Red Hot Blues (6 page)

I noticed his southern twang more strongly.
As if it came in and out. Maybe from years of travel? Or from him
trying to hide the accent? South Carolina? But it wasn’t fully
southern. Maybe he really was from a little of everywhere.

He nodded slightly, pushed himself off the
wall, and said, “Well, see you in a week, then.”

And then he walked off.

Just like that.

Leaving me hanging.

Leaving his cowboy hat behind on the plastic
garbage can.

I thought of calling out and reminding him
about the hat, but I didn’t. I couldn’t speak. I just watched him
go. Watched his swagger, his tight ass under those tight jeans, his
broad back, his black hair flitting in the wind.

I uncrossed my legs, wondered where my
stomach had gone because it wasn’t inside my body anymore; shuffled
my feet.

Waited.

Waited.

Waited...

And then I heard it.

The Harley.

Loud and hard and strong and powerful.

Oh my god.

It came roaring around the corner with a
hungry, voracious, loud and angry rumble. I turned to see Ace on
it, guitar strapped to his back, riding the chopper down the
street.

Of course he’d drive a Harley.

Of course he would.

The storm, the hurricane, the thunder and
lightning in my head for a man I hate, a man I can’t think of
because it burns my skin and hurts my heart, disappeared when I
heard her voice.

Completely disappeared.

I need to hear that again. Peace. I need
peace. I need peace in my mind. She brought that to me—a moment of
it. But a moment is more than I’ve had in over a decade.

A decade of running.

A decade of fighting.

A decade. Of hating.

Before, as a kid, I ran away in my mind,
through my music, in those adventure books I used to read. Now, I
run for real, road after road after road. Looking for peace in a
head filled with erupting volcanoes.

And finding none.

Except tonight.

Tonight.

It was there, peace—a moment; a precious,
priceless, all-engulfing moment.

A man could hunt that moment like water in an
arid, dying desert.

A man could hunt that moment like food for a
starving body.

A man could hunt that moment like the
seductive woman he desires, after years in jail, in prison,
barricaded, alone, with no one. Except himself.

A man, finding it once, would hunt that
moment if every army in the world stood in his way and barred him
from it. Forever. Endlessly.

Peace
. A moment.

I need to see her again.

Before I heard her sing? Well...that was
purely hormonal. No gallant reason there. That was simple, pure,
unadulterated sex appeal on her part.

And I, being the typical male that I am, fell
into character. And I spoke to her, we shook hands and I introduced
myself.

But after I’d heard her sing...

Something changed. My plans with her changed.
I realized I couldn’t just take her. Because I might want to see
her again. And if I took her, she’d hate me.

Because I always run.

Always.

She’s not my usual kind of girl. Was I turned
on by her? Absolutely. Turned on in a whole new way.

She’s a little larger than the girls I’ve
been with before. But she’s sexy.
Damn
sexy. A little too
sexy for her own good. Only problem is, she seemed a little
under-confident. Getting into her pants would end up being a
problem. I’m all for sex when sex is to be had, but I’m not into
shattering a girl’s opinion of herself.

Does she know how hot she is? Does she have a
clue
how sexy her cleavage is?

Those eyes. Damn, those eyes pierced holes in
me. Bullets through the tin armor of my soul. Light blue, sexy
eyes. Contrasted by that black-as-night hair, the way she had it
done, just the right make-up. And those breasts...

I’ve mentioned those already. I know. I’m
mentioning them again.

And then that dude walked in the bar, a
bottle of Dos Perros dangling from his dirty fingers, cowboy hat,
his eyes so glazed I was sure they were about to roll back into his
head. He stumbled. And I saw him smirk when he saw her. He hung
back by the ATM machine, the one by the entrance of the Blues Bar
that charges you three bucks to use it, and he just watched her,
leered at her, smiled. And it was a dirty smile. It was the kind of
smile I wanted to wipe off. Quickly.

Why was I suddenly so over-protective?

