“Dallas!” I call out, interrupting him suddenly. “I get the picture. Either move on or we’re not going to finish this conversation.”
He laughs low in my ear when I wiggle my backside against him.
“I don’t know. It’s just, I didn’t realize that I’d have to cut myself in half, be the two different guys. But that’s the price, apparently. I lose my last name but I get to live my dream every night. I don’t know if it’s an even exchange either way.”
My fingers aren’t tracing arbitrary circles anymore. They’re following the intricate lines of the tattoo that covers his inner forearm. The one that says “Lark” in script.
“Promise me something,” I say so low I don’t know if he can hear me. “Promise me no matter what, you’ll never lose that guy, the one you really are.”
His arms tighten around me like a reverse hug and I’m not sure which one of us needs it more.
“I’ll try not to.”
25 | Dallas
NOT GOING TO MAKE YOUR SHOW THIS WEEKEND. HAVE TO WORK. Couldn’t get anyone to trade shifts. Sorry, man.
Gavin’s text reads like a load of bullshit.
I heavily suspect the coward is avoiding my sister, but I’ve vowed to let her be a big girl and not interfere with her personal life so I text him back that I understand and that I hope he can drop by the after party.
After five straight weeks on the road, we’re playing in Dallas and it feels kind of good to be home or close to home at least. It’s nice to see familiar landmarks and highways anyway.
Today I’m doing radio interviews in Dallas. I text Dixie while I wait in the lobby of KGBX, reminding her that her and Robyn’s mom’s tickets will be at will-call and that the backstage passes will be with them.
“Dallas Walker,” a rail-thin slip of a woman in a pencil skirt calls out. “They’re ready for you. Come with me.”
I stand and follow her down a dim hallway to the recording studio. The publicist Mandy put me in touch with pulled some strings to get me on the nationally syndicated Ricky Ray show while I was in town. It’s a huge opportunity, but I’m nervous because I have no idea what he’s going to ask. Ricky is known for asking the tough questions and I’ve been strictly instructed not to answer any involving Jase Wade or his personal life.
My palms are slick so I wipe them on my jeans before shaking the hands of the folks who greet me when the receptionist opens the door.
“Dallas Walker, nice to meet you,” a smiling brunette with headphones on tells me. “Just have a seat right there.” She gestures to an empty seat on the edge of the L-shaped table. “Be sure you speak clearly into the mic.”
“Got it.”
“He can manage, Kim. That’s what he does for a living,” the man on the other side of the table says. “That’s Kim Le. I’m Ricky Ray.”
I nod at Kim and then reach across a switchboard and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you both. Thank you for having me today.”
“Thanks for joining us. We’ll just chat. Forget the listeners. Let’s just shoot the bull like old friends. Sound good?”
“Yes, sir.”
“First rule of shooting the bull, no ‘sirs.’ ”
I nod, feeling like a complete jackass. “Got it.”
A tall blond woman with angular features steps into the small room. “We’re on in five, Ricky,” she tells him.
“Let’s do this,” he says, putting in earbuds like the ones I was given.
I press mine into my ears and they fill with the sound of someone counting down. “On in five” apparently means five seconds in radio time.
“We’re back with Ricky Ray, Kim Le, and up-and-coming country music sensation Dallas Walker,” Ricky says in a completely different voice than the one he used to greet me. “Thanks for joining us, Dallas.”
The chorus of “Better to Burn” plays briefly.
“Thanks for having me,” I say into the silver microphone attached to a long metal arm in front of me.
“So you’re from here in town I hear.”