Made in Nashville: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance (6 page)

‘How’s my little darlin’?’

She should have known Larry wouldn’t let her make her own way to the studios. Mia too had already called to remind her. No one trusted her to keep an arrangement. Or maybe they all knew how terrified she was. She
was
terrified, there was no point denying it, even to herself. She had changed four times and ended up back in the first shirt she’d picked out. It was plaid. She hadn’t worn it in years. It was everything she’d been and everything she wasn’t now. She brushed her hand down the front of it hoping to feel inspired. She smiled at Larry and let him in.

She led the way to the kitchen, grabbing up the flask of coffee she’d been drinking from. It tasted terrible but was giving her the caffeine buzz she needed.

‘A big day today, honey,’ Larry said, laying his hat on the island.

‘Oh, Larry, please stop with the loaded phrases and the over-the-top sentiment. I’m going to go to the studios. I said I would and I am and I don’t really need an escort,’ Honor responded. The coffee needed more sugar. She was sounding as bitter as it tasted.

‘I know that. I’m just coming with you for moral support that’s all,’ Larry said.

She took another large mouthful of coffee and almost gagged. She’d had far too much.

‘Everyone’s making more of this than there is. I know it’s been a long time but I do remember what a studio session’s like.’

‘Of course you do, darlin’, of course you do. I just…’ Larry stopped, as if unsure whether to continue.

‘What?’ She looked at him straight.

‘Heard you met Dan Steele on Friday night.’

Her shoulders hunched at the mention of him. She hid her expression against the flask. She knew Larry had caught the body language but she didn’t want him to see it in her eyes. Dan being in town had been a shock. She’d never considered their paths crossing in the future, although perhaps it had been naïve not to think about it. He was a country musician. His dream had been her dream. She remembered how badly he’d wanted the record deal, the fame and everything that went with it. He’d talked about it often enough. He’d tried to ride her career to get his own. No, that was harsh. She shook her head.

‘You OK?’ Larry asked.

‘You might have mentioned he was here in Nashville. You could have told me he had a stage name,’ she responded.

‘I didn’t know, honey, not ‘til I saw him. He’s in the Herald this morning. Been chosen as the indie act to open the Marlon Festival,’ Larry informed.

‘I thought you had your finger on the musical pulse.’

‘He’s an unsigned artist. That’s the talent scout’s concern not mine.’

He was right. It wasn’t his job to inform her if her ex-boyfriend was back in town.

‘Sorry,’ she offered.

‘Heard Jed Marshall almost ended up in a fight with him,’ Larry continued.

She tried not to react, put her mouth to the flask. So the town grapevine was working well. She wondered if Larry knew Jared had taken her home. If he did he was sure to have an opinion on it.

‘Loose cannon, Jed Marshall. Trouble follows him around.’

Honor gave him the biggest smile she could muster and replaced the flask on the counter.

‘So, are you ready darlin’?’ he asked.

‘Can we go the long way?’

The thought of a studio session had never fazed him before but today he was something like nervous. Friday night had been weird. Dan Steele turning up. Honor asking him to take her home. He knew she was fragile, that there was nothing in it. She was still getting used to the idea of going back to music. But he’d seen the expression on her face when she’d heard what he’d done to her song. She’d come alive in that moment. She’d shown herself to him. She was country. It ran through her veins, just like it did through his. She just needed some time and some support. Maybe it wasn’t his business to give it, but he was making it that way. Because of the tour. Because she was good. That was all. But, like it or not, he couldn’t deny when he heard her sing something inside him folded.

He picked a khaki shirt from the wardrobe and slipped it on, leaving it unbuttoned over his black vest top. He grabbed a cap from the dresser and put it on his head. He checked his watch, then snatched up the remote for the TV.

‘…and did you ever think this would happen?’ It was the blonde presenter of the morning show, her microphone stuck out for someone to comment into.

‘When you have a dream that’s so special to you…when you feel it in your heart and soul …  you’re never going to give up on it.’

He felt his blood start to heat up as the interviewee came on camera. It was Dan fucking Steele on his TV. That asshole was on morning primetime! What the fuck was going on? He turned the volume up and paid attention.

‘So I guess opening the Marlon Festival is a dream come true but what you’d really love is a recording contract. Am I right?’

