I play the fiddle in Leaving Amarillo and I’m good at it. Our opening act usually consists of me playing “Devil Went Down to Georgia” all by my lonesome to get the crowd’s attention. Most of the time it works. Unfortunately, by the time we realized Leaving Amarillo might be more than just a hobby, I’d already accepted a scholarship to the most prestigious music school in Texas.
Last year I spent a semester and a half at Shepherd School of Music in Houston becoming a classically trained violinist headed straight for an orchestra pit. When our grandfather had a mild heart attack just before spring break, I was able to put my scholarship on hold and came home to help with his care. Once he’d made a close to full recovery, Dallas and Gavin let me join back up with Leaving Amarillo for a few shows. And then a few more. Now that we’ve gained some momentum, I’m hoping I’ll never have to go back to wearing all black and being herded in and out of an orchestra pit again. But if a manager with legitimate connections doesn’t sign us by the end of the summer, it’s back to college for me in the fall.
Despite the many times I’ve told my brother that being in an orchestra pit makes it impossible for me to breathe, Dallas has made it clear that he won’t allow me to throw away my scholarship in order to live cooped up in a van with him and Gavin while working for scraps. Other than music, a girl like me doesn’t have too many more attractive career options. If I drop out of school and the band doesn’t make it, I’ll likely end up spending my days asking folks if they want pie with their coffee.
Looking out over downtown Amarillo and watching gray clouds roll quickly across the sky, I feel the weight of time passing, slipping through my fingers faster than I can hold on to it.
Tossing up a silent prayer to our parents or to anyone who’s listening, I beg for a chance. For a break. For a shot at making it.
Please, please let us get to live our dream.
Chapter 2
“BIRDS GOT ANYTHING GOOD TO SAY TODAY?”
Gavin’s voice pulls me from my deep contemplative moment on the roof. “Lots of gossip. Think I’m going to use it for lyrics to a somebody-done-me-wrong song.” I turn and face him, leaning up against the retaining ledge.
He glances over the ledge quickly and winces before propping his elbows on it. He’s always been slightly afraid of heights. But Gavin Garrison has never been the type to let fear stop him from staring the devil straight in the face.
“Yeah? Well, let me know when you’re ready to lay them down.”
My eyes travel up his heavily inked arms to his expansive chest. I let them drift up to his masculine neck and around the outline of his strong jaw. Dark tendrils of thick hair curl outward beneath the edges of the gray knit cap he’s wearing. He has an almost imperceptible dimple in his chin that matches the shallow one in his left cheek when he grins. Lord the things that happen to my body when he grins and that dimple shows. My pulse quickens just thinking about it.
“Um, lay what down?” My mind scrambles to snag a coherent thought. Unfortunately they all scattered upon Gavin’s arrival on the roof.
When we’re playing, it’s electric. It flows perfectly and we complement each other in every way possible. But take away the music and the noise and my brick-wall barrier of a brother, and I am a mess of epic proportions.
“The lyrics,” he says slowly, side-eyeing me warily.
“Oh, right. Yeah, I’ll keep you posted.”
He sighs loudly from beside me. “Look, I know you’re upset about breaking it off with what’s-his-ass, but trust me, guys like that—”
“I’m not upset about that. About Jaggerd.”
The second the words leave my mouth, though, Gavin’s dark eyebrows dip lower, and I kind of wish I’d gone with his incorrect assumption. It’d be a lot easier to explain.
“Oh. Well, that’s good. You just seemed kind of distracted in there. And your brother was more on edge than usual.”