Chapter Thirty-Six
Friday night
Charlie stood in the wing, stage left, as Thad, Bo, and Jack strode out into the lights. A roar of approval thundered as they waved guitar picks and drumsticks.
Nerves chewed through her stomach as Thad scooped up his guitar from the stand and dropped the strap over his shoulder, his fitted black tee, his tats snaking out of his sleeve, his wrists belted in leather and his Stetson shielding his brow, as Jack did the same.
Try as she might to ignore the lurking reminder, that that social media page existed, that her name and photo had been dragged through the mud, the worry that these folks tonight would boo her instead of cheer wouldn’t abate.
She felt her brow bead with sweat behind the velvet curtain, as Thad called into the microphone, “How we doin’ tonight, Angelina County?”
Her skin grew clammy in her denim, her black sleeveless blouse, lace, showing off her daisy tattoo. Her dangly earrings tingled softly amid the freight train of blood roaring in her ears.
She wasn’t playing every song tonight, but she’d be in three of them and would harmonize a couple of others.
They’d had another band practice last night to prepare.
Another night of cooking out. Of kids playing until the crickets and frogs stopped chorusing.
Of s’mores around the firepit. Of kids’ shoes kicked off randomly on the cabin floor and BBQ sauce sticky on the picnic table as the smell of meat on the grill sizzled in the air.
This was an official coming out of a first run to see how they clicked on stage, to prepare for the Homegrown Awards competition tomorrow. This was her officially putting her name out there again, to be critiqued or raked over the coals.
Jack started his bass thumping, a low anticipatory pulse. Bo began a simmering cadence as Thad began to tap his old shitkicker to the rhythm.
“We got a real treat for you tonight!” Cheering. “But before that … let’s put our hands together! Clap with me now…” He pinched his pick in his teeth and began clapping over his head to Jack’s rhythm, clap … clap … clap … inciting his adoring army to participate with him. “That’s it, y’all!”
The clapping, sporadic at first, took on a tempo, until the whole venue pumped with the throb of a unified heartbeat.
He snagged the mic and tipped the stand to his lips. “Hit it, boys!”
The stage lights blinded as the drums led-in, riding the momentum, and Thad whipped his guitar around and began strumming and singing an old favorite of his. The audience jumped to the rhythm.
The ladies in the crowd screamed their approval.
She didn’t miss a woman in the front row flashing her chest. Thad’s gaze flitted to her in the wing as she took a step back.
It shouldn’t bother her. It wasn’t as if he’d asked her to do it.
But how easily they laid themselves out to him.
How they made it clear from the beginning exactly what they’d do for him.
How he’d always seemed to adore the attention before—
He strummed hard, kicked out his boot, and closed the song, then held his hand out to her. She furrowed her eyes.
He crooked it at her, cupping the mic to his mouth with his other hand.
“Folks, some of y’all know Hunter’s takin’ a break, movin’ on to take care of himself.
We love him and want the best for him; he’ll always be a part of the group.
” Silence descended, brimming with anticipation.
“Which leads me to my surprise for y’all…
” He flashed a look at Bo and Jack, the men exchanging nods.
“Got someone to introduce tonight. Name’s Charlie. Wanna meet Charlie, y’all?”
The women cheered their approval. Her eyes widened on him. This was out of order! She wasn’t supposed to join until the fourth song! He only grinned that megawatt grin and jutted up his chin.
“Come on out!” He crooked his fingers at her, even if something sheepish came over his demeanor. “Don’t be shy,” he cajoled. “Say it with me! Char-lie! Char-lie!”
Her mouth dropped as the crowd began to roar. He pumped his fist in the air to the rhythm, amping up their chant, his bass and drums maintaining that repeating heartbeat, like a lifeblood connecting one song to the next.
“Char-lie! Char-lie!”
He flashed that electric grin and cupped the mic to his mouth. “Who here follows McClintock Official? You mighta’ seen some campfire pics.”
Some cheers rose up. Curious chatter.
“You brought your flower girl too?” a guy shouted.
No one was booing? Her racing pulse didn’t ease, but her hope burgeoned again.
She shook out her limbs like an athlete about to step up to the starting line.
Felt sweat trickle between her shoulder blades.
She’d once plied an audience when she’d been young and confident! Why was it so hard to do again?
“That’s right, y’all! We got someone pickin’ tonight that you’ve been askin’ for, so we delivered!”
The cheers rushed on her ears.
Anticipation brimmed in the air. He sure was talking her up, but this renewed love affair with music was fragile. Broken dreams glued back together still bore cracks, and she bit her lip, feeling his gaze homing in on it. He nodded, just for her.
“The thing is, I wrote those words, Flower Girl stole my heart and I don’t know why, but I think I know why now.
I needed a reason to settle down and start believin’ I deserved something better.
Needed a reason to put down some roots. Think I found it.
And she’s givin’ us a go at the Homegrown Awards tomorrow night in Austin.
It’s a big ask, but it might just be our big break.
So, I promised her that y’all would give her a warm Disclaimers welcome, and I know y’all will deliver, am I right? ”
Her heart warmed. Because that was a warning veiled in teasing tones eliciting cheers. That he would go to bat for her over them.
“Let’s give it up for our new banjoist and my official lady, Charlie Bradford!” He swept his arm toward her as he perused her body up and down and chewed his cheek.
She pasted on a pageant smile that was also going to let her finally chase that dream again and strode out onto the stage in her heeled boots, the lights blinding and yet, like riding a bike, it felt familiar.
The rhythmic clapping turned to thunderous applause as she waved and flashed the smile that had won Miss Lone Star. Whistling and cheering ensued. A few uncertain glances from adoring female fans who’d clearly hoped Charlie would be a guy.
“Charlize Bradford?” someone hollered up, recognizing her. “Miss Lone Star?”