‘Sure, that’s the ultimate goal. I’ve been working the bars, getting some great feedback. I’ve also got a couple meetings lined up with some labels so we’ll see what happens. It’s all very exciting.’

Jared gritted his teeth. That stinking ass was going to end up being signed soon and then he’d be forced to interact with him professionally. In this industry there was little rivalry. He was good buddies with most of the top stars, but Dan Steele…he wasn’t sure he could put his feelings aside.

His cell phone started to ring. Buzz.

‘Hey, you’ve reached Jed Marshall. Leave a message after the beep,’ he spoke into the handset.

‘I know that’s you, Jed. So, tell me, are you ready to sign on with Raintown?’

‘I’ve got five days left. Listen, I’m gonna be pretty tied up today. Can you do somethin’ for me?’ He listened to Buzz’s aggravated breath before continuing. ‘Can you call Gear? I want you to make it clear to them that if they even think of signin’ Dan Steele…if they even think about thinkin’ about signin’ him…I’m out.’

‘You heard he’s opening the Marlon,’ Buzz stated.

‘I don’t care if he’s openin’ for Obama. There’s no way he’s gettin’ on my label. Make it clear, Buzz.’

He ended the call and punched the off button on the TV.

‘So, this is Milo, he’s your new lead guitarist and Greg and Johnny you already know.’

She was smiling so much her cheeks were hurting. Russell Johns from Black Monkey was doing the introductions and his violet-colored shirt was bringing on nausea. Greg and Johnny had been with her ten years ago. Neither of them looked changed at all. Greg’s beard still needed attention and she was sure Johnny was in the same pair of jeans he’d worn that last night on stage. She shook her head, trying to make the memory dissipate. She looked to Larry who was sat on the couch at the back of the room. He stood up and was at her side within seconds.

‘Are you OK darlin’?’ he spoke softly.

She was being ridiculous. Why was this such a big deal? Nothing bad had happened at the studios. This was how her life had been all the time before. She’d loved it. It had been all she’d wanted. It had been her everything. She’d spent days in the studio before, pulled all-nighters to get things right.

‘Could I get a glass of water?’ she asked. She cleared her throat.

Everyone was staring at her. Greg, Johnny, Milo the new guitarist, Larry and Russell. Why were they staring at her? It was only when she looked at her right hand she realized. She’d been pulling at her hair so hard some of it was in her fist.

She opened her mouth to speak but was distracted.

He rapped his knuckles on the Perspex screen that separated the editing booth from the recording studio. He’d had to work his charm on the receptionist on the front desk before he could get inside the inner sanctum of Black Monkey today. Now he was being gawped at by five guys and Honor who had a handful of hair clenched between her fingers.

He waved a hand at her and watched her cheeks pink up. He indicated the door. They were all looking at him but no one was making any move. He hit the glass with the silver ring on the middle finger of his right hand. Was there a fucking password or something?

‘Honor, honey, what’s Jed Marshall doing here?’ Larry asked, standing in front of her. He touched her chin with his finger and made her turn to look at him. She was still holding the hair. She didn’t know how it had happened. Why had she done that?
How
had she done that?

‘Jed Marshall is here,’ Larry repeated. ‘Do you know something about it? He hasn’t busted the door down but he’s looking as if he might like to, darlin’.’

She looked to the other side of the room. Jed had his palm on the glass. His eyes flicked over to the door and she watched his breath steam up the panel.

‘I…I can’t do this, Larry.’

She unclenched her hand, dropping the hair and bolting for the door.

She pushed open the door and didn’t stop. She wasn’t going to stop until she was out of Black Monkey and into some air. She was a couple of feet away from reaching the door back to reception when he grabbed her arm.

‘Hey, what’s goin’ on? Where you goin’?’

Where was she going? Out, was all she knew. Where next, she had no idea. Not for this moment, not for the next or any time after that.

‘I…’ She started to engage her mouth into speech but gave up. What could she say? She had just pulled out a clump of her hair because being back at the studio was freaking her out. How lame and pathetic was she? That wasn’t who she was. She didn’t run away from situations. She hadn’t even backed up when Simeon Stewart had pulled out the knife.

‘Hey, you’re shakin’. What were they makin’ you do? Sing Vince Gill?’

