Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
I an
“Hello?” I shove the phone between my ear and shoulder while fidgeting with the buttons on my shirt.
“So, tonight’s the night, huh? You’re takin’ my girl out?” Sam’s coffee-rich voice is laced with humor.
“Looks that way. Hold on a minute. Let me put you on speaker.” I hit the button on the screen to amplify the sound and then toss the phone on the bed. “Can you hear me okay?”
“Yeah. I’m glad you’re getting Savi out tonight, but I don’t think I need to tell you to be a gentleman. It’s been a long time since Savannah’s been kissed—or it was ‘till you stole one from her. Then, again, other than kissing her, I guess it’s been a while for you, too.”
“It’s dinner, Sam. I have no expectations other than enjoying a meal with a friend.” I spray cologne and rub my hand over my neck.
“Yeah, she said the same thing; ‘It’s just dinner, Sam.” His high-pitched, sing-song voice mocks Savannah. “I say, a date’s a date. Dressing up makes it special, no matter what you say. Did you get her flowers?”
“She’s not expecting flowers.” I did get them, but don’t need to give him another reason to niggle me for details.
“Which is exactly why you should get them.” He insists.
“Sam …” I drop a gentle warning with my tone. “We’re going to eat. I’m taking her home. That’s it.”
“And, if you’re lucky, maybe a goodnight kiss.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “It sure sounds like you want me to kiss her. Knowing how protective you are of her I would have thought you more resistant to the idea. I never pegged you as a romantic.”
“I still have an eye for the ladies. Just never found the one I’d want to settle down with.” He parades the words with pride as he humors me. My mood is light for a change. The memory of kissing Savannah filters in pleasant thoughts, though I certainly don’t expect a repeat performance of the act.
“Are you still there?”
“I am. I’m almost finished getting ready.”
“What are you wearing?” Curiosity steals Sam’s tough-guy image and replaces it with a nosey old bitty.
A grin splits my face. “Who the fuck are you? The fashion police? I mean, if you’re taking notes, I showered, shaved, and used deodorant— and I’m wearing a suit. Satisfied?” I toss the blue tie around my neck and twist the fabric as I attempt a knot.
“I’m living vicariously. Don’t get all uppity on me.”
“What does that mean? That you’d like to be going out on a date with Savi?”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? She’s like a daughter to me.” He deflates a breath sounding like a blown-out tire. “You’re a sick bastard, Ian—and, Savi, huh?”
“She told me I could call her that. Her friends call her that, she said . ” As I goad him, I make a second attempt at a knot, which is no more successful than the first.
“She must like you.” He pauses. “You know I love her, but I’m glad for you, too. You spend all your time at my bar or working at your place. You go out less than she does. You both need a break.”
“Come to think of it, I don’t remember you ever mentioning going out with a woman.”
“It’s just been a long time—though, I might consider it if there’s a good steak or Italian food involved,” he says.
“So, you prefer the meal to the company. Got it.”
“I’m just joshing you, boy. Don’t be an asshole.”
Boy? True, he’s old enough to be my father but the way he says it, makes it sound like an endearment.
How can such a simple thing pluck at my heartstrings? For a minute—maybe even less—I got a taste of that sense of belonging. That good feeling when a dad shares an inside joke with his son or uses a familiar nickname. With a light-hearted feeling, I return the serve.
“Alright, old man . If you really want to know how well it’s going, I’m about ready to chuck this tie out the window. I can’t knot the fucking thing for love or money.” I roll my neck as frustration pricks me.
“You don’t know how to tie a tie?” He asks.
“The last time I wore a tie was to Dash’s funeral. It was a clip-on,” I confess. My throat locks up and I go still. Fear drops a chill down my back. “Maybe this is a mistake.”
“What?”
“Maybe it’s a sign.”
“Stop with all that sign bullshit, Ian. Like you said, ‘It’s not a date.’ Just because you can’t get the tie right doesn’t mean it’s a sign.”
“I need a tie. Then again, I’m not all that refined. I’d probably get sauce on it anyway.”
“Ah, so you are going to the Italian place! Yeah, you don’t need a tie for Bruno’s anymore.”
“No?”
“No. Wear a T-shirt and, if you wear a dark one, you’ll barely see the sauce. Plenty of guys go there with T’s and a jacket.”
“I’m sure I can keep from spilling.” Sarcasm drips in my tone. “And I’m pretty sure Savannah isn’t into food fights.”
I throw the tie on a chair and quickly unbutton the crisply pressed white shirt I’m wearing and toss it aside. Fetching a black T-shirt from the bureau drawer, I slip it over my head. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Defined muscles fill out the sleeves with full, tight material at the biceps, the bulk evidence from working on the ranch. My arms used to be spindly sticks that hung from my shoulders. I undo the belt and zipper, tucking the bottom neatly inside. “I’m going to go, Sam. I hope I can pull this off.”
“You’re fine; ‘it’s just dinner’.” His high girly voice makes a comeback.
“Riiiiight,” I respond, shaking my head. I look at the clock. “I really got to go. I told her I’d get her at eight.”
“I’ve got to go too. I have a date of my own.”
“What?” My curiosity piques. “Oh, you mean the bar?”
“Nope. I’m going to Cora’s. She’s got a meeting of her painting club ‘till nine. I’m babysitting Gigi ‘till she gets there. It’s a good thing, too. That little one is a weasel. She’ll try to negotiate her bedtime, but Cora will set her straight when she gets there.”
“Have fun.”
“Yeah, you too—and Ian? You don’t have to be perfect. Just be yourself.”
* * *
I drive to Savannah’s with the windows down. It’s a gorgeous night. The last stretch of the sun has painted the sky with a mix of pink, orange, and blue. The breeze is easy and swirls through the open windows, nudged by my driving speed. Small talk will be okay If I can get her talking about herself. Music and songwriting are lanes we both travel. If she flips the table to talk about me, I can always talk about Dash.
The minute I think of him, a smile appears. I’ve got Dash’s favorite Gary Clark, Jr. music playing through the speakers. In a million years, he would never have pictured me on a normal date. I think he’d be proud of me. He’d be happy for me being clean and sober, of that much, I’m sure.
“I worry about what you’re doing to yourself, Ian. You’re not the first to piss away money on junk. I don’t want you to wind up in the twenty-seven club.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you, though? There’s four of us. We’re really picking up momentum. We could ride this gig for the next thirty years. Hell, look at Jagger. I’m no psychic, but if you keep wrecking yourself like this, you might not make your twenty-eighth birthday.”
He was right. I almost didn’t make it. But here I am, straight and going out with a beautiful woman.
I press the phone button on the steering wheel. “Call Dash Barrows.”
The mechanical voice repeats my command. “Calling Dash Barrows.”
It instantly goes to voice mail . “This is Dash. You know what to do.”
Do I?
A lump in my throat emerges and I swallow. It happens every time I hear his voice. Skylar never shut down his account and, I’m certain, there are times she feels the same need I do. I wait for the— beep.
“I’m going on a date.” The words rush out with a snicker. “Well, it’s not supposed to be a date, but it’s a fucking date. A real one, Dash. And I don’t mean just me banging some random chick. This is a good woman … I like her. I think you’d like her, too. She’s the chick who wrote ‘Heal Me’ and won your contest. I’m not sure if you orchestrated this from where you are but, if you did, stop me if you see me doing anything stupid. Make me choke on a roll or something but, for god’s sake, stop me.”