden, other than myself I don’t have anyone else to write for, so if I had to pick one, I guess it would be singing.”

“You’re good, you know. Real good.”

I hear the sincerity in his voice, and I start to brush off the compliment like it’s no big deal. Actually, it is. I bask in it for a second or two. “Thank you for that. I appreciate it.”

“I guess you know there are hundreds of others here just like us. Fresh off the bus. Totally sold on their talent. Ready to share it with the world.”

“Yeah,” I say, the seriousness in his voice instantly sobering me up from the high of his praise.

“So you wanna know what the difference between me and them is?”

Again, “Yeah.”

“I’ve got the work ethic of a dozen mules. If someone offers me a gig down on the corner of Broadway at two in the afternoon, I’m gonna take it ‘cause you never know who might be walking by. Every single chance I get to open my mouth and sing, that’s what I’m gonna be doing. And I ain’t averse to shakin’ some hands and kissin’ some babies either.”

Laughter bursts up out of me, part delight, part amazement. “You’re going the politician route then?”

“It don’t matter what talent you’ve got if people don’t like you first. If you’re an ass, they won’t bother looking past that long enough to see any other good in you.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be this wise?”

“My granddaddy was in Georgia politics. By the time I was six years old, I’d watched him win voter after voter just by being nice to them. It wasn’t an act on his part. He genuinely liked people. Enjoyed hearing what they had to say. He taught me that you end up with way more in this world if you go at it by giving back first.”

“You’re amazing,” I say and mean it.

He looks surprised by that and practically blushes. “Naw.”

“You are.”

“Holden’s right about my boots,” he says, grinning.

I laugh. “Even so.”

He gets up to throw away his ice cream carton and put his spoon in the sink. I want to thank him, but the words stick in my throat, and I can’t force them out. “Thomas?” I say, my voice cracking.

“Yeah,” he calls back over his shoulder.

“I’m really glad y’all stopped yesterday. I don’t know how I got that lucky.”

He turns around then, studies me as if he knows just what I’m trying to say. And when he says, “No, CeCe, I think Holden and I are gonna turn out to be the lucky ones,” I know for sure Thomas would make his granddaddy proud.

CHAPTER EIGHT
HOLDEN

CeCe hasn’t said a word since we left the apartment. I’m matching her silence beat for beat, determined not to speak first.

“Don’t you think this is a waste of time?” she finally asks just as we turn in at the restaurant parking lot.

“Actually, no, I don’t,” I say, swinging into a spot at the back. I glance at the corner of the building where the Ferrari had been parked earlier. “Looks like Case is gone anyway.”

“Oh, good,” CeCe says. “I’ve seen enough naked country music stars for one day.”

“You sure about that?”

“Quite.”

“I mean we could ask her when he’s coming back,” I say, enjoying myself.

“No, thank you.”

We both get out of the truck, slam our respective doors and walk side by side into the main entrance of the restaurant. Unlike earlier, now all the lights are on, and wait staff bustle around table to table getting the place ready for evening business.

A man in a dark suit and a blazing red tie walks up and says, “Can I help you?”

“We’re here to see Ms. Trace,” I say.

“Is she expecting you?”

I nod yes, hoping like heck she remembers.

“Just a moment.” He walks through and disappears down the hallway behind the bar.

CeCe and I stand poker still in the foyer, and if I feel like a fish out of water, it’s clear that she does, too.

Ten minutes later, the blonde woman we’d met in her birthday suit just a few hours before walks in wearing a sexy-as-all-get-out black dress that leaves little to the imagination as to why Case Phillips hangs here.

“You came back,” she says, looking directly at me.

I sense, rather than hear, CeCe stepping up close behind me. I move aside so Ms. Trace can see her too. “Yeah,” I say. “We were hoping you’d have a moment to talk to us.”

“Sure.” She waves us both to the bar, pulls a chair up and sits down. “Have a seat.”

Remembering my manners, I pull out one for CeCe, causing the woman to raise an eyebrow in approval. I take the next chair over.

“So you’re looking to bartend,” she says, her assessing blue gaze on me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“And I was hoping you might have a waitressing position open,” CeCe throws in.

“What kind of experience do you both have?”

“I tended bar around the University of Georgia,” I say.

“You go there?”

“I did.”

“Played ball, I bet.”

“Yeah.”

“You any good?”

“They seemed to think I was.”

“But music’s your real love,” she says.

“Yeah,” I admit, wondering how many guys just like me had sat here asking her for a job. Based on her look, I’m assuming a lot.

“How about you?” she asks, glancing at CeCe.

