Chapter 3
Three
DEREK
I threw down a challenge I bank on Emily picking up. Moments ago, when I followed Charlie and Tyler toward the stage, curiosity swallowed my common sense. I couldn’t get on the stage without knowing. Without the possibility of spying a part of the woman I remember. Instead of sticking to the usual, I asked Charlie and Tyler if they’d indulge my idea.
Charlie replied with a ‘go get her.’ And Tyler asked me what the fuck I’m thinking. But he gave in, admitting he’d be there for me if Emily had already ditched us. I promised I’d have his back if he were in my shoes. Not an empty promise although out of the three of us, Tyler is the only one happily married and will never again have to go through the agony of rejection and heartache.
I should have asked Emily if she’s still in the Army. Or asked about her grandparents, who had moved away from the neighborhood. Or how her brother was doing. What was I going to do if she said yes? Was I ready to spend more time in her stirring presence? Would we become automatic friends after a few songs? After a few drinks?
“Derek,” Trina, our assistant, calls out from the bottom of the stairs.
“Could we set up a second microphone?” I ask Trina .
Emily slides one arm across her middle and hooks her hand onto the opposite elbow. Her eyes bounce from Trina to me.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Trina leaves.
I steel my back, prepared to repeat my request when she says, “How many and which ones? It’s been years. Let’s stick to what we know if you don’t want to ruin opening night.”
I don’t need the reminder of how long it’s been since she told me we’d never work out and left me with a broken heart in a hotel in Nashville.
“I’ll do this on one condition.” Emily’s determined chin perks up.
I move up onto the next step, bringing me to eye level with her. The berry scent of her perfume triggers a cluster fuck of heated memories. “What do you want?”
Would I give her what she asks for?
Her throat works like she’s swallowing something. “Breakfast.”
I breathe in as much air as possible. Breakfast is usually after… I shake the thought away. “Why?”
She shrugs a shoulder, but the set of her jaw relays a different message. “Catch up. Would be nice to bury the animosity.”
The too easy, too relaxed tone makes my spine tingle with doubt.
“Like I said, I’m over it.” I fail to imitate her nonchalance. “Are you trying to get out of singing?”
Her nostrils flare. “I don’t go back on my promises.”
The dig lands where I intended, and she won’t back out now. “Three songs, and I’ll consider your request.”
How far will she make it into the set? Will she bail before the first song?
“It’s on, Anderson.” Emily brushes past me down the stairs, stomping toward the stage, leaving a trail of her sweet scent.
“This is going to be fun.” Mark sends another one of his knowing grins my way.
Or sweet torture .
She was supposed to be a part of this. Of all of this.
My body thrums with the need to relive our early days. The itch can only be scratched with Emily next to me on stage, singing in her sultry and powerful voice.
As I follow Emily toward the stage, a vaguely familiar blonde falls in step next to me. She asks something I can barely hear, and I remember her as the woman I sat with before my blast from the past showed up. I’m moving fast, keeping an eye on Emily. When I reach the steps leading to the side of the stage, a hand brushes my forearm.
“Good luck. I’ll be over there when you’re done.” The woman stretches up on her toes and pecks my cheek.
I jerk away in time to catch Emily roll her eyes.
“It’s not what you…” I trail off. Why am I explaining this to Emily?
“Not my business,” she says, looking everywhere but at me as Trina hands her an ear piece.
“But breakfast is.” Why? With me?
Emily’s jaw clamps shut. “Let’s get this over with.”
Tyler is right. This is a bad idea all around.
My mind is a jumbled mess, and I’ve lost my focus. It’s opening night, and the crowd deserves a rocking Muddy Boots show. I’m here to establish Saddles as the premier venue for country and live music in the city. Not to have breakfast with Emily. Or hit replay on my relationship with her.
“Emily.” She looks up at the sound of her name. “Why breakfast?”
“We need to talk. The diner at nine.”
Our place for after every show. Why there?
“Talk about what? We should keep things as they are.” I look over her shoulder at the stage. “You’re here now. Sing with me. One more time and we’re done. When will you have this opportunity?”
A sad smile appears on her lips. “Keep things as they are? Will we ever be done? ”
Ever be done? “What do you mean?”
“Derek. Go time.” Trina squawks next to me. I forgot she was there.
“Go,” Emily says.
What does she mean we’ll never be done?
I rush up the steps as the venue blacks out, and blue, red, and yellow lights draw through the room.
What does she want to talk about?
My mind is muddled with questions.
Focus.
A familiar thrill shoots through my chest as I wrap a hand around the microphone.
