Chapter 24 Grady
grady
. . .
My clothes squelched as I shifted on the shitty wooden barstool in this shitty run-down bar listening to a shitty cover of Hank Williams. I’d ducked inside when the rain turned into a torrential downpour, the neon sign shining like a beacon of hope in a dark tunnel.
I was hoping to drown my sorrows and earn a five-star hangover to distract my mind from the all-consuming agony that settled into my bones. So far, all I’d accomplished was a pounding head from the wailing happening on stage. Apparently, my luck was destined to be shit.
Seriously, I wasn’t usually a dick to performers, but I’d make an exception for the man on the stage. It was an open mic night, but he was treating it more like a karaoke bar. His friends sat in the front row, laughing and clapping as he wailed the final note and took a bow.
Fucking idiot.
“God, he was terrible, right?”
I turned to my right, noticing a woman standing beside me who definitely hadn’t been there before.
She was facing the stage with her elbows braced behind her on the bar.
Her blonde hair was piled into a messy bun on top of her head, with thick pieces pulled free to frame her face.
She turned toward me, the cheap neon lights above us casting a colorful glow across her features.
“Yeah, he was pretty bad,” I agreed, reaching for whiskey and shooting it down. The bartender came back around, and I signaled him for another. Thank god he didn’t question the fake ID when I’d slammed it down an hour ago.
“I thought men from the South were supposed to be gentlemen. Shouldn’t you have asked if I wanted a drink, too?” she asked. Her tone was flirtatious, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. And I wasn’t in the mood to keep it going for the sake of polite conversation.
Not when I’d just lost the best thing that’d ever happened to me.
“Pretty presumptuous to assume the character of someone you just met,” I muttered. “And stereotypes are just that. Not real.”
“Ah, but there’s usually a nugget of truth in there somewhere.
” The woman turned my way, giving me a blinding smile.
She looked so out of place here. “For instance, I’m from Tennessee and know a thing or two about southern hospitality.
Men tend to be chivalrous. They buy your drinks, hold the door for you, get you flowers on a first date—”
I huffed a laugh. “I hate to break it to you, but most men don’t do it out of the goodness of their hearts.”
“And how would you know? Is that why you won’t buy me a drink?” She leaned in, and I got a whiff of her perfume. “Because you don’t want anything?”
The bartender came by, pushing a fresh shot in my direction.
I stared down at it, trying to avoid her question.
I didn’t want to lead her on, but I also didn’t want to completely shut myself off.
I’d blame that decision on the liquor tomorrow.
If I thought too hard on it tonight, I was sure I’d lose the last bit of my sanity.
Her laugh captured my attention. “I’m totally messing with you.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Olivia.”
I returned the gesture hesitantly. “Grady.”
“Oh man, that sounds like a good boy name,” she said, scrunching up her nose. “It doesn’t match you at all.”
“What matches me, then?” I asked, raising a brow.
Olivia plopped her elbow down on the bar.
A manicured finger tapped her chin as she studied me.
“I don’t know. You have this bad boy country vibe going on.
Like, you’re in boots and jeans—which is common as hell in Texas, don’t get me wrong—but the tight black t-shirt and leather jacket give more of a rocker feel. ”
“Bad boy country vibe,” I echoed, shaking my head and taking a sip. The liquor burned going down, and I liked it. Enjoyed it even. I wanted the pain. “I guess that fits.”
“Exactly! But the name doesn’t match. We should find you a new one.”
“I’m not gonna change my name.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about a stage name. You know, one you only use for your public persona.”
“I don’t need one of those,” I replied, slightly annoyed. I mean, I’d toyed with the idea before as a way to separate the two aspects of my life. It’d come in handy when I become somebody.
Well, if I became somebody.
Maybe that was why I’d never done it before. It felt like I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t. For some reason, it felt like counting my chickens before they hatched. Sure, it could be great in the long run, but what if nothing happened? How silly would I feel? Would it even matter?
A hand waved in front of my face, snapping me out of my spiral. “What’d you say?” I asked, clearing my head.
“I asked what your last name was. We need to see if it’s got enough grit,” Olivia said, sliding into the seat next to mine.
“Wilde.”
“Wait, really?” I nodded. “Okay, well, for starters… There are so many things we could do with that. Can you imagine the merch possibilities?” She splayed her hands in front of her, squinting slightly. “Lawson Wilde—the ride of your life.”
I coughed, the beer I’d just taken a sip of going down the wrong way. “That’s so corny.”
Olivia smiled widely. “That’s kind of the point.
People love that kind of thing. It can become a key component of what makes you marketable.
We’ve already established you have the bad boy thing going for you,” she said, gently smacking my arm.
“Capitalize on that. Build your brand from the ground up and make yourself stand out.”
I narrowed my gaze, pointing her way with the beer bottle. “How do you know all this shit?”
She shrugged. “My family runs a little business up in Nashville, and I’m a business major with a minor in marketing. This is kind of what I do.”
“Then what’re you doing here?”
“What do you mean?”
I gestured around the hole-in-the-wall bar.
“A girl like you doesn’t fit in here.” She opened her mouth for a rebuttal, but I held up a hand.
“Not like that. I mean, I don’t think this is your normal kind of joint, but you live in Tennessee.
” I held up one finger. “I’m assuming you go to school there, too?
” She nodded, and I added another tally.
