“‘Painted Walls,’” he said immediately.
“Wow. That’s an oldie. I love that you guys want to hear songs I wrote,” she said. She’d written the song while dating an artist moonlighting as a tagger, one of the graffiti artists Conn probably arrested. The waiter she’d pegged as one of those shy types, because he’d never worked up the courage to approach her. “On slow days, I’d sing for you. It helps sometimes, makes you less nervous to imagine you’re singing to just one person. Even after I started playing bigger shows in indoor venues, like clubs. That was a big step up for me, singing indoors. Thanks, my friend,” she said when the laughter died down. The former waiter had flushed with delight. Then she sang it for him.
After that she changed up to her more recent songs, the ones written by committee, slowing a tempo, trying a different key, trying to make them her own. In between songs she mentioned success stories for the East Side Community Center Eve’s father ran, reminding people that the cover charge and anything else they cared to contribute went entirely to the ESCC.
“Any chance of something new?” Eve called as the set drew to a close.
“Ah,” she said. “That I cannot do. I’m working on some new material, but it’s not ready yet.”
She finished with a Lancaster favorite, one that described a girl’s reaction to her first night cruising the strip, the streetlights, the fast cars, the boys racing each other off the red lights. The end of the show devolved into the usual blur, applause, thank-yous, calls for an encore, which she provided, though not a second one, then a crush of people at the edge of the low stage, clamoring for pictures or autographs or to tell her a story. Conn stepped forward and stuck two fingers between his teeth. The sharp whistle, and his gun, badge, and shoulders, cut off all conversation.
Firmly in control of the situation, he held up a hand and leaned close. “How long do you want to stay?” he murmured in her ear.
A shiver of delight raced across her nape. “Until they’re done,” she said simply.
“Form a line against the wall,” he said, and gestured for Eve. She trotted over, then nodded her head and gestured for Natalie to open the gate to the sidewalk, ensuring that Cady would sign for the people who came to see her, not the crowd now forming for Eye Candy’s usual Friday night. It took over an hour, but she chatted with everyone who wanted face time. She put her guitar away, wrapped her scarf around her throat.
Eve walked out the back door, crossing the brick-paved patio and rattling the big jar crammed full of cash, checks, and change. “Cady, Dad’s going to be so thrilled. Thank you so much!”
“My pleasure,” Cady said.
Eve’s forehead wrinkled. “The sound system could use some work. You sounded amazing, as always. You had a richer, deeper tone,” she said. “I like it. Also, your sister left a message with Cesar. She’ll meet you at your house. She tried to get into the bar, but we’ve got a no-exceptions policy for minors. She left. I think she’s kind of upset.”
“I forgot about her,” Cady said. “She’s spending the night tonight. Thanks for everything, Eve. I’ll call you later.”
“Why are you thanking me?” Eve said from the stage.
“This way,” Conn said. He held open the gate leading to the sidewalk. Across the street, lights illuminated Mobile Media’s construction site. The sidewalk hugged Eye Candy’s back wall, ending where the parking lot began. He clicked open the locks on the car, parked close to the building’s corner, and hustled her inside. Feeling like an idiot, she pulled her hood up over her hair and let Conn pull into traffic without incident.
Once inside the Audi she sank into the post-concert lassitude. The only way she felt whole was in the act of singing. A long time ago, when she first started writing her own material and before other people started “helping,” her songs told the truth of how she saw the world. The material she’d just spent eight months singing and promoting felt hard and flat, like a granite countertop, impenetrable and flecked with fool’s gold. Pretty, but giving nothing back.
Was she writing music a generation would remember? Would they look back at important times in their lives and connect with a song they heard on the oldies station? She wanted to write the songs that snuck into their mental chatter, not an earworm but songs that changed them, that gave them something every time they heard it, not just nostalgia.