Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) (4 page)

Jesse makes a face. “That’s so unhealthy. Come on.” He places the guitar back on the wall and gestures for me to follow him into the kitchen. It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen, but it’s cozy with wooden cabinets and cast-iron skillets hanging on the wall. An old-fashioned butter churn sits next to a woodstove.

“Jesus.” I stare up at the vaulted ceilings dotted with skylights. “You really live here by yourself?”

“Yeah…well, except for Grace and my cat. Casper doesn’t like strangers though, so you probably won’t see her.”

He
has
a
cat?

Jesse pulls the fridge open to reveal shelves chockfull of energy drinks and fruit and vegetables and milk. He takes out a carton of eggs, a pepper, and an onion and lays them on the marble counter. His fridge has more produce than the Quick Pick. Why would a health nut get drunk and fall off a yacht?

Grace hurries into the room, brandishing a pink feather duster. “Get out of my kitchen, young man!”

“It’s
my
kitchen,” Jesse fires back. “And your omelets are too salty.”

“Last time you cooked, you burned chicken. It took days to get the stench out of here.”

“I promise not to scorch the frying pan this time.”

Grace mutters something in Spanish and feather-dusts her way out of the room. And I thought Sam and Jordan living together was drama.

I walk over to the French doors to check out the backyard. “Your pool is shaped like a guitar?”

“Big-time, isn’t it?”

“I bet it would be fun to play Marco Polo in it. You swim?” I ask, thinking of the boating incident again.

“No. But I like guitars.” As he slices up the pepper, he asks, “So why’d you wanna shadow me today? I mean, you’re already a good singer and guitarist.”

“Yeah, I’m being showered with record deals,” I say sarcastically. “I can’t keep the producers away.”

He stops slicing and sets his knife down. “So you’re after a record deal? Is that it?” he asks quietly. The sadness on his face surprises me. “It’s always something,” he mutters. “If you think you’ll get a record deal from me, you’re wrong. So if that’s what you want, leave. Stop playing this ‘I don’t do solos’ game with me, trying to make me feel sorry for you or whatever.”

“Of course I want a record deal, but I want to earn it, not beg for it.”

“Hmph.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Well, you don’t know anything about me.”

Talk about being guarded. I could barely follow all of his accusations. If he’s this quick to judge, no wonder he doesn’t get many visitors.

He uses the counter to crack an egg open, and the yellow yolk falls into the frying pan with a neat little plop. Unlike last week at my brother’s house, it’s quiet and orderly as Jesse cooks breakfast, and that makes me a little sad.

In an awkward silence, Jesse prepares two omelets and scoops them onto plates. He passes one to me. I pick at mine while he shovels egg into his mouth like there’s no tomorrow, which softens me a bit: even though he’s a big star, he still eats like a regular boy.

I say, “I thought Mr. Logan was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

“He’s been busy trying to get me out of my contracts. He must’ve got held up. So you didn’t answer my question before. My uncle said you quit the school choir, so why’d you still wanna shadow me?”

Dr. Salter told Jesse I quit show choir?

The director spent weeks trying to change my mind, but I told her I couldn’t commit to after-school practices anymore, not when I had a band to practice with. But it shocks me the principal knows, let alone cares.

I don’t feel comfortable talking about my decisions with Jesse though, especially not the bad ones. Even if it wasn’t my kind of music, I miss putting on my ugly green bodice-ripper gown and singing with my choir. Giving it up for The Fringe wasn’t worth it.

“I wanted to shadow you because I was interested in learning from a professional,” I finally say.

He chews. “A professional, eh?”

“Yeah, I mean, I haven’t taken any lessons, except from my choir teachers. And there wasn’t much one-on-one instruction there, because I learned along with the whole class.”

“Really?” he asks, surprise in his voice. “Where’d you learn to play guitar?”

“My dad and uncle. It’s a hobby for them though, so they only taught me the basics. I taught myself the rest using online videos.”

“Wow,” Jesse says. “I can’t believe you haven’t had any formal training.”

I focus on his castle’s tiled floor. “I wanted to take lessons.”

“But?”

I decide to tell the truth—it’s not like I’ll ever see Jesse again after today. “We couldn’t afford them.”

I used my dad’s old acoustic Martin when I was growing up, and I wouldn’t even own an electric guitar if not for my brother. One of the first things Sam did after he graduated college when he got a job working for the Titans was buy me my own guitar for my birthday. That meant I didn’t have to use the crappy one in the music room at school or go sit at Middle C and play the floor samples until they kicked me out, which happened more frequently than Diddy changes his name.

“What do your parents do?” Jesse asks.

