Chapter 3
BOBBY
“Thanks for coming out tonight. I’m Bobby Tannen.”
That’s the extent of my welcome speech because nobody wants to hear me talk, anyway. They’re here to listen to me sing, and I’m here to feed the monster inside me that needs this outlet.
Some folks have told me my voice is a gift from God, and maybe that’s true, but most days, it feels like slicing open my chest on stage and inviting every Tom, Dick, and Harry into my thoughts and emotions.
It’s painful to do but worse on my own well-being if I don’t. Songwriting and singing are my sanity.
Maybe that’s true for the crowd too? Maybe the music gives people who can’t put their feelings into words a way to say what they can’t? I’d like to think so.
Unconsciously, my fingers work the frets of my guitar. Betty is both an extension of me and my best friend. The mahogany is warm beneath my touch, the strings dig into the calluses I’ve earned with hours of play, and the resonant twang is the soundtrack of my life.
I start my set list for the night, opening slow and strong with Strawberry Wine, tweaked slightly so it doesn’t sound like I’m losing my virginity to some dude in the backseat of his car. The crowd sways and sings along with the 90s classic, and I’m home.
I never would’ve thought I’d say that about being on stage.
Once upon a time, I was shy and uncertain to the point of not telling my family when I was performing.
I didn’t want them to see me. I needed a nameless, faceless, anonymous crowd that I could walk away from without any real care whether they liked the show .
. . or me. But a few years ago, that changed.
Dad died.
Everything changed then. We lost the farm, literally.
We sold it to the Bennetts, our neighbors, which should have been an utter and complete clusterfuck because we’d had a feud going on for years.
As it turns out, that was Dad’s doing more than anything, and with him in the ground and not spewing his bullshit, we realized that the Bennetts are good people.
So good that they kept me, my brothers, and sister on as workers when they bought our land, and over the last year, we’ve created a sort of adoptive, one big happy family situation with them and us.
It’s weird as fuck but better than I ever thought it would be.
It’s good enough that the whole pack of them often comes hear me perform now, taking up a whole corner of Hank’s, being obnoxious with their hooting and hollering for more and generally giving me shit for being a soft-hearted pussy.
I love those fuckers, even if I don’t tell them. They know, same as I know they love me, or else they wouldn’t take the time to piss me off.
But they couldn’t come this evening, leaving me solo for tonight’s show.
After a couple of cover songs, I play a little shuffle riff and talk into the microphone.
“I was hoping you’d let me play a few of my own songs tonight too. Ones I’ve been working on, tweaking a little here and there. Y’all okay with being my guinea pigs and letting me know what you think?”
The crowd cheers back, and I hear a female voice call out, “I’ll be your guinea pig, Bobby!”
I’m not exactly sure what the hell that means, but I think she intends for it to be sexy.
I smirk, my head tilted under the straw cowboy hat that keeps the spotlight out of my eyes.
“That’s a mighty fine offer, ma’am. Maybe just the music for now.
” I add a wink to soften the rejection. It’s not my first rodeo putting someone off because I’m not here for that.
A sad ‘awww’ works its way through the women and I can’t help but chuckle.
These people will damn near cross the street to get away from my brothers, Brody and Brutal, but they think because I play guitar and sing a little that I’m not as much of an asshole as they are.
They’re wrong. I’m probably worse than my brothers because where they let their asshole-ism out, I bury mine deep inside and let it out in a different form.
In music.
I sing one of my originals that the locals know.
Whatever you want,
Whatever you need,
I’ll get it for you,
You can count on me.
I see a guy singing along with me, his mouth close to his woman’s ear as they rock together.
That’s my favorite, when a song can resonate with people for a multitude of reasons.
To that couple, it’s about them, him making a promise to her.
To me, it’s about Mom and my pledge to take care of her when she was sick.
This song took away her pain for a little bit, and that was enough for me, but the smile on the woman in the audience means a lot too.
I play another few songs, then it’s time to ramp up the crowd. “Olivia?” I scan until I see her hand sticking up, a thumbs-up shooting my way because she knows the routine and is grabbing me a drink already. “Everyone, get a drink and raise it up high.”