He had taken her hand, was holding it in his. The sensation was tipping the balance. Fear was flooding out of her and being replaced by warmth, a steady stream of grounding emotion. She entwined her fingers in between the rings on his.

‘You want to get out of here?’ he suggested. ‘I have a studio at home. No one says you have to do this here. OK, so Micro Records might
think
you need to do this here but…I actually have better equipment.’

She turned away from him, redirected her focus on the men from the room who were opening the door behind her. They would want an explanation. She didn’t have one. They would say everything was cool. It wasn’t. They would suggest she took five, had a coffee then tried again. She couldn’t do it.

‘Can we go to Target?’

She’d not said a word since they’d left the studios. She hadn’t commented on his pick-up truck, just got into the passenger seat and waited for him to drive. Now she was leading the way down the aisles in Target, stopping to pick up random items. Right now she was scrutinizing a porcelain owl priced at $2.99.

‘Do you collect ‘em?’

She flinched as if she’d forgotten he was even there. She was still so spooked. He should have got to the studios earlier, been there when she arrived. Whatever those pressurizing jerks had said or done it had sent her internally freefalling.

‘His eyes ain’t straight.’ He took the owl from her and pointed between its beak.

‘See, here? This one’s higher than the other and … ’

She raised her eyes to meet his and the look there stopped him talking.

‘So what, I shouldn’t buy it ‘cause it’s not perfect? Is that what you think?’

Her voice was cold and he realized straightaway what an error he’d made.

‘What should happen to it, Jared? Should we tell the cashier? Get it removed?’

He shook his head. He was in a no-win situation here. She was mad and sad and he needed to shut his mouth.

She snatched the ornament out of his hands and thumped it back down on the shelf. She moved on down the aisle and he followed a few paces behind wondering how to fix it.

Smoothing her fingers down the frame of an ornate whitewood mirror, she looked at her reflection. That was the weird thing about her ‘condition’. While other people with facial scarring avoided looking at themselves, she didn’t. Each time she took in the vision staring back it was affirmation. It wasn’t a hopeful glance - she didn’t expect to look and miraculously be cured - she just needed a reminder of how things were. Because, even now, in her mind’s eye she was still the flawless eighteen-year-old she used to be.

What was she doing? She’d run away. She’d pulled out a handful of hair and fled the recording studios even before Garth from Micro Records had got there. And now she was back here, in Target. Her church, her sanctuary, the discount store safe haven. She never really needed anything in it but the browsing calmed her, the time and the careful selection helped her process.

But this time she wasn’t alone. Jed Marshall was here. Was she crazy? Why was she leaning on him for support? They barely knew one another and he had an agenda. He’d told her in no uncertain terms he wasn’t going to stop asking her to be the opening act on his tour. She only hoped he’d see from each unhinged episode that she was an inappropriate choice.

‘Let’s buy it,’ Jared stated. His voice broke her thoughts and she looked at him, not knowing what he was talking about.

He took the large mirror down off the shelf and tucked it under his arm.

‘What are you doing?’ she exclaimed.

‘Buyin’ a mirror. Can we go now? I’m kinda hungry.’

He’d removed his over shirt in the truck and the feminine chintz of the mirror looked ridiculous underneath his tattooed arm. She followed him to the cash desk and watched him hand over eighty four dollars ninety nine for something he didn’t even want.

Without asking her what she wanted he’d got takeout from Farley’s Diner and now they were headed south. The windows of the truck were down, the music turned up and she was juggling two polystyrene cups on her lap. She assumed he was taking her to his home, to use his studio, but she hadn’t checked. Since when had she lost her tongue?

He hung a right down West Washington and pulled into the drive of a modest-looking one storey. Turning off the ignition he looked across at her. Those gray pools observed her and she swallowed. He looked so serious.

‘Now, before we go on in, I just should let you know that nothin’ in my place works by hand-clappin’.’

His expression was so deadpan, his tone so tight, she couldn’t help herself from letting out a trickle of laughter.

He broke a smile. ‘What? Are you makin’ fun of the poor guy?’

‘You’re not poor!’

‘Far-from-rich-as-you-guy then?’

‘Take-out-getting-cold-guy.’

‘Shoot! Man, I forgot about that. Let’s go.’ He flung open the door, grabbing up the takeout bags from the floor of the truck.