Because she’s hot. Red hot. And I was
jealous. If Ginger had
any
idea how shapely she is she’d
have men dangling from her little fingers at every turn. But it’s
never about the way you look, it’s about the way you feel.
Something happened to her. I’m sure of that. I only realized this,
again, when I saw her up on stage. When we connected—that moment
when nothing was said but everything was said. I saw it in her
eyes, the way they couldn’t hold my gaze on stage, the way they ran
away from me when I talked to her outside.

I know the crowd, the types of guys that go
for a girl who’s insecure and then get her into bed with a few
smooth words. And then dump her. I hung with that crowd. And when I
got sick of what they were doing, we had it on.

Sure, I’ve smooth-talked it with the best of
’em. But never to a girl who didn’t know what she was getting into.
I’ve smooth talked it with girls who knew damn well it was a one
night thing and that’s it. Dudes who push up on babes that have
confidence issues just for a one night stand are scum.

Bobby was scum. Jed was scum. Lewis was scum.
They were all scum.

Cowboy Hat Dude at the ATM machine reminded
me of these boys. My “friends” once upon a time.

So I introduced myself to her, and I snuggled
up next to her. Just to make Cowboy Hat Man know I was interested
in her, and that he should back off.

And then her perfume hit me...

Damn. Why do girls have to do that shit? I
don’t know what scent it was, only that it made me want to sit next
to her for a lot longer than I’d planned.

I kept my eyes on Cowboy Hat, made sure I
radiated the vibe
She’s mine
at him. He frowned. I smiled. I
talked to her more, and then we did a set.

I hadn’t planned on doing a set with her. But
when that scent hit me...

Well, I got into character.

That was before the voice, of course.

Peace.

I wanted to kiss her, right up there on
stage. I wanted to run my hand through her dark hair and undress
her. This is why:

She has sex appeal. Raw, pure, human, sex
appeal.

I’ve never seen it before. Sure, I’ve seen
plenty skanks, plenty sluts, plenty “sexy” girls. None of them had
raw, fleshy, carnal sex appeal. That’s a whole different quality.
All of them had allure. All of them had something that made my cock
twitch and react. But that’s not sex appeal.

I always thought sex appeal had to do with
how tight a girl’s ass is, how long her legs are, how firm her tits
are.

It has jack to do with these things. It has
to do with the whole package.

Was I going to stay in Nashville? Not a
chance. I was just riding through. But I want to see her again. I’m
not really sure what I want after that. I
could
get her into
bed. I know I could. It’s just something...I’m
able
to do.
I’m not trying to sound like a chauvinist. It’s just...something
I’m good at.

But I won’t do that. Because I’d hurt her.
I’m bad for her. She’s not the one-night type. I can see that.

I might be good at getting a girl into bed,
but I’m good at nothing else.

Sex, Rock n Roll, and pain. This is all I
have to offer the world. Story of my life, and that’s why I’m on
the road.

Because I ain’t got nowhere to go.

I’ll kick it up in Memphis for a few days. I
heard Beale Street is awesome. Great blues, great whiskey. Maybe
I’ll hit Chattanooga, check out Lookout Mountain or Rock City, the
Market Street Bridge. And then I’ll come back here. Tuesday. To
play and sing with Ginger. The girl with the blue eyes, the long
wisps of curling black hair in front of her ears, and that carnal
appeal.

The girl who has no idea how sexy she really
is.

The girl I promise not to take to bed, but
with whom that’s all I want to do.

The girl whose voice brings me such
screaming peace.

I never said I had my head on straight.
That’s another reason I’m on the road.

Cowboy Man was heading straight for her after
the encore. Swaying is more like it. I walked directly into him,
grabbed his shirt, pushed him outside with my chest. He almost fell
over. He didn’t know what hit him. I stood in his way. He
swayed.

It would be too easy, so I didn’t hit
him.

Would I be hitting him for Ginger, this girl
I’d said three sentences to and sung four songs with? Nope. I
wanted to hit him because sometimes I just need to hit someone. I
needed to hit someone after Dad told me I was a “no good sumbitch
for lettin your country down, son! This country was
built
by
men who went to war! Heroes!”