“Professor Bradford?” another shouted in surprise.
She froze. Swallowed hard. Did the university want press of her on stage in a backwater bar?
“Hell yeah, Miss Lone Star!” Thad encouraged.
Oh God, except … people were cheering. Guys were whistling. It was hard to distinguish the mishmash of sounds. She took a step back, but he snagged her hand and laced his fingers into hers—
“And yeah, associate professor of paleobotany. Fossilized plants, y’all! She’s this…” His face softened on hers as his hand squeezed, as the crowd hushed a degree. “Brilliant woman,” he finished gently into the mic.
He severed eye contact as aws rippled through them. The crowd’s cheering turned into a roar of hope and support as someone shouted, “McClintock’s in love!”
He swallowed. Turned to face her. “That he is,” he murmured, as cheers and whistles ensued, then threw his arms primed on farm work and torque wrenches wide and flashed his panty-melting smile at her as if to say, I told you so.
She shook her head and laughed. Then turned to wave at everyone.
Bo snapped his sticks together. Thad whipped his guitar back to front as she and Jack jumped in with him. Thad’s voice carried through the speakers as the crowd jumped. She leaned into the mic to harmonize, their instruments syncing.
She gazed out at the void, eyes roving over the washed-out bodies crammed into the venue, as if she could really see them, her years of training kicking right back in, feeling Thad’s proud grin on her profile as he watched her in her periphery, matching her picking with his strums, gauging her vocals with his own.
“Hot damn, y’all! We scored this time!” he shouted as she led into the banjo solo, quick pull-offs, and the sound was so loud, the cheering a roar.
He whooped and Bo pounded the refrain. He snatched his guitar up to finish the song.
God, how he plied those strings like he did the reins on his galloping horse.
She grinned as he flashed his pearly whites at her, letting herself forget, embrace this, and … move on.
The song came to a boisterous close.
“Y’all might’ve heard this next song, ‘Flower Girl,’ on the radio!” he called, keeping the momentum moving.
He glanced at her again. The band’s constant bass and drum morphed into a gentle rhythm as Bo transitioned to keyboard and Thad began to play a soft, twangy melody.
“Three a.m. and I’m wide awake.” His rich baritone resonated through the speakers.
“Thinkin’ on the blossom that got away.
She knocked me flat in the neon light
Left me flounderin’, stole my fight.”
Silence hushed.
“Ain’t gone to bed in at least a week,
Can’t bear seein’ flowers ’neath my lids when I sleep.
Bright green eyes starin’ back at me
Reminding me of what can’t be.”
Thad leaned into his mic and sang, eyes closed, so full of heart, the wordsmith that he truly was as he sang this love song he’d written about her, and carefully, she began a soft riff, an undercurrent showcasing his guitar.
“Vines that twine me up inside.
Sweet as a bloom, I open wide
Aimed at the stars but fell on my face.
Took my chance, put in my place.”
Battered but still a heart beating, she played, she listened, and she closed her eyes as a harmonious hum rolled gently up her throat, because as Thaddeus had said, it didn’t matter if it was the big leagues or just a few people in a hazy bar.
To stop playing was to stop dreaming, which let the bad guys like Jason win, and Jason wasn’t winning anymore.
He was staring at her lips as her eyes fluttered open, the longing that often overtook his demeanor when he was contemplative. His throat sounded thicker than normal as he pushed through the chorus.
“I’m either stupid or a fool to dream of the one
Who don’t want me after she was done.
That laugh on her lips, secret in her eye
Flower Girl stole my heart and I don’t know why…”
Her eyes misted at the vulnerability in his words. This song, on the radio, lauded for most original amateur love song, was about her. A girl could be so lucky in her life to have him.
“Pretty as a lilac, soft as a rose.
But I’m stuck with her thorns as the story goes.
I didn’t want that night to end.
I’m begging my Flower Girl to do it again.”
*
Then Charlie dropped her banjo to hang around her neck, and as T.R. opened his mouth for the final refrain, “Pretty as—”
“Gimme your heart, ’cause I gave you mine,” she sang softly.
His guitar drifting down.
“Gimme a chance, your hand in mine…”
That whiskey soprano, playing fiddle on his heart, sent goose bumps up his arms.
“I didn’t want that night to end.”
His hand groped for hers, clenching hard as she poured everything she felt for him into this moment, this declaration and apology she was making in front of the world. He brought her fingers to his lips, a well of emotion cracking within him.
“I’m begging for Trouble all over again.”
Silence rang supreme.
He hardly noticed the glaring stage lights as he leaned down and whispered, “Careful what you beg for, baby.” He pressed his lips to hers, staked a claim in front of his audience.
He pulled their intertwined fingers up to his neck and deposited her hand there, palming rise of her rear, the other snaking up to her nape to clench her gold-spun tresses, to feel each pretty inch of her.
He laved his tongue possessively against hers, earnestness for their future to start unfolding. He was going to go all in, all the way. Saltiness dampened the seam of their lips. Tears? He lapped them up, dipping her backward, instrument and all—
Whistles cut through the trance.
He grinned against her lips, clearing his throat. He pulled her upright, relinquishing her nape to brush his thumb across her ruined lip gloss like a proud trophy as he spoke throatily into the mic.
“Y’all, I had to work so damn hard, but I got the girl.”
The room exploded in applause, celebrants cheering their hero. A bold statement flung far and wide as cameras snapped pictures.
“Oh God, will this end up in the paper?” she murmured.
He chuckled. “It better.”
She buried her face into his chest as he nuzzled her hair. Felt her breathe him in and press a kiss to her crown.
“We went outta order,” he murmured into her ear. “So you got a break for a bit, but don’t vanish on me, Flower Girl.”
And then he kissed the cut on her forehead, buried in concealer.