“Dad manages an auto repair shop, and Mom cleans down at Cedar Hill Farms, this big estate.” Being poor must sound so foreign to the boy who lives here, but his expression never changes. I give Jesse a small smile, and he nods back, and it’s a nice moment.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans against the counter, holding his plate up by his mouth. “So what do you want to do today then?”

“Mr. Logan gave us a schedule, right?”

“I’m not following a schedule on my day off.”

I pause. “So we’ll do whatever you do on your day off.”

“I usually play guitar and write.”

“We can do that,” I say eagerly.

“Nah—that’s not good enough. My uncle asked me to give you a good day, and I don’t want to upset him.” He grabs up the phone and punches a button. “It’s me. Meet me at the studio at ten thirty.” Jesse rolls his eyes and raps his spatula on the marble counter. “No, no, you don’t need to pick us up… I know we’re supposed to be following a schedule. Mark, she’s already seen the Opry—she doesn’t need a tour… I wanna do something else.” He pauses. “Can you call Holly and have her meet us there? Great.” He hangs up. “I’m gonna show you what real voice lessons are like.”

“That’s really nice of you,” I reply, not wanting to ruin his sudden about-face in attitude.

“Let me just get ready real quick.”

He starts to jog up the stairs, giving me this great view of his Celtic tattoo, but stops and turns to smirk.

“Wait. Did you want to shadow me while I shower?”

Jesse comes back down the rear staircase, spinning a beige cowboy hat on his finger and wearing a plain white T-shirt and ripped jeans. Patches of tan skin peek through the holes.

“Those red cowboy boots,” I say, shaking my head.

He looks down at them. “Most of the groupies think they’re sexy.”

Yes, they are.
“They’re not bad.”

I’m fixing to stand up from my seat at the kitchen table when a ball of white fur lands on my lap from out of nowhere.

“Oh, hello,” I murmur, petting the pretty white cat. “You must be Casper. Aren’t you beautiful?” I scratch her ears, and she stretches her neck so I can get under her chin too. “Good girl,” I whisper.

When I look up from petting the cat, Jesse is staring at me with his mouth slightly opened. He shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts, then asks, “Ready to go?”

I nod. He gently picks up the cat from my lap, kisses her head before setting her on the floor, and leads me out to the garage.

The garage totally baffles me. It has six spaces, but only two are filled. I stare at a truck—a rusted ancient white Dodge, probably from the seventies—and a motorcycle, a black Harley-Davidson with orange flames licking its sides. He truly is a country boy.

“Where’re the rest of your cars?”

“This is it,” he replies, jingling his keys. “We taking the truck or the bike?”

Even though I’m wearing my black dress, I say, “The Harley, obviously!” Humming, I drag my hand across the leather seat, squatting down to check out the rear fender. “Love the dual exhaust.”

“You like bikes?”

“Oh yeah. My Poppy—my grandfather—has an Indian.”

“Big-time,” Jesse says. “I’d love to see it. You ride it a lot?”

“He lets me take it out every time Halley’s Comet flies by.”

“So never?”

I stand up, dusting off my hands. “Last spring, I bought a ’95 Suzuki 750 down at the junkyard for fifty dollars. Some guys at the shop helped me fix it up. That’s what I ride.”

“
You
fixed it up?”

I lean over to check out his transmission. Six-speed. “Well, I needed help, but I did a lot of it myself. A few years ago, my dad started running Caldwell Auto Parts in Franklin, and I work there as a receptionist part time. Sometimes I get to do oil changes, which is a lot more exciting than running a cash register.”

“You like cars?”

“
Love
them. But not as much as guitars and bikes.”

I tell Jesse about how when I was little, I’d hang out with Dad and Sam while they were tinkering around under the hood. Even before he quit his job driving a semi and started working at Caldwell’s so he could spend more time with our family, Dad always loved fixing junk cars and bikes in his spare time and turning them for a profit. At first, I was interested in cars and bikes because it was a way to hang out with my dad when he wasn’t on the road, but over time, I really started loving them. In a way, engines, carburetors, and transmissions are like individual guitar strings: each plays a part in creating a beautiful sound.

“So you’re close with your family?” Jesse asks.

“Yeah. I mean, they drive me nuts, and we have nothing in common, but I love them.”

Jesse goes silent for a long moment, seeming to forget where he is, then grabs two helmets from a workbench.

“You okay?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. He just takes his cowboy hat off and passes it to me. “You gotta hold my lucky hat while we ride.”

Next thing I know, I’m wrapping my arms around his waist and locking my hips into his. I hold on to his hat, praying it doesn’t blow away. Jesse fires up the Harley and steers it out of his garage and past the gates, immediately kicking it into high gear—probably because the paparazzi are already following us. Are they taking my picture?!