I hold my breath, hoping she’s not going to tell her about the veterinary clinic.

“I’ve never actually waitressed,” CeCe says, while I cringe inside. “But I am a really hard worker. I’ve watched some great waitresses in places where I’ve had gigs. I’d like to think I’ve filed away what works and what doesn’t.”

To my surprise, Ms. Trace looks impressed.

“Hm. Most girls would have told me they had experience even when they didn’t.”

“The truth is a lot less cumbersome,” CeCe says.

“You’re right about that. It just so happens I do have a couple of open spots. The bartending position is about thirty hours a week, the waitressing one more like fifteen. You okay to start with that?”

“Yeah,” we both say in unison.

“Can you start tonight?”

“Yeah,” we echo again.

Ms. Trace smiles. “Uniforms are in the back. The ones hanging in plastic have been dry-cleaned. See if you can find something in your size, and we’ll get started.”

She stands and leads the way, showing us where the uniforms are.

“All right, then. I’ll tell Michael, the manager up front to show you two the ropes.”

“Thank you, Ms. Trace.”

“Yes, thank you,” CeCe adds.

She looks at me then, her gaze direct and unless I’m mistaken, slightly interested.

“It’s Lauren,” she says.

“Thank you. Lauren,” I say.

“You’re welcome. Both of you.” And with that, she turns and heads to the main part of the restaurant.

“Wowww,” CeCe says once she’s out of earshot.

“What?”

“That look.”

“What look?

“You know what look.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“What are we? Six?”

CeCe smiles. “She doesn’t think you’re six.”

I roll my eyes and start looking at pants hanging in the closet. I find a pair of thirty-twos, pull out those and a white long sleeve shirt in large.

CeCe steps up and rifles through the skirts in her size. I notice that she finds a four and a white blouse in a small.

“I’m not changing in here with you,” she says.

I roll my eyes again. “Like I want you to.”

I leave in search of the men’s room, figuring she can find the women’s on her own. Once I’ve changed, I head for the bar. Michael, the guy in the black suit, is waiting there. He starts showing me the setup behind and spends the next ten minutes or so telling me who some of their customers are, what they like, the drinks the restaurant likes to push. Some of the names he drops are pretty impressive, I have to admit.

“Here’s what’s not cool,” he says. “I’m assuming you’re here for the music business, and this is a secondary gig to you.”

I don’t bother denying it.

“When these folks come in, they want to be away from all that. Not ever cool to pitch a song, ask for a card, give a card, a lyric, a CD.”

I laugh. “I take it that’s been done before?”

“Ohh, yeah.”

“Got it. Not cool.”

He turns to CeCe then where she’s been waiting at the end of the bar for him to finish with me. “Why don’t we start there? Did you get that part?”

“Yeeaah. I got that part. Does that include live auditions while I’m serving dessert?”

Now he laughs. “Yeah. It includes that.”

CeCe smiles. “Not cool.”

He looks at me. “You good?”

I nod. “Yep.”

CeCe follows him to the front of the restaurant where he begins introducing her to some of the other wait staff. I watch her shake hands with them, notice how easily her smile comes when it’s not being censored for me. A blonde dude with a GQ face holds her hand longer than necessary. It’s clear that CeCe isn’t immune to its intensity, and it feels kind of weird seeing her melt a bit under it.

I turn away and start taking clean glasses from the dishwasher and placing them on the shelf behind the bar. So she thinks the guy is hot. Whatever.

CHAPTER NINE
CeCe

I think I’m gonna like waitressing. By nine o’clock, I have two hundred dollars in my tip wallet. I haven’t spilled a thing. And not one person has yelled at me. I’m beginning to see why Holden insisted on making this place first choice. Two hundred dollars in three hours. Not bad.

And that’s not even counting the fact that Brad Paisley and his wife Kimberly are having dinner in one of the private rooms off the main area. Not part of my station, but cool nonetheless.

From the looks of it, Holden has been knocking back some good money as well, the bar slammed non-stop. I haven’t really recognized anyone, except Brad Paisley, of course. Everyone here appears uber-successful at something or other. Hair and makeup are flawless. Suits are definitely high end. And the women’s shoes alone, purchase price all total, could make a ding in the national debt.

Thomas comes in around eight to get the truck keys from Holden. He’s been downtown going bar to bar, trying to book some gigs. He took the bus over. The plan is for him to pick Holden and me up when we get off after eleven.

Thomas agrees to head back to the apartment and take Hank Junior out for a walk since I am sure he’s about to pee in his fur.

BOOK: Nashville 1 - Ready to Reach
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