Chapter Forty
Homegrown Music Awards, Saturday
Thad shook out his arms. No sleep. Too much caffeine.
No shower. He was still in last night’s gig clothes and leather cuffs.
His BO was offending himself. Tyler had driven them away from the precinct just before noon and only stopped once at a truck stop for breakfast, coffee, a toothbrush and deodorant. He didn’t even have his phone.
He wouldn’t dare look at it, either, hoping for messages from a girl who was gone now.
He didn’t want to think about his empty cabin waiting for him at home, and Ty, the asshole, wasn’t talking much, either, only mentioning that the band needed him in Austin and the band had used T.R.
’s truck to haul equipment which was why Ty was driving him.
It was already five in the afternoon and illness roiled.
Why the hell even bother if Charlie wasn’t there? They needed that banjo. They needed her presence. But that flinch. That damned flinch…
Those wide, betrayed eyes kept slicing his heart.
How could he sing about his flower girl when he didn’t have her anymore?
He’d do it for Bo and Jack, they deserved their shot too.
But he’d fucked them all over, keeping the past from Charlie while he grew attached to her and the girl, grew attached to the idea of roots, too much of a chickenshit to be honest and deal with the consequences whatever they might be, because the first time he’d actually had a chance to become something to someone he’d been too afraid to lose it.
Tyler hit the gas on the straightway and sailed over a speed bump, finally slowing when he reached the parking attendants as music thumped and the crowd roared in the distance—college students by the look of it, probably fraternities and sororities earning service hours—in their reflective vests, scowling at him for speeding, holding out their wands for him to stop.
Ty rolled down his window.
“Sir, it’s ten miles per hour—”
“He’s with one of the bands.” Tyler thumbed toward him. “McClintock and the Disclaimers. We raced all day to get here. Can I drive up to the stage?”
“No sir. Unloading access was closed at noon and won’t reopen again until set break for bands to load their gear.”
An attendant with an iPad and basket interjected. “Did you say McClintock?”
“Yes, T.R … Thaddeus,” T.R. said, leaning over the console to look out Ty’s window as the guy perused a list with a stylus.
“Here. Put this on or you’re not getting backstage.” He held out a badge and lanyard with his name and VIP access. “Your band’s been worried about you making it. We bumped you to the final act. Ten acts total and they’re already on act six.”
“Shoot.” He shoved open the passenger door to run. “It’s my only shot at somethin’—”
Tyler grabbed his forearm.
“No it ain’t. If you don’t win, you got the farm still.”
He scoffed. How dare the bastard. “Yeah, for how long, man? Till you sell it and the new owner lets everyone go to hire on their own staff?”
Tyler grinned. Actually grinned. Then the bastard actually chuckled. He rummaged behind the seat of the extended cab, pulling out a file.
“Jeezus, this some sick joke?” T.R. seethed. “You know it’ll take me ten years to read all this, and you decide hey, right before he goes and sucks on stage, I better drive a last thorn into his side and make him read about the sale of … the farm…”
Except his name, in bold, jumped out.
He began to focus. He didn’t have his prism glasses, and covered the first line with his thumb, dragging it slowly aside to read…
“Co-owner?” he croaked, meeting Ty’s gaze.
Ty’s smile remained but his chuckling had stopped.
He nodded. “You learn the business ropes. Get a seat on the board. And don’t get me wrong, I want to recoup some of the money I’ve put into the damned headache but …
yeah. After two years, you buy out my half at a value we agree on and …
it’s yours.” He gripped T.R.’s shoulder, voice falling guttural. “Always shoulda been—”
“I’m sorry, but can you keep moving to the next parking space?” the attendant said, directing them even farther from the stage.
“Bail here, man…” Tyler said, but T.R. was lost for words.
What he’d always wanted. Right here in his grip. Emotions he had no words for swirled, disorientating in his mind.
“You really have to move, sir,” the attendant complained.
“Go on, asshole. Git.” Ty shoved his shoulder fraternally now, thumping him into the door. “Jack brought a fresh T-shirt for you.”
T.R. slammed the door and sprinted.
The stage was across at least eight acres of parked vehicles, not to mention the cordoned-off field by the river where the crowd swelled in front of the stage scaffolding. The sun, late in the day, still boiled.