I close my eyes, and the wind whips around my body, freeing all the bad thoughts about the past week. It’s a little weird having my arms and legs wrapped around this sexy guy who gets on my nerves. While wearing a short skirt. While on my way to a music studio, a place I’ve only dreamed of visiting.
Holy
shit!
I, Maya Henry, am going to a music studio! Jesse speeds up to fifty miles an hour, and I feel like I’m taking off in a plane.

After about twenty minutes, we pull into a reserved parking spot on Music Row.

“Omni Studios!” I exclaim as Jesse yanks off his helmet.

He takes his cowboy hat from my hand and helps me climb off the motorcycle. We store our helmets in the Harley’s saddlebags.

This is amazing. I pretend I’m heading inside to record my own album. I strut my stuff as we pass guitar statues and go through a security booth. Security guards wand the people patiently waiting in line, but Jesse waves at a guy and pulls me right on through.

Inside, people mill about the hallway. When Jesse appears, they scatter like ants at a picnic. He pays no attention, striding into a studio labeled with his name.

“You have your own studio?”

“I don’t share.”

Go figure.

Drums, a piano, and, like, a bazillion guitars and basses fill the brightly lit studio. I can’t believe I’m here! My eyes dart from the speakers to the mikes to the control room and its mixing equipment. The “On Air” sign is off. Wouldn’t it be amazing to watch it turn red and then dive into a session? I take a seat at the grand piano and drag my fingers across the keys.

“You play?” Jesse asks.

“Nah. But I’ve always wanted to learn.” In the past at band practice, Hannah taught me a few easy songs on the keyboard. I slowly play a few low notes.

She texted me a few times this week, asking to talk, saying she had no idea the guys wanted to replace me, but I haven’t felt like talking to her. Loyalty means a lot to me, and she just stood there and said nothing while the guys kicked me out of The Fringe.

Jesse squeezes in next to me on the bench, takes his cowboy hat off, and sets it on the piano. He cracks his knuckles, then stretches his fingers. “You know ‘Heart and Soul,’ right?”

“Nope.”

He flashes a look at me. “Where did you grow up? Antarctica?”

“Actually, Franklin.”

“Like I said, Antarctica.”

I elbow him in the ribs. “It’s not that bad.”

“I know…I wish I still lived in the country. My parents live an hour away down in Hillsboro, but I need to live closer to my studio and the airport.”

“You’ve got the money to build your own studio and the Jesse Scott International Airport out in the country, right?” I tease, and he gives me a look that says he doesn’t know what to do with me.

He takes my right hand in his and guides my fingers to the keys. That’s when I notice the blue ink stains on his hands. The ink is so ingrained that it looks as if soap doesn’t do the trick anymore. He must spend a ton of time writing lyrics.

“You’re gonna do the easy part—the upper register.” He shows me which notes to play, then makes me practice it a few times. “I’m gonna play the lower register now. Keep the beat, okay?” His fingers effortlessly drum the keys. “Start…now!”

I join in, and the music seems to relax both of us. Jesse starts telling me that along with Garth Brooks, Tim McGraw, and Keith Urban, he’s big into Neil Diamond, James Taylor, and Simon and Garfunkel—all the boys from way back. I confess that while I love badass girl musicians like Fiona Apple, most of the music on my iPhone is from the eighties. Prince, Madonna, Pat Benatar. My mom got me hooked on Queen.

“I love them so much I named my Twitter account QueenQueen,” I tell Jesse.

He smirks. “A Tennessee girl who dresses like Madonna and sings Freddie Mercury.”

Our musical tastes are very different, which makes me nervous, considering Nate never liked anything but metal, and I don’t want to spend my entire day with Jesse listening to country. I want to listen to the music I like. So it’s great that we discover a mutual love of Bon Jovi; he starts playing “Living on a Prayer” for us to sing along to, and I can hardly believe I’m practically doing karaoke with the king of country music. My voice stays steady through the song, just like when I sing backup.

“Your voice didn’t crack that time,” Jesse says. “That’s good.”

“I can relax more when I’m not the only one singing.”

We play until a gorgeous blond woman wearing this long, flowing bohemian dress sails into the studio. She lifts her sunglasses and squints at us.

“Jesse?” she asks. “Who’s this?”

Jesse and I stand. “Holly, meet Maya. Maya, meet Holly. She’s been my voice coach for forever.”

The woman beams as we shake hands. “Jesse’s never brought a guest to one of our sessions before.”

“She’s not a guest. Maya’s job shadowing me today.”

“Ah. That’s nice of you.” Holly looks confused.

“Maya’s a pretty good singer. No training.”

Right then, Mr. Logan strolls in wearing a fancy navy suit, blue tie, and shoes so shiny they temporarily blind me. Two young women in crisp black suits carrying portfolios, iPads, and cell phones rush in behind him. Whoever they are, they need more hands.