I give Olivia and Hank a chance to refill everyone’s glasses and serve up another round, telling a story to fill the time.
“There are two true testaments of a song. One, it hits something deep inside and makes the audience relate with exactly what the singer is feeling. It’s a powerful connection.
” I play a few chords, thinking of the songs that have done that for me over the years, then a cocky smirk stretches my lips.
“Two, it’s a damn good song that no matter if it’s the first time you’ve heard it or the hundredth time, it instantly makes you smile.
A few of you probably remember when this song was released, but I wasn’t even born then . . .”
I pause because Hank always gives me shit at this point. He likes me too, despite his protests to the contrary. At least, I’m reasonably sure he likes me and not just the positive impact I have on his bottom line on live music nights.
“Damn young’uns wouldn’t know good music if it smacked you upside the head!” Hank’s rough voice sounds out across the room.
The crowd chuckles at his insult, looking toward the bar at the back of the room and then to the stage.
I shrug, not offended in the least since this is our usual schtick.
I hold up the glass of Jack Daniel’s Olivia delivered to the stage, waiting for everyone to hold up their various drinks.
I see beer bottles, wine glasses, sweet tea, and mixed drinks appear over their heads.
“Here’s to cheating, stealing, fighting, and drinking.
If you cheat, may you cheat death. If you steal, may you steal your beloved’s heart.
If you fight, may you fight for a brother.
And if you drink, may you drink with me.
” I swallow a sip of the whiskey, and everyone follows suit.
“Let’s see if this one qualifies as good music for our host, Hank.
” I roll into an acoustic version of Friends in Low Places, the entire room filled with voices singing off-key—the audience, not me.
The rowdy song merges us into one, all equal for the moment as strangers toast and wrap their arms around each other like long-lost buddies.
“Great job, everyone. Don’t forget to tip your waitress.” I find Olivia’s ponytail working back and forth across the room and point her way.
Answering back, she calls out, “And your bartenders!”
Bartenders? There’s only one, Hank. He’s the only one allowed behind the stretch of shiny wood that’s seen beers, cheers, and barfights its whole existence. Unless the old man finally hired someone to help?
If so, it’d be about time. He does almost everything around here as a one-man show. I try to help when I’m here, hauling heavy boxes from the stockroom to behind the bar, but he’s a stubborn old coot who likes to refuse any assistance out of misplaced pride.
I scan the room, trying to catch sight of who else is working behind the bar.
I’m protective of Hank, even if I would never dare tell him so.
He’d beat the shit out of me for thinking he can’t protect himself.
I’ve seen him use the Louisville Slugger he keeps beneath the bar, and he can pack a wallop of a swing.
Still, he’s getting up there in years, and I’ve noticed it’s been a little easier to talk him into letting me do a bit of the heavy lifting around here.
I want to be certain that whoever he’s hired is worthy of Hank’s bar top.
It takes me a few seconds, but finally, the mass of people moves enough that I can see. And my heart fucking stutters in my chest before going dead still.
There’s a woman with light blonde hair, short with side-swept bangs, and round black glasses behind the bar.
She’s got on a black tank top, a hint of cleavage peeking out at the neckline.
She’s talking to a regular, Richard, as she sets a fresh beer in front of him, her pixie nose crinkling as she flashes him a soft smile.
She never stops moving, efficiently setting drinks up and down the bar, to Olivia and to customers, never missing a beat.
Unlike me.
I’ve been playing the opening chords to another original and missed my own entry. I blink, forcing my attention back to my guitar, play the start again, and sing.
But my attention never leaves the mystery woman.
I need to know her name.
I need to know who she is.
I need to know what the fuck she’s doing behind Hank’s bar.
I need to know where she’s been my whole life.
Okay, that might be dramatic, but there’s something about that sweet smile and the way she brushes her bangs back with delicate hands that makes me want to cut the set short and walk across the room to her. And I never do that. Hell, I’ve never even thought about doing that.
Until right now.
Thought I could see, but never saw a thing until I laid my eyes on you. Then the world exploded into view.