The farm … was he happy? Or just in shock? And yet without Charlie and Daisy … would it be as special of a place with memories of them there now that would never go away?
He was thankful for his Stetson to hide the disarray beneath.
His face wasn’t shaven. And sprinting like a track star in shitkickers was blisters waiting to happen.
But as he wove through vehicles, as he dodged food trucks and peered over heads to find the VIP entrance, as bands shifted, and the ninth band was announced and took to the stage amid a roar of cheers, he arrived at the security guard, T-shirt sticking to his frame.
“McClintock and the Disclaimers.” He huffed for air, swiping his sweat, as they unlocked the turnstile and let him through.
Speakers blared. He made it through the maze of stanchions and ropes, up the stairs, and backstage just as the band finished hard and waved to the audience.
He thought he smelled lilac. His eyes darted every direction. No Charlie. But Bo and Jack were sitting on stools, waiting with the stage manager who held an iPad and wore an earpiece.
“Jeezus, man, cutting it close?” Jack said as he bolted off his stool.
T.R. shook his head and scoured his scratchy jaw.
“You look like shit, man.” Bo chuckled. “What happened? All we knew is that you were gonna be late.”
“Long story. Ty said you had a fresh T-shirt?”
Jack threw a rolled-up shirt at him as he tore off his hat, ripped his old tee off.
Huh. This shirt was his, not a loaner. The boys must have swung by his place to rummage in his drawers.
He yanked it over his pecs and raked his fingers through his hair, tousling it, before slapping his Stetson back down.
Bo handed him a pick as the crew darted about to set up their instruments, when he saw them place a banjo on a stand. Charlie’s banjo? Not his? He looked around again, but it was just the three of them. Jack and Bo must not know. They must have grabbed it by mistake.
“Look, what d’you say we play ‘Texas True’ instead? With only three of us we can pull it off,” T.R. said, trying to master his lungs.
Hella good he’d sound huffing like a warbling rooster into the mic after his Olympic best at distance running.
The manager turned to them, a finger on his earpiece. “Sixty seconds, guys.”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “We didn’t warm up with it, and we haven’t played it in a long time. We oughta stick to the plan. What do you think, Bo?”
Bo shrugged. “We haven’t played ‘Texas True’ in months.”
“Where’s, uh, Charlie?” he hedged, taking the earpiece the tech crew gave him and affixing it to his ear, clipping the transmitter to his belt at his back.
Jack looked away. Bo gave his signature shrug again and stood, as the manager motioned them.
That was a hell if I know if he’d ever seen one. She’d been attacked last night. Hurt. Her and Daisy were probably back at her house with the busted window and the sagging floors and memories of Jason beating on doors.
The illness roiled again. He swallowed hard to hold the bile in and cleared his throat to loosen the tightness that kept gripping him.
“I’ll repay y’all the registration fee when my auto works engine coughs up a payment.”
Bo and Jack glanced at each other, frowning. “What fee? We didn’t pay a fee—”
“This next one, y’all, has taken East Texas by storm!
” the master of ceremonies, an Austin radio personality, reverberated through the speakers.
“Regular features on our partner station KXLT 102 the Goat’s Homegrown Hour, they’ve made waves with their newest song ‘Flower Girl’ and their signature style hearkening to old school classics and bluegrass pickin’—”
T.R.’s chest squeezed again. Fuck! He pounded his chest. The crowd and the judges were going to expect the banjo. But he was only one set of hands and there’d be no melody without the guitar.
“With only four minutes to wow the judges, let’s give it up for the final act of the Homegrown Awards Show! With more than a decade on the music circuit, maybe this will be a big break foooorrr … McClintooooock aaaannd the Disclaimers!”
The crowd roared, like rivers rushing over a fall.
“Three, two, one … go.”
The manager gestured out stage right. Into the lights projecting down from the batten. Into the setting sun hovering over the trees and shining onto their faces.
They waved to the flock. T.R. forced a smile, raising his guitar pick high as light glinted off his belt buckle, as Jack saluted and Bo waved his sticks and then climbed up to the drum set perched on a platform behind them.