He wished he’d cleaned up. His momma would be kicking his ass if she could see the place. He hurried through the lounge, snatching up misplaced items as he went. Two empty bottles of Coors, a vest-top, a pair of jeans, a two-liter bottle of Pure Nectar, an empty bag of chips and a pile of back copies of
Kerrang!
. It was too much to collate at once and the Pure Nectar fell from his arms and hit the floor, splitting on impact.

‘Fuck, no!’

‘I’ll get a cloth. Is this the way?’ Honor asked, pointing to a door off the end of the room.

‘Yeah.’ He paused, remembering he hadn’t washed up the dishes for at least a couple days. ‘No. Hell, I’ll get it. You have a seat and …  read a magazine or somethin’.’

He thrust a copy of
Kerrang!
her way, barely hanging on to everything in his hands. The Pure Nectar carried on spurting out over the hardwood floor.

‘Shit.’ He dropped what he was holding to the chair and rescued the bottle. ‘The place is gonna stink of watermelon and fruits I ain’t never heard of for a month.’

Honor looked confused. He wiped a sticky hand down his jeans.

‘It’s a sponsorship thing,’ he said by way of explanation.

She nodded before her eyes moved to the takeout bags lying discarded on the floor where he’d thrown them down.

‘If you get some plates I could … ’ she began.

‘Yeah, sure.’ He hesitated for a moment. Did he have clean plates? ‘I’ll be right back.’

Having given her the first impression of a typical bachelor pad, underneath the untidiness, the room had a certain charm. There was a comfortable, easy feel to it. The wood floor that was partially covered by a Navaho-Indian style rug, was complemented by cream walls everywhere, except from a heavy stone fireplace on one wall. There were framed posters on the wall. George Jones, a Harley Davidson, a Southern flag. The wooden mantle held a selection of photographs. This was a real home.

As that thought filtered over her mind she felt a pang of envy inside of her. Her house was big and showy and filled with every gadget money could buy but it lacked the important stuff. It lacked what turned a dwelling into a place you could call your own.

Without knowing it she had folded up the jeans and the vest-top and placed them neatly on the arm of a well-worn leather chair. What was she doing?

She moved across the room, drawn to the mantle holding the photo frames. Pictures, images of friends and loved ones. That’s what made a home. In her place her platinum discs were in the basement and the only photo on display was one of Tim McGraw in a cheap heart-shaped frame she’d won in a raffle at Instrumadness.

She looked at the first photo. Jared was in it, with an older woman, presumably his mother. She had an arm around Jared, her tawny-colored hair sat in waves on her shoulders and she was smiling. She was the image of how Honor imagined an everyday mom to be. She looked proud of her son, happy and content.

The next photo was of Jared with two younger people, a boy of about ten and a teenage girl. His siblings? She knew he had a sister but, in truth, she barely knew anything about him.

In a silver frame was another picture of a man in his fifties. Honor picked it up. Swarthy skin, shoulder-length brown hair that was graying at the temples and a bandana tied around the top of his arm. On first glance he was every inch a redneck. But on his face he wore the most genuine smile. It was an expression that was instantly recognizable. It was pure Jared. This man had to be his father.

‘Plates.’ He put them down onto the coffee table with a deliberate bang. The moment she’d picked up the photo of her father he’d stilled, not sure what to do. She’d been looking at the image so intently and his gut had turned.

She dropped the frame back down to the mantle, color rising in her cheeks.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have … ’ she started.

His heart was beating hard as he approached her.

‘It’s OK.’ He picked up the photo, looking into the eyes of his father. ‘That’s my pa.’

He struggled to keep the emotion out of his voice. It had been so many years and it still felt raw. His dad had been everything to him, still was.

‘You look so alike,’ she remarked.

He steeled himself, took in a breath that filled his body. ‘He passed away.’

Teeth gritted, he stood still as the gnawing bite of hurt started in his stomach.

‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea … ’

Her voice, coated with concern, hit him hard. He didn’t know what to say to her.

The room was silent, except for the ticking of his grandma’s clock on the back wall.

‘At least you had time with him,’ Honor blurted out.

‘What?’ He didn’t know what she meant. He’d been sixteen when his father died. It wasn’t long enough by anyone’s reckoning.

‘I don’t even know who my parents are.’