“Hey,” Dallas begins, sounding like he has one more urgent detail to share. “My sister is going to be pissed at first, but you know her. She loves you and when she loves someone, that’s that. She’ll come around eventually.”
I huff my disbelief into the phone because he has no idea. Dallas knows mostly everything but not every single detail, not the details that will crush my sweet Bluebird if I don’t explain them first. I wish I had some actual dirt on McKinley, but for now all I can do is hope and pray he continues keeping what he knows to himself.
After we disconnect our call I take my place behind the bar. Cal heads my way as soon as he sees me and I brace myself for the ass-chewing.
Instead he slams a stack of bright yellow flyers with black block print on them in front of me.
“Hang these up on your break. Matter of fact, plan to work right through all your breaks for the rest of the week.”
“Got it.”
I fill a few orders before I even look at what’s on the flyers. But when I do, I almost drop the shot glass I’m towel-drying.
Dixie Lark is playing the Tavern this weekend. Like, playing playing. As in solo, as in all by herself. The flyer has a black-and-white photo of her with her head down and Oz on her shoulder. She looks beautiful—angelic. My inner demons roar to life.
They want to dirty her up, fuck her deep and hard without giving a single thought to telling her the truth or protecting her from the darkness within me.
Among the hissed whispers and dark desires, a sliver of hope, like a light slicing into a dark room through a door left ajar, carves a path inside my chest.
Maybe she is ready. Maybe she misses performing and the band really will get a second chance.
Maybe I will, too.
11 | Dixie
“NO YOU DID not do this.” I gape at the yellow flyer in my hands. “Are you outside of your mind? This is insane. I can’t do this!”
Leandra shakes off my massive freak-out. “You already did, babe. Remember? I was there. I saw how amazing you were. The entire place was captivated.”
I shake my head, wishing I could crumple the paper into a ball and make it disappear. “Lee, I know you mean well. But I can’t . . . seriously. I just . . . I don’t perform solo ever and—”
“You do, Dixie. And you told me yourself you miss it. Anyone who looks at you can see how badly you need to play.” I didn’t realize she was paying such close attention. “You do so much for us. Let us do something for you. Everyone is coming. We’re going to be your cheering section.”
“You doing something nice for me somehow turns into me having to perform alone in front of a live audience. You could’ve just bought me a box of chocolates or a cookie bouquet.”
She laughs as if I’m kidding. “Girl, you are the most talented thing in Amarillo. You have a true gift—the kind most people would give their eyeteeth for. And here you are, holed up and giving free lessons to kids because you love to play. You need to play.”
“I love these kids.”
“You love everyone, Dixie, and I love you for that. But sweetheart, you’re young, you’re free, and you should be out there. Go on a date. Play a show. Have some drinks. Dance with a stranger. Kiss someone full on the mouth just because you can.”
I give her a pouty frown. “You’re not that much older than me.”
“Yes, but I’m a mom. It adds like five years to my actual age. Trust me.”
I laugh and nudge her hard enough to nearly knock her skinny butt off the piano bench. “You’re gorgeous. You could have any guy you wanted.”
I regret my words immediately.