“And your family business is there.” Another finger.
“I’m glad to see you can count to three,” she said, nodding toward my hand. “But what’s your point, Mr. Wilde?”
“I’m just trying to figure you out.”
She hummed, reaching out to push each finger down. “I’m actually here on my first business trip. My uncle wanted to check out a few places in Austin, but he had a few last-minute meetings he couldn’t reschedule, so he sent me.”
“Ah, so it’s a test.”
She nodded. “Something like that. As for why I’m here,”—she tapped the bar—” I just happened to wander into this little gem when I saw the open mic night. So far, it hasn’t been great.”
We spun around, looking toward the stage where someone else was trying their hand at George Strait.
It was better than the last guy, but it still wasn’t great.
The kid was pitchy and seemed uncomfortable with the guitar sitting in his lap.
Unlike the other, though, you could hear the conviction in his voice.
At least he got more applause than the last guy.
“Yeah, it’s not great,” I agreed.
She glanced back, nudging me with her elbow. “Why don’t you give it a shot?”
“Me?” I asked. “No way. I don’t even have my guitar.”
“The last time I checked, a guitar wasn’t a requirement for using your voice,” Olivia deadpanned, reaching over to snag my bottle and take a sip. She made a face that told me she wasn’t much of a beer drinker. “God, that’s so gross.”
I laughed. “Then why’d you drink it?”
“Because I knew you’d give me some bullshit about doing things you didn’t want to do. I’ve done something I didn’t want to do, so now it’s your turn,” she said, gesturing toward the stage.
“That doesn’t seem fair since I didn’t have a say in it. And I’m sure it’s already full. You have to sign up for these kinds of things.”
“It’s called open mic for a reason,” the bartender interjected. “And anything would be better than this shit.” He jerked his chin toward the woman who looked like she was trying to deep-throat the microphone.
Well, that was disturbing.
“Got a different mic by chance?” I asked, trying and failing to get the image out of my head.
The bartender reached beneath the bar and pulled one free. I watched, pulling my brows together. “You just keep them handy like that?”
He snorted. “You’d be surprised how often people get rowdy as shit and break ‘em.”
“Now you have to do it!” Olivia shouted, grabbing my arm. For someone so tiny, she was surprisingly strong. Or maybe it was the alcohol that caused me to stumble ever so slightly. I turned over my shoulder, noting how she covered up her laugh behind her hand.
“You owe me more than a sip of beer,” I said.
She straightened her back, jutting out her chin in a challenge. “If you get up there and sing, I’ll let you name your terms.”
“Is that so?”
“Within reason!” she said quickly. “You have to be reasonable.”
“Just like you’re being right now?”
“We’re at an open mic night, dude. This is kind of what people are here to do,” she deadpanned.
And that was when an idea struck. One she’d probably shoot down immediately, but I’d give it my best shot anyway. “Alright,” I said, heading toward the stage. I was going to check their list of instrumental songs when I noticed a guitar perched by the stage.
Picking it up, I strummed a few chords to check if it was in tune. It was slightly off, but nothing I couldn’t work with. I’d played on worse before, and it wasn’t like there were record executives in the crowd to be nervous about.
I grabbed a stool off to the side and brought it to the center. A spotlight shone down as the half-drunk crowd threw out their song requests. I wasn’t going to listen to any of them, though.
Olivia had been a great and welcome distraction, but there was nothing that could take away my hurt. Not anything in my control, anyway. Music was my solace, though. My therapy. If anything was going to dull the ache, this was it.
“Well, I didn’t plan on doing this tonight, but thanks to a new friend, I’m gonna sing for y’all,” I said, turning on the new mic and switching it out with the other.
Olivia hooted and hollered as I took a seat and played the first few notes.
It was a slower, acoustic version of Slide by The Goo Goo Dolls.
“Holy shit, the kid can sing!” someone from the crowd drunkenly whispered to one of his friends. The rowdiness settled a bit as they listened. I could feel their eyes on me as I stepped back into a moment in time I could never forget.
For a while, it was our song. Instantly, I was taken back to the summer when we’d turned sixteen.
Wild. Carefree. We’d been driving down a back road with the windows down, our hair whipping around us and smiles on our faces.
She was mine, and I was hers. The rest was supposed to be history. I guess, in a way, it still was.
I wasn’t ready to accept defeat, but maybe the only way to prove I was the man for her was by focusing on myself. Maybe I needed time to be a bit selfish without worrying about what it would do to the person I loved.
Before I’d even finished, the patrons erupted into a thunderous, albeit offbeat, applause.
I looked to the back of the bar where I’d been sitting.
Olivia’s fingers flew across the screen of her phone, her tongue peeking out like she was concentrating too hard.
When she looked up, there was this sense of wonder on her face that suddenly made me nervous.
Thanking the crowd, I headed back to my seat. I was fully prepared to tell Olivia it was time to pay up on her end of the bargain, but before I could, she stood and extended her hand for me to take.
“I’m getting a weird sense of déjà vu,” I joked, looking down at her hand. “Haven’t we already done this?”
Her smile was big and bright as she tilted her head side to side. “Yes and no. I left out a few important details. My name’s Olivia Hart.”
Hart? Hart. Why did the name sound so familiar? And she was from Nashville…
Oh fuck.
I swallowed. “As in…?”
She nodded. “As in Hartstrings Records. And I’m about to change your life.”