I’m not a military man. But my dad is. And so
was his dad. And so was his. My damn family rocks it all the way
back to the Confederate Army. Not my game, but it’s daddy’s game.
And as his only son—two girls and one boy—I’m a disgrace to him.
I’m not keeping up the Family Tradition. My poor father almost had
a fit when he’d heard I was playing the guitar; and then not to be
playing country music on top of it! I still remember his face, red
and angry. And that vein, popping up on his head.

And his belt, as he removed it slowly,
quietly, always glaring me down. “Don’t you play that nigger music
in my house, boy! Don’t you dare!”

And then he belted me. And punched me. I
remember his fists. The crunch on bone. I remember going to the
good ole Southern Virginia doctor, a proud Confederate man like my
father, and my father saying to him behind closed doors, thinking I
couldn’t hear him, “Nigger music, can you believe it?” And the good
Southern doctor saying, “Sometimes you just gotta take it to em
like the Good Book says, Logan. A firm hand and high discipline.”
And daddy: “You’ll keep this between us?”

“Of course.”

And then a chuckle—a good, southern, hearty,
fried-chicken chuckle.

My ribs were broken, my eye was blue, my lips
were swollen to the size of my nose.

I was eleven then.

I didn’t play that night because it hurt too
much to play. But two weeks later, I got my guitar—Josephine was
its name, given to me by my friend Aaron Johnson, farmhand for my
father since he was sixteen, born and raised on the farm—and I
hauled up right under my dad’s window, outside, on the grass. And I
fucking played so he could hear me right and good. I played John
Lee Hooker. I played B.B. King. I played Elvis. I played Jimi
freakin Hendrix (not very well; I was eleven, remember?) I played
until my dad was furious and he came down the stairs in his pajamas
and he beat me again. And then, two weeks later, I played again. He
beat me another time, harder. It took four more weeks to recover
that time. And when I did, I played again. And again.

And again.

Eventually, he stopped beating me so often.
Because he knew he couldn’t stop me. I won by carrying on. I’d
won.

So, instead of hitting me, he started
drinking. But when he got drunk, he did something else. And after
he started doing that, I did stop playing. At least in front of
him.

Because when he got drunk, he beat my mom
instead.

It went on for years.

Aaron kept my guitar at his place, a small
bungalow house about a mile away from the main house on the tobacco
farm. I know what you’re thinking: Slavehands. And you’re right to
think that. Aaron’s ancestors were indeed slaves in this state,
maybe even for the Travers family. I often asked him why he didn’t
leave my father, and he’d say to me: “He treat me well. He feed me.
He feed mah family. Where else I goan
go
? An unejjucated man
like me? I’m happy here, boy. I got all I need. My girls are goin-a
school. They can read. They goan make summin o’ their lives.”

I didn’t get it at first. But I realized
later that my father treated Aaron better than he treated me, or
than he treated my mother.

To water down my father’s wrath against my
mother, I’d escape the house and go and play with Aaron so my
father wouldn’t hear. Aaron never said anything to him, and pops
knew not to push Aaron too hard because Aaron’s a good worker. And
Aaron don’t take no shit. Aaron, in my eyes, is my real father, the
one who taught me to stand up for myself, to be a man. To have
pride. To stick up for what I believe in.

One night, when I was sixteen, after a night
of playin it up with Aaron, I got home and heard my momma
screaming. I ran up the stairs and found my pops on top of her.

Raping her.

Or getting ready to.

She still had her clothes on, but he had her
hands clasped down above her head and she was kicking and telling
him to get off her. He was calling her a bitch and telling her she
gave birth to a sissy boy—

I took one of his trophies. And I cracked him
on the head with it.

Blood poured. I watched him fall off the bed.
I thought I’d killed him, and I didn’t care. Momma didn’t seem to
care either. I looked over at her on the bed. She was hustling up
to the headboard, frightened, terrified, a look of horror in her
eyes. Her fingers shook at her mouth, her eyes were black. She
trembled. My breathing was heavy, hard. I looked down at my father.
Blood ran like a river, marring the white sheets, staining the
off-green carpet.