“Sorry, Boseman,” Jefferson apologizes with an easy, loping smile. “She’s not much of a drinker, so when she does let loose, she turns into a giant sap. The first time we drank together, she basically adopted me. No getting away now.”
Huck laughs low, settling into the back of the booth, his shoulder brushing mine and sending a frisson of awareness along my skin. My heart gives a throb in my chest and I take a sip from my glass, the ice clinking clumsily against my lips. His eyes dart toward me and away before he turns to Coolidge, who is waving a server over.
Jason starts showing them something on his phone and Huck takes the opportunity to lean close and whisper in my ear. I ignore the way his breath electrifies my skin. “Is it okay that I’m here?”
“Yes!” I blurt before softening my voice to match his. “Annie invited me,” I explain unnecessarily.
His eyes flash with humor before zeroing in on my mouth, and he’s so close I can practically taste his toothpaste on my tongue, and I can’t really breathe. I feel like I might pass out. Or spontaneously orgasm. Or both.
It’s been like this all week. Well, once I got over feeling like death. Even then, it’s hard to ignore a guy who runs you regular hot baths. For me anyway. Huck appears unfairly unaffected.
“Another round for the table!” Kacey suggests, interrupting our staring contest.
We get our drinks, and everyone is talking over one another, laughing and teasing, and it’s clear these two bands and Trina are close. I try not to think about how much fucking talent is sitting around this table right now and how much attention we have to be attracting by default.
“‘Independence Day,’ Martina McBride,” Huck says, raising his brow in a familiar challenge, and I grin, taking a steadying breath and feeling the world around us right itself ever so slightly.
“‘The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia,’” I counter.
“What’s this?” Coolidge asks.
“It’s an ongoing game Lore and I have played for what? A decade?”
“Roughly, sure. One of us will name a song and the other has to name a better song until we agree on the best one of the bunch. It’s kind of an honor system, really. I mean. You can’t just be like, ‘Achy Breaky Heart,’ when everyone knows that’s a terrible song. Anyway, stop stalling, Huckleberry.”
“How about we make it interesting?” He smirks.
“Ooh! A bet!” Annie cries out gleefully.
“Like what?” I ask, bemused. We’ve never done a wager before.
“If you win, I have to get up there and sing.”
“Done,” I say, without hesitation.
“And if I win, you have to.”
I hesitate for a beat, only because I don’t know if I am up to hearing the inevitable boos tonight, but I’m positive I’ll win.
“Fine. Stop stalling and give me your next song.”
“‘Fancy,’ Reba.”
A chorus of Oooooooohs breaks out around the table. For good reason. “Fancy.” Fuck.
I scramble my brain for something similar. “‘Ol’ Red,’ Blake Shelton.”
“‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia.’”
My jaw drops, because like the devil, I know that I’ve been beat. Huck knows it, too, from the glint in his eye. He remembers I was raised on Charlie Daniels and I’ve forgotten. Alas, I’m honor bound to cave.
“That was sneaky, Boseman.”
He folds his arms over Tom Petty, inordinately pleased with himself. “All’s fair, Jones. What’re you gonna sing?”
“A cappella?” My stomach flutters with nerves. I mean, I can do it but …
“With a full band,” Annie pipes up. “Or at least a fiddle player and a backup singer.”
“I know just the song. I’ve been practicing the strings in ‘Toxic,’” Kacey says, getting to her feet. “How are you with Britney Spears?”
I’m so touched I could cry. I mean, obviously won’t, but my smile is full-blown. I don’t know what I did to deserve the loyalty of these insanely talented people, but I’m not gonna question it tonight.
“I fucking love Britney. Let’s do it.”
27
LORELAI
FOLLOW YOUR ARROW
Minutes later, we’re situated on the small stage and Jefferson is introducing us. “Esteemed patrons! We’re gonna have a special treat tonight because these three exceptionally fine ladies who shall remain nameless, but I’m betting you’ll recognize, have, well, not prepared per se, but are gonna perform a little ditty for us anyway. So put your hands together for…”
Annie stage-whispers from behind me, “Neil Young’s Bitches!”
“NEIL YOUNG’S BITCHES.”
With that, Jefferson jumps off the stage to join the rest of the guys and Trina at the table and I remove the mic from the stand, thanking the good lord I drank that third gin and tonic.
One gin to remember, two to forget, three to sing Britney like your heart depends on it.
Kacey drags her bow across the strings with a powerful motion, somehow pulling out the very familiar melody. I let her go a few counts. Long enough that the rowdy crowd starts clapping and stomping along with me and Annie, giving us a nice little backbeat to work off of.
I lift the mic and strike a sensual pose before allowing my mouth to fall open, and then I sing the first line to uproarious applause. By the time we’ve made it to the familiar chorus, Annie and I are both center stage swerving our hips and channeling our inner pop stars. If pop stars had souls made out of three chords and the truth twisted with twine. Really the star of the show is Kacey and her biceps.
I’ve nearly made it to the end, the final repetitious chorus, and the adrenaline is starting to wear off a little, but that’s when all my earthly focus narrows to a single point. One man and a wolf whistle piercing the air. He sustains me.
The entire bar is on their feet when we strike our final pose and take our bows before dragging Kacey to the forefront and clapping. She jumps off the stage onto Fitz’s back and we make it to our table amidst the glow of smartphones and cheers.
Even still …
I try to hold on to the fizzy, happy feelings of being onstage and performing to a rambunctious crowd, but it’s tricky. Like trying to hold on to bubbles: the ones that don’t burst immediately float away until you can’t follow them any longer and you’re left empty-handed with soapy fingers.
Even after I was canceled from country music, I never actually believed that was it for me. That I was done. In my heart, I knew I had more to give and I’d be back, and things would eventually right themselves once more.
But hope is hard to come by these days and … I don’t know. Maybe that was it for me. Maybe Craig was right when he said what happened to me paved the way for today’s young artists. But that doesn’t mean I get to make a return. It just means I was a cog in the collective efforts. A valuable piece, even, but the patent’s expired and I have a classroom waiting for me in Michigan.
“Uh-oh. What are you thinking?” He’s looking at me, his blue eyes narrowed, and it’s as though everyone else fades away.
I sigh and my voice is soft, but I know he hears me. “What if this is it, Huckleberry? What if this is all I get?”