Sweet Seduction Serenade (8 page)

I automatically reached up a hand and gently rubbed my aching jaw smooth. Then felt self-conscious when I noticed all eyes in the band on me, so removed my hand and started playing with the pegheads on my new best friend.

"I'm fine, cookie," I said with what I hoped was convincing cheer. "Been keeping it supple all day," I pointed out.

"We can take it easy, if you need to, Eva," Spike announced from behind his drum kit, surprising me with the care lacing each word.

"I'm fine," I started, but Gus interrupted.

"We'll do six songs, that should be enough for you to get a handle on the Breedlove. Tomorrow night we'll increase the number, until we manage the full set by Friday."

"We have three nights, including tonight, before the show. I'm fine," I repeated, emphasising the words. "We do the full set each night, as planned, from here on in."

"Eva baby," Gus said softly.

"I'm fine!" I said louder than I had intended, but they
were
pushing me.

"OK!" Gus said throwing his hands up in defeat.

"You're the boss, cowgirl," Spike muttered from behind his protective wall of cymbals and drums.

"Sounds good, Tennessee," Gonzo muttered, his eyes shifting away to the side.

I sighed, feeling like an absolute tool for raising my voice at them all. Then forcing myself to push it all aside - we did need to practice and a full set would take just over two and half hours - I flicked my long braid over my shoulder so it would hang down my back out of the way and positioned my
Bullhide
hat tipped forward on my head, to cover the embarrassment of snapping at the guys that I was feeling.

Tonight I was wearing a mid-thigh length, skin tight denim skirt - my only concession to jeans - a burgundy and cream checked shirt with pearl dome buttons down the front and cute little pockets over each breast, untucked but with a wide horseshoe belt around the middle, accentuating my slim waist. And of course, my tan cowgirl boots. This was casual for me. I wouldn't normally perform in this, but for a practice session where I didn't intend to twirl around the stage in a frenzy inciting the participation of the audience, it would do.

I strummed a few chords, readjusted the pegheads, strummed a few more until I was satisfied with the sound coming from my borrowed guitar, nodded to the guys to let them know I was ready, then reached up and tipped my hat back for performance positioning - the crowd has gotta see your face - and started in on our opening number, which required a little precision finger work on my part. No better way to get the feel for the Dreadnought under my hands.

It wasn't perfect, but only Gus, Gonzo and Spike would probably have known that - so used to my performance level by now. The rest of the crowd, which on closer inspection when my head came up from the opening acoustic sequence, was rather large for a practice session, wouldn't have cottoned on to the small issues I was having getting acquainted with a new guitar.

As per usual, I spoke to the audience while still strumming the last few chords of the opening, welcoming them here, telling them a little about us and in a fit of idiocy told them the bruise on my chin was for show, 'cause cowgirls are sweet as pie on the outside, but frequently ride the rodeo just as hard as the men. I don't know why, but when I'm on stage, the world falls away and it all becomes a show. These people knew what had happened to cause the bruise that was now only a small ache in the back of my mind, but I was in charge of the story as soon as I started playing and fell into the role of cowgirl-on-stage.

And the way I told it, had them believing the story for the duration of the time I performed as well. That's what's so beautiful about Country music. It pulls you in, it captures your mind as well as your heart, and it doesn't let go until the show is well and truly over. For tonight, I was their cowgirl. Each and every one.

As Adam wasn't there to sing my song to, I chose another of the black-clad ASI men, a random choice from a group of stunning, broad shouldered, well muscled, men who would all have looked mighty fine in cowboy boots and hats. The one who got the song tonight was Maori, by the looks of all that delicious chocolate coloured skin, not to mention the obviously tribal tattoo covering his entire right arm. I could just make out a Tiki, in amongst the swirls and grey-scale colouring, beautifully crafted on his skin. He was a good sport too, he took my attention with a cool nod of his head and a subtle wink towards the end, receiving constant ribbing from his ASI mates. But I knew, by his slightly detached demeanour, that he would not be a contender for Stalker's right to, well,
stalk
me.

Towards the end of the song, when I was about to turn my attention to the rest of the room, I noticed him flick a concerned look towards Nick. My eyes followed the direction of his gaze and thankfully, as I had finished the vocals and was just winding up the song alongside Gus on his rhythm guitar, didn't stumble over any lines when I noticed Nick standing with his arms across his chest and a deep scowl on his face, staring at me - not Maori, Tiki tattooed, ASI dude.

In an effort to look anywhere but into those frost ice-blue eyes, my gaze flicked over those people beside where he stood and landed on Gen. I did lose my place then, Gus and Gonzo immediately covering for my lack of concentration, but improvising a bass heavy, cowboy styled, twang at the end, that pulled everyone's attention to them and away from me. Well, probably everyone but Nick, I wasn't sure, I was too busy watching the guy-who-could-have-been-related-to-Nick, kissing Gen's temple, in amongst her hair, on the side of her head.

I watched in stunned horror, as she smiled an adorable, but completely inappropriate contented smile, and tipped her head to the side allowing him access to her neck. Which he, mortifyingly, took advantage of and started nibbling on her ear and kissing the sensitive skin right beneath it.

I swung away from the scene, facing the back of our stage, unable to comprehend what that all meant. My initial reaction was shock and outrage on Nick's behalf. And then I just felt disgust, that Nick would stand there glaring ice daggers at me, while his fiancée made out with his cousin. What kind of man was he? I suddenly didn't want to finish the set. We were about three quarters of the way through, I could easily put the abrupt ending down to my jaw. It would be the first time I didn't give one hundred percent of myself while performing.

I was sorely tempted. I frowned at the floor and contemplated lowering my standards just this once, all the while the boys continued to draw out the rhythm and bass heavy ending to the song. Spike, in all his professionalism, had joined in, and now it was turning into a jamming session, each taking their moment to shine individually on the stage. Full minute sets per instrument. Allowing me time to get my head back in the right space.

