Chapter 21 #3
I look out at the center of the semicircle, and crooning away on the microphone is Stevie Crowne, singing about driving nails in my coffin, shutting every damn person up with the way she’s singing without a single instrument backing her up.
A three-count from someone in the second row gets called out, and the full crew of instruments hops into it just as the crowd starts hootin’ and hollerin’.
When I look back towards Wyn, there’s more of a gap in the crowd now, and I can see her talking with Sheriff Fury.
And next to her is her colleague from yesterday, Reed.
I fucking hate that guy a little more now.
That’s when Wyn finally looks my way. She smiles instantly, looking down at her palm, and then back up, locking eyes with me.
There’s a smirk on her face as she tries to keep her attention on whatever they’re talking about.
“The fuck is he doing?” Jameson mumbles next to me, looking at the same group and conversation I am.
“That one has trouble written all over it,” Cora says as she walks up in between me and the detective. It only takes a second to know she’s a few cups in.
“Cora,” Jameson says to her, and then glances up at me briefly. “Any word from Stan?”
She barks out a laugh, looking out at where we just were, at Wyn, Reed, and the sheriff.
“Fury is real keen to find my husband, that’s for damn sure,” Cora says as she nods toward him.
“That one.” She hiccups. “Pardon me.” A laugh bubbles from her lips and she covers her mouth.
“He’s a pompous asshole and serious trouble. Always thought so.”
“Which one are we talking about?” I ask, leaning down next to her.
She smiles, turning her head to the side to look at me. “You’re a good one, aren’t you?”
I give her my best smile. “Been called a lot of things, Cora. Not sure that good has been one of them.”
She pats my arm, and I look back up to see Wyn’s smiling, but it’s not the kind that plays out across her cheeks and crinkles the corner of her eyes.
That’s the smile she had after her lecture class, the one that made her sigh in relief when it was done.
Cora raises her hand, wiggling her fingers.
“It’s my turn next,” she loudly singsongs, and then rushes off, as if she didn’t just barge her way in between us.
Just as I’m about to abandon the detective and weave my way through the crowd to Wyn, Jameson hums, “Strange.”
I glance at him, wondering what he’s talking about.
“It was the department that called Cora about Stan not showing up for work. She didn’t report him missing.
” Jameson tosses his empty cup into the trash and looks around.
“I hope the person I choose to spend life with would notice if I went missing.” It’s a leading comment.
I’m not going to weigh in on it, but I sure as hell heard him.
I haven’t had anyone in my life who would notice if I’d been missing.
I catch Wyn smiling again as her eyes meet mine through the crowd.
It hits me square in the chest. I want her, but I also want to matter to her.
“You going to play tonight?” I ask, glancing at his guitar perched next to him.
“Just waiting for Stevie to finish doing her thing.” He tips his head toward the center where Stevie’s still singing. “I’ll jump in afterwards. This crowd gets too rowdy when we’re up there together.”
Before I can step away, Tommy waltzes up with Nash in tow. “Gentlemen,” he says, passing us each a bottle of beer as Nash catapults himself at Jameson.
“Sonny, did you hear Mama?” he asks, hanging on the guy. “Hi, Julian.”
“Hey, Nash,” I say, looking at the hair tie pulling a cluster of hair together on the top of his head.
“Your hair is still looking cool. I tried to do mine like that, but I think it needs to grow more.”
I smile, feeling caught off guard by a six-year-old.
Tommy adds, “Stevie tried to help him, but he said he could do it so—” He holds up his hands.
I look back down at Nash. “I think if you want to grow your hair out, it would look really good on you.” I glance at the two men watching on before I add, “I’m around if you want me to show you how I do mine.”
“Yes, definitely, yes,” he says.
Tommy looks at me, and then nods to Jameson. “This guy working up the nerve to pick up that guitar and play?”
He points at Tommy. “Don’t push it, old man,” Jameson says before he takes a pull of his beer.
“Sonny, you have to play,” Nash interjects. “Please?”
He smiles at him. “Just waiting for your mama to finish up first.”
“Old man?” Tommy says, holding a hand over his heart, smiling. “You’re not all that far behind me.”
“Says the guy whose bedtime is in about thirty minutes,” Jameson throws back as Nash plucks the five-dollar bill from Tommy’s hand.
“First of all,” Tommy says, “I’m flattered that you pay attention to my bedtime. And second, I’m a morning person, so you can go ahead and fuck right off.”
It’s hard not to laugh at the way they go back and forth.
Tommy looks back at the stage as Stevie hits a high note. “I watched Rhonda Vincent sing this song once, in that very spot, and I’ll be honest, Stevie puts her to shame.”
Nash chimes in, “My mama sings better than anyone I’ve ever heard.”
Almost the entire semicircle of musicians, at least four rows deep, playing every string instrument, from banjo to violin and even an upright bass, joins in on this song.
It’s the strangest thing to be in a crowd of strangers, all listening to this music, yet somehow it makes you feel like you’re a part of something.
I’ve been to plenty of concerts and shows, but this is something altogether different.
Nash hangs onto Tommy’s forearm, like he’s trying to do pull-ups on it. “Hey Nash, want to snag some cotton candy?”
“The blue kind. It freaks mama out when my tongue is a different color,” he says as they start walking away. “Sonny, you want some?”
“Grab me some, Nash,” he answers.
When they start to walk off, I look back to where Wyn has been and find her already looking at me. But something’s off. She’s not smiling, and there’s something else. She’s looking at me the same way she did when I first showed up—leery, nervous, and absolutely angry.