Chapter Thirty-Seven
Charlie’s face burned as she walked off stage. Lips burned. Blood in her veins? Burning.
She hurried through the side door down into the theater house, slipping along the edges to the back.
A few people noticed her, smiling, nudging each other and pointing.
But no one was jeering. Maybe what Thad had said about that obnoxious fan page was true.
They weren’t the real fans who showed up at shows.
These folks were making way for her like she was a princess walking down her red carpet.
She edged up to the bar. Noticed Thad tracking her through the crowd and offering her his reverent grin.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, abandoning his other customer.
“Tonic and lime, please,” she requested, reaching into her pocket—
“On the house, Flower Girl.” The bartender grinned as he sprayed the bubbly water into the glass and slid the wedge of lime onto the rim, sliding it across the counter to her.
“He could go all the way … good stage presence … good energy…” the men next to her were saying.
She sipped her drink.
“Wonder how we missed him years ago…”
“Who knew this guy’s been hiding in Nacogdoches, Texas, all along…”
One wore pressed jeans, leather shoes, and a crisp button-up, cuffs rolled up with a Fitbit at his wrist. Another in a heavy, manicured beard, wore a sport coat and a belt buckle the size of Nashville.
They weren’t in the T-shirts or western shirts, Stetsons or trucker caps of the other guys in the audience.
Arms folded, they kept critiquing.
“Talented singer. Great tone…”
“Love how he engages everyone … brings that energy…”
“A natural.”
“Nice touch with that girlfriend. Could be America’s next country music sweethearts … Not agented…”
One of them spied her staring. Were these guys with a record label?
She returned her attention to the stage and sipped her drink, watching Thad’s torso torque in his painted-on tee and low-slung belt buckle as he strummed his guitar faster, faster, the crowd egging him on, as he pushed his ability to the brink until they detonated with cheers.
Too late. Expensive cologne and the presence of a body drew her attention back to them.
The bearded one had sidled up beside her. “You’re Charlie,” he said, extending a hand. “Got that boy on stage tied up in knots, didn’t you?”
She shook his hand warily, eyes darting back and forth between them. Yet neither were ogling her and she didn’t sense a come-on, either. A quick glance back to the stage and she noticed Thad taking them in, men talking to his woman. She smiled to put him at ease.
“Name’s Ricky Ortega. Country Roads Records. Your boy up there doesn’t disappoint.”
“Sure packs a hall,” said the other.
She relaxed and smiled. Oh my God, Thad was going to lose his mind. Ortega?
“He’s really talented. Hardworking. Music is his life.”
“Tell me, Charlie. D’you think he deserves to go all the way at the Homegrown Awards tomorrow?”
“Yes!” she blurted out, then laughed as they grinned.
“Look, I’m obviously partial, but he’s never gotten a break and missed his big chance with y’all years ago.
But he’s never given up. And in the meantime, has built a successful mechanics business and works as a foreman on his cousin’s farm. I can’t think of a more deserving guy.”
“Miss…” someone said, as she continued conversing with the record execs.
“He’s loyal to everyone who takes a chance on him. You’d love working with him—”
“Flower Girl.”
She turned.
The bartender thumbed over his shoulder. “Some guy wants to talk to you about the band.”
Was it another record label? This was so exciting. This could be their big break into the industry! The record execs eyed the direction he’d thumbed as she, too, looked that way.
“Who else came? We got competition?” the one in the dress shirt muttered. “Did Smokey Mountain Records come, too?”
She turned back to them. “Excuse me, guys. It was nice to meet you.”
She thanked the bartender pulling a beer for a patron and walked around the bar. Thad was tracking her.
She gave him a thumbs-up mouthing, “It’s a record label!”
Took in the smile that had split his lips and sparkling blues.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” she mouthed, holding up her finger, excited for the final number.
Their song. “Last Goodbye.”
In the shadows beneath the upper balcony, as she headed into the foyer and bathrooms, the din of the music was muffled, her ears ringing with a moment of relief.
No one was in the corridor, though. She looked around.
Empty. Walked to the glass door and peered out into the nighttime, maybe they’d stepped out for a smoke? Huh. No one—
A hand clamped around her neck. Pulled her through the swinging door.