Not for the first time I thought this band rocked, which is a strange turn of phrase from a cowgirl, but they did. They were awesome, professional, inspirational, and just plain brilliant. All of them knew something had happened to upset me, and not one of them flashed me a warning frown or accusing glare, they simply turned the embarrassing episode into a spontaneous opportunity to jam and showcase their individual talents.

Three minutes later, each having performed their hearts out, I was back. Nick Anscombe could go to darn hell, he would not be the reason I lowered my standards and let these awesome musicians down. I took my cue when Spike finished his solo, the last of the three to perform, and turned back to face the audience, beginning a solo of my own. Making the whole event into a well planned and thought out performance showcasing each member of the band's talents. As my solo came to an end I introduced each member of the band, allowing the crowd gathered at Sweet Seduction the chance
to show their appreciation with applause. When I'd done all three, Gus took over and called out my name, which incredibly caused the entire room to erupt into a standing ovation, which was completely over the top, but egged on by all three of my band members.

I blinked several times, determined not to let cowgirls worldwide down and cry at the obvious outpouring of care - not only from my band, who I was beginning to fall in love with, but also from the strangers and old friends who really were strangers, in the room.

As soon as the clapping stopped, I picked up the next song on our play list and got us back on track and heading for the finale at the end.
Thunder Rolls
had originally been third up on the list, but with the local response I'd been getting from the recorded track airing on local radio stations, we'd decided to place it at the end of the set. It now made up our final piece, and with Garth's extra live performance verse thrown in, it had become a scene stealer. Perfect for finishing the performance with.

The room erupted in delight when the first few chords sounded, Gus having started the "thunder" that played during the song, making an eerie booming storm sound roll across the room. There was always such a thrill when that thunder began rolling over us. I'd seen Garth Brooks perform it live in Nashville. It was the highlight of my life. I never thought I'd get a similar response, albeit from a fraction of the amount of people than Garth normally had before him, but now I did. I'd paid good money to legally be able to sing this song. There were others in my repertoire that I didn't seek licenses for, but Garth deserved recognition for this one and as I'd laid a track professionally for radio purposes, it had been the only way to go.

I hoped one day to meet him personally. But the chances of that were slim. I might have had an indie following back in Nashville on the local honky-tonk scene, but I'd never play
The Grand Ole Opry
. That was OK though, I enjoyed what I did. The close personal atmosphere of a room full of genuinely attentive people like now, here in Sweet Seduction, practising in front of a small group of extremely appreciative people. People who may not have normally listened to Country. But who all looked like they'd loved the show.

Lucas, the barista, was up behind the espresso machine as soon as the performance ended, and began preparing after show drinks for everyone to enjoy. Voices were high and loud, the atmosphere upbeat and zapping with electricity. The rush after a show seeping into the guys' and my bones. I placed the borrowed Breedlove into its battered case reverently. It hadn't done half bad as a loaner. If I wasn't so in love with Martin D28s, I'd consider jumping ship to Breedlove. It didn't quite have the same resonance as my old Martin, but it had a certain something, that worked I think.

While the guys chatted away to each other and some of the audience who'd come up to share their appreciation verbally, I checked my cellphone to make sure Dad was OK and hadn't been forced to call from the phone I had placed next to his bed. There were two messages, but not from Dad. Both were from Derek. I checked my watch and saw it would be five am in Tennessee, the calls had come in within the past hour. Derek drove a truck, a true cowboy eighteen wheeler. I was going through a cowboy trucker stage back home. Ruggedly handsome, but away from Nashville on a regular basis, he fitted into my life like a fresh breeze. I could have me a little cowboy and then say goodbye when his next long-haul was scheduled to leave. He could have been up since before four if he had a run planned today.

I walked away from the crowd towards the back of the shop, into the music area, which was in darkness and provided a little sound insulation from the noisy post performance re-hash going on out front. The first message was his usual. He missed me. He was on the road, he wanted to be in my arms instead. The second was a little different from all the rest he'd been leaving since I got back and had me rapidly breathing before he'd come to the end of what he had to say.

"Babe, I'm sick of not hearing from you. I'm worried. I've organised cover for my run, I'm on the next flight out." Then nothing more.

My casual trucking cowboy had decided to get real pretty darn fast. Who the darn hell follows their Nashville squeeze halfway round the world because she doesn't return your calls? I was so
certain he had other cowgirls in other towns along his run, but clearly I'd either been wrong, or I was more than just warm arms to fill the night when he came to rest in Nashville. Next flight out could mean he was already about to board. I quickly dialled his number, fully intent on talking him out of this crazy idea, but received the standard AT&T message: the party you are trying to call cannot be reached at this time. It didn't go to voice-mail. He was already on a flight and his phone was out of range.

I leaned back against a stack of old school vinyl LPs and frowned down at the ground. It was OK, I told myself. I could handle this. Derek was a good guy, he'd turn up, I'd let him down easy and then I'd send him packing back to Nashville and his own life, because it was becoming evident that Dad was hanging on like a barnacle on a ship. I wouldn't be getting back to Nashville any time soon and Derek, as nice a distraction as he had been, needed to move on. I could hardly expect the man to wait for me, when he'd barely even featured in my thoughts for the past three months and ceased to exist in my dreams since Nick Anscombe walked back in my life.

Wishing I could just phone Cary and talk it all through, but knowing he'd have his lazy ass tucked up in bed sound asleep at this hour in Nashville, I squared my shoulders and prepared to head back to the front of the shop. I turned away from the LPs, after offering them a quick scan and flip through to see if Gen held any Country in this section and came face to face with Nick. On his own, in the dark, blocking my escape.