Chapter Forty #2
The crowd hushed. The panel of judges sat forward on the dais in front of the crowd.
Dylan Jones front and center, country legend.
Aussie singer Brayden Bones, who’d made a name for himself opening for Keith Urban and now signed record deals as an agent in Nashville, sat to Jones’s left.
Natasha “Nettie” Blackrose with her giant Dallas hair and rhinestones the size of lone stars sat tucked in the middle, an old-school vocalist in her seventies known for her bedazzled denim and cowgirl boots summed up the panel to his right.
And lastly, Ricky Ortega. He watched them curiously, brow riveted.
Had Ortega seen what had happened last night?
Seen Jason strike her and him see red? Something about his serious expression told T.R. that he had.
“Hello, y’all. Tell us about yourselves,” James said, his signature tinted glasses on.
T.R. cleared his throat. The ache in it wouldn’t abate, even if his lungs had finally calmed to normal tempo again.
“Hi, folks. I’m McClintock, and this is Jack and Bo. Jack’s a dad of two boys and runs the best damn BBQ truck in Nacogdoches County. He ain’t just smokin’ on the bass, he’ll smoke you some brisket too.”
The crowd laughed.
“Bo here on drums might be quiet—”
Ba-dum-tss! The audience laughed at Bo’s spontaneous humor.
“But don’t be fooled. He’s a daredevil as a top rodeo bullfighter in the PRCA, and plays like Animal on that set…” The laughter surged again.
Braydon, known for his hard looks and few words, cracked a rare smile. But then, he looked at Charlie’s banjo. Alone. On its stand. The bit T.R.’d written to introduce her stuck in his throat.
“And, uh … yeah. Ch…” The air left his lungs for a beat, to utter her name out loud.
“Charlie couldn’t be here today. Been kinda a crazy night, gettin’ here and all.
” Ortega’s brow pleated further. “Which is a shame for y’all, ’cause Charlie might give Earl Scruggs a run for his money.
The most talented banjoist … the coolest little girl named Daisy…
” His voice left him again. “Makin’ it as a single parent and teaching paleobotany at our local college. ”
“He sounds like an amazing man,” Jones said. “A shame we can’t meet him.”
The hurt in his chest hurt, squeezed harder. Ortega leaned forward now, as if waiting for T.R. to correct James.
He scuffed the toe of his boot into a dent on the stage instead, clenching his jaw hard so the damned thing didn’t tremble. He couldn’t. Couldn’t make her real to this crowd.
“You think you have a shot at winning without this important piece to your audition?” Ortega asked.
He fixed his charming grin on his lips. Lifted his eyes and swept his arm out at the audience. What a waste of Bo and Jack’s three hundred bucks.
“We’ll sure try our best.” A giant no, because how did one pour water from an empty well? How did one make art without a muse? “So, without further ado, we’re gonna play our—”
“What about you?” Nettie asked.
“What about me, ma’am?” he asked the country starlet who’d shut down a packed Dolly’s Stampede.
The woman, a grandma who’d held babies on her hips and old folks’ hands while they passed, steepled her ringed fingers at her lips, and leveled a deciphering look at him. She could look deep all she wanted. Ain’t gonna find any water in this here well.
“What should we know about you?”
He cleared his damned throat again. Blinked down at his boots to shield the hurt, as the crowd fell into a hush, so soft the birds in the surrounding trees could be heard and the rumble of traffic over the Congress Street Bridge carried all the way upriver.
Then he fixed his megawatt smile on his lips, notching up his chin. Even if it felt hollow.
“Ain’t much to tell about me.”
Silence. Nettie watched him. Her brow furrowing harder. The sweat on T.R.’s brow worsened—
“That’s such bull,” a dulcet voice, whiskey soprano, came over the speakers. He froze as the audience gasped. “This boy’s nothin’ but trouble.”
He whirled to stage right, skin catching fire and lungs seizing. No one. But he caught Jack’s eye, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat who’d known all along what was about to happen, when the audience erupted into screams and roars of approval and he whirled around toward stage left to see…
A long-legged goddess strutting like the Miss Lone Star she was across the stage, crown straightened, in the shortest damn leather skirt he’d ever seen and those heeled cowboy boots, a fluttery spaghetti strap blouse that showed off her entire midriff and showcased her twine of daisies tattooed over her shoulder.
Her turquoise bangles glinted in the light.
Her jade eyes flared bright green in the setting sun and that smokey eyeshadow and eyeliner and bright red lipstick…
Jeezus, the whistling, the cheers … on her lips a smile, just for him, quirked up the corner like both a sweetheart and seduction, and on her finger was a takeout bag. Juanita’s tacos.
“I’m Charlie,” she said into her wireless mic down the side of her cheek, then turned to her adoring audience already fawning over her.
“That’s Charlie?” Braydon exclaimed, the judge of few expressions, slapping his palms on the table and leaning in front of Jones to Nettie.
“Wow,” Jones muttered as he leaned back and folded his arms.
Ortega smiled.