Saddles holds less than 500 people, yet their enthusiasm floods me with energy as much as a packed arena. We open with our first number one, Soldier On , about pushing through the pain of losing the one you thought would stay and telling them where they can shove their apologies.
Subtlety wasn’t what I was going for when I wrote the song. As it gained in popularity, everything I’d gone through aired on the radio and sang back to me. I sing about my pain while the woman responsible for the heartbreak watches me, biting her bottom lip.
Never be done? We are done. Forever. I’m never putting myself at risk of such pain again.
During the chorus, the crowd’s singing grows louder, and when I reach the line about telling her off, everyone sings along with middle fingers in the air.
A reminder of why we are done.
The transition to the next song eases my muscles. I move across the stage to the beat of Tyler’s drum and lean down to slap the raised hands from the front row as the energy rises around us.
“How you doin’, San Diego? We’re the Muddy Boots, and we love coming home. Thank you for showing up tonight,” I say after the song ends, and the crowd roars their approval. “We grew up looking for a place we could listen to live country music and dance. Saddles is my gift to you die-hard, boot-stomping, country music-lovin’ hooligans.”
Their deafening roar brings a grin to my face.
I look at Charlie. “Think they want us to play something?”
They shout a few ‘ hell yeahs.’
Tyler kicks out the beat of one of our first hits, and Charlie’s bass joins him. They stop and it’s followed by a collective groan.
“Nah, fucker, they want to keep hearing you blabber on. Give them what they want.”
I laugh. “Better keep y’all happy. Raise them beers in the air. This is ‘Truck Tires Tonight’,” I say as we lead into the song we teased earlier.
As I sing about first times in the back of a truck, I glance at Emily. Her arms wrap around her waist, and her jaw is set. She’s unreadable. The fucking questions come back.
We keep playing our hits until it’s time to invite Emily to the stage.
“When we started, there were four Muddy Boots. Y’all know Tyler Ford.”
When we hit it big, our manager, Aiden, recommended we change our names, claiming it was for privacy, and why I dropped my last name and use my middle name instead.
I step away from center stage as Tyler, last name Kingsley in real life, raises a stick in the air and plays a few grooves.
“And Charlie G.,” I say as Charlie syncs to the beat.
“And I’m Derek James.”
Alfonso brings me my guitar, and I hook the strap over my head, and join Tyler and Charlie’s instrumental version of a classic country song.
Blood or not, Tyler and Charlie are my chosen brothers. We stick together through the best and worst times. Over two decades of being best of friends, nothing can crack us.
My bond with Emily was temporary. Was, is, and will always be.
“True story. We were going to be the next Jaxson Bailey, but fate had different plans.” Jaxson Bailey is country’s hottest male and female vocalist band, and we had a chance of being as great with Emily. “Only here at Saddles will you hear a blast from the past. Help me welcome, Emiliana.”
I don’t announce her last name because I’m not sure if it’s still Armada. She didn’t correct me earlier. And that is a reminder that I don’t know anything about her life. It should stay that way. We’re done. If I want us done, then this is the last I’ll see of her. I won’t see her at breakfast.
I play a few notes as she steps onto the stage and waves to the crowd, her back straight reaching her full five-seven and dazzling them with her pretty smile.
They clap, gifting her a warm welcome. Her smile widens with each stride, and when she reaches the second mic stand, she unhooks it and, with her eyes on me, says, “It’s been a long time.”
Then she turns to the audience. “I’m a lucky girl to be up here with Mr. Muddy Boots, Derek James.”
Damn, she’s a natural. With the stage lights focused on her, she glows like an angel.
Emily says something else I don’t hear, and the crowd laughs. Her smile shines brighter than stadium lights. As the crowd responds, she transforms from hesitant Emily to a show stopper.
The heat of the lights sears the skin on my chest and neck.
“Derek?” My name, in Emily’s melodic voice through the earpiece, snaps me back to the stage. “Want to tell them about the first song?”
The stage is an old friend. I had years to achieve a level of comfort with performing and banter. I learned what I knew from Emily. She grins at me. I return the smile.
My eyes drift from her bare shoulders to the silky red blouse, the curve hugging jeans, and boots, and back up to her pretty red mouth. I drag my eyes back to hers, and her lips disappear between her teeth as if she’s holding in laughter.
The crowd laughs, too. Fuck, I’d forgotten what she asked. The song .
I strum the first chords. Emily nods, letting me know she’s ready.
I’ve truly lost all sense of what the hell I’m doing here. Having her on stage isn’t about curiosity. It’s something else.
Is she right? Will we ever be done?