“I told you, no press,” Jesse says to the ladies. “It’s my day off.”

“At least let us put out a statement that you’re mentoring a fan today,” one woman says.

Jesse shakes his head. “This is a private favor for my uncle, not a stunt.”

The other lady says, “We’ll frame it that you’re visiting important Nashville landmarks with a talented fan—”

Jesse responds by shooing the two ladies out of the studio, shutting the door with a click behind them. It’s like watching a circus.

“Jess, I told you I was coming to pick you up,” the manager scolds.

“We got sick of waiting on you.”

“Did you really drive Maya here on your motorcycle? Your uncle is going to kill me.”

“Maybe you should’ve been on time then.”

I’d be flipping out at Jesse, but Mr. Logan stays cool and calm, adjusting his watch before shaking my hand. “Nice to see you again, Maya.”

“You too, sir.”

Jesse snorts. “Sir,” he mutters, and Mr. Logan gives Jesse a noogie, then pats his back.

“You know you’re not supposed to leave home alone without your security,” Mr. Logan says.

“I didn’t need it. Maya provided security.”

“Is Jesse already driving you crazy?” Mr. Logan asks me.

“He’s not too bad,” I say.

“Hear that?” Jesse gives Mr. Logan and Holly a look. “I’m not too bad.”

“Finally some good press,” Mr. Logan says with a laugh, and Jesse scowls. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. Just wanted to see how things are going.”

“It’s been, like, twenty minutes, Mark.” Jesse begins to play the Charlie Brown theme song on piano. It’s really cute.

“I’m going to make some calls,” Mr. Logan says. He gives me another smile and goes to sit in the isolation booth where Jesse must do his singing. Through the glass, I watch Mr. Logan put a cell phone to his ear and pull a little book out of his jacket pocket.

Holly sits on a stool and arranges her billowing skirt around her legs. “So, Maya, sing something for me.”

She’s the voice coach to the biggest country singer there is. What if she thinks I’m terrible? “Um, I don’t do solos.”

The Charlie Brown music abruptly stops. “That’s getting old real quick,” Jesse growls. “You’ve got a world-class voice coach standing in front of you on my dime. So sing. Or I’m leaving, and you can tell my uncle why you didn’t complete shadow day.”

Crickets.

Holly says, “Okaayy.”

“Fine. I’ll sing,” I tell Holly. “Thank you for the opportunity.” I take a deep breath and try to relax as I belt out the first few lines of “Carolina in My Mind.”

Like Jesse, her face gives away nothing. She taps her lips with two fingers as I sing and nods when I’m finished. “No one’s ever taught you how to sing from your diaphragm?”

“Huh?”

She clucks her tongue. “Schools these days…”

Jesse stands up from the bench. “Sing like you normally would.”

I sing a line from the song, and then he puts his hand on my stomach.

“What the?” I smack his fingers away.

Holly chuckles. “It’s okay, Maya.”

Avoiding my eyes, Jesse moves close to me again and lays his palm on my stomach, his long fingers splayed across the red lace and black leather of my corset. Wow, that feels intense.

“This time when you sing the measure,” Jesse says, “try to push my hand off your stomach using only your breathing.”

“While I’m singing?”

“Yup. You’re going to sing from your stomach instead of your throat. It’ll make the sound fuller.”

I take a deep breath, and he waves a hand again. “No, no. Fill your stomach with air, not your chest.”

I glance at Holly, who is staring at Jesse like she’s seen a ghost. Inside the booth, Mr. Logan stands up, looks from me to Jesse, and pockets his cell phone. He rushes back out into the main room.

I inhale again, filling my stomach with air, and Jesse says, “That’s it. Now start singing.”

I rattle off another measure, trying to push Jesse’s hand away from my stomach. It takes a lot more effort than usual, and I can’t hear anything different in my voice, but whatever. He’s the expert.

“Better,” he says, one side of his mouth upturned.

Mr. Logan paces back and forth across the studio, staring at Jesse. He doesn’t seem all that interested in me or my voice, just his star client. Is he as surprised as I am that Jesse is being kind to me?

Then Holly pulls out the big guns and the real work starts. For the next hour, she has me sing scales and melodies that are way out of my comfort zone. My voice cracks a couple of times, making Jesse wince again like when I screwed up on guitar. Harsh critic.

Holly hands over various sheet music for me to try, and Jesse makes me sing along with a guitar and then the piano and then a cappella. An hour later, my stomach is killing me. Holly is very clear I will not be singing from my throat anymore—I have to sing from my diaphragm—but it’s tough to get used to. I take a break to sip some warm water.

“Maya sounds edgy,” Jesse says.

Holly adds, “I love her raspy tone. She’s got soul. You can’t learn that.”