Chapter 21 #2
I look over my shoulder at Jameson hustling toward me. What the fuck is it with cops following me lately? I’m usually better at evading this shit. “Unless you’re going to tell me I look pretty, Detective, I’ve got somewhere to be,” I call out.
Inside that station last night exercised the very last of my patience. I got home late, then spent the day finally working through commission requests and voicemails from my agent. And now, I want to see the woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
“I’ll take a ride if you’re heading out for Full Moon Fest,” he says, now standing next to the passenger door. When I raise my narrowed eyes to his, he holds up his hand. “Tommy mentioned you were going. I didn’t peg you for a bluegrass guy.”
I look over at his truck, but he’s already got the back door of my Bronco open, sliding his guitar across the back seat before I can ask why he won’t drive himself.
“Not so much a bluegrass guy as I am a Wyn Crowne guy,” I tell him honestly.
He shuts the door and looks at me with a shit-eating grin.
With the exception of Nash, not much seems to crack the detective’s deliberately stoic exterior. I understand it. Career aside, I know the effectiveness of taking emotions out of situations—I’ve been doing it most of my life. Until recently.
“We haven’t known each other very long, but you smiling like that is throwing me off,” I say to him jokingly.
He shakes his head. “You’re throwing a lot of people off around here. But I’m not going to pretend I’m not glad to hear that, about Wyn. I mean, the bluegrass part’s a shame. You might change your mind on that one once you see this thing we’re heading to.”
I flip on the radio and glance in the back seat. “A musician and a cop? Wouldn’t have guessed that one, either, Detective.”
He sniffs out a laugh. “Haven’t been one in a long time. Tommy dug that thing out of his workspace and casually left it for me outside my bedroom door this morning.”
That seems to be a bit of a pattern for Tommy, digging things up. The pieces I found that connected my dad to this place seem like an anchor to a life I don’t know anything about.
“I used to live here, I’d play at this festival once a month every summer, and then left for a while,” he says, pausing.
“I’m a couple towns over now. I’m in and out of Rumor for cases.
Thought I’d miss this month’s full moon, but this bullshit with Billings has kept me here for way longer than necessary. Tonight is a silver lining.”
I wanted to know a little more about the body I’d erased. “Heard some interesting things at Moonie’s about him,” I offer.
“Billings?” he asks.
I nod, and he adds, “Yeah, I’m sure you did. Everyone in this town really makes sure it earns its namesake, but the more I hear about the shit Billings was involved in—” He cuts himself off. “I doubt he ran off with someone. I’m almost positive it’ll end up in my caseload soon enough.”
A few minutes go by of listening to the sound of Stevie’s voice play over the speakers, talking about the stupidity of local law enforcement. “I’m assuming this is the episode Fury detained her for?” I ask him.
He’s trying to keep from laughing when he says, “If I had to guess. I mean, she’s not wrong. Although, the visual of Sheriff Fury fucking himself on a pogo stick, as she so eloquently put it, is one I didn’t need.
“Turn down that way.” He points to the unmarked road up to the left.
“There’s a small bar in the next town that hosts bluegrass sessions every Sunday,” he says, looking out ahead at the park beyond the dirt and gravel lot.
“This is something entirely different.” Leaning forward, he points to the row of cars parked off to the side up ahead.
“Pull up on the end there. We’re not going to find a spot any closer right now. ”
“This happens once a month?” I ask, hopping out once I’ve parked.
He nods, meeting my stride around the front of the truck.
“Every full moon, every summer, for almost as long as I can remember, just about every musician who’s ever heard a chord and tried to play, comes out here.
He lets out a clipped laugh. “Helluva time and maybe one of the few charming things left of small-town living.”
Food trucks and grills with spit roast barbecue line the perimeter of the park while the distinct sounds of bluegrass, from guitars and mandolins to harmonicas and accordions fill the air.
There isn’t a single moment in my life that I thought I’d be walking through a festival in Tennessee with a homicide detective, much less enjoying his company while doing so.
The music drowns out the collision of it all.
“Want a beer?” the detective asks as we walk up past a makeshift beer garden.
I nod as I scan the crowd. The ever-growing band seems to take up the farthest part of the vast lawn.
It’s the biggest small-town gathering I’ve ever seen.
Black strings of round bulbed lights drape across the wide field from tree to tree.
There aren’t any stages or any kind of production other than what’s needed for people to hear the music being played.
There have to be at least twenty, maybe more, musicians all keeping time.
Speakers are peppered along the long rows of wooden tables and benches.
Every seat looks taken as people drink beer from pitchers or sip from brightly colored cans with the name stamped Yazoo.
Popcorn overflows from plastic picnic baskets and flimsy paper plates hold dark, slathered barbecue and bright-yellow cornbread.
Couples move around the dance floor, some line dancing in unison, but most twirling like they’ve danced with their partners for so long they don’t even think about the steps.
It’s when the crowd breaks off and the singer at the center hits their chorus that I see her.
It’s like a collision of relief and adrenaline inside of me the second she turns.
She laughs at something her sister says, and I find myself smiling along with her, regardless of being at least a hundred feet away.
She’s swapped her tailored trousers and satin blouse for a short skirt and cowgirl boots.
Between the tight jean vest and her hair pulled up off her neck, I can’t help but stare. Damn.
“I like Wyn. Smart and always the most level-headed of that family. I’m glad she’s found her footing since she’s been back,” he says, taking a sip of his beer. I can see him looking at me out of my periphery.
I nod, listening, because while I like him, I’m not about to trust him.
He furrows his brow, turning toward me. “But I’m curious if she’s told you what she was doing out there? Where you met.”
I unclench my jaw and tip my beer to take a sip. I’ve been waiting for the rest of what he wanted, because he sure as shit didn’t need a ride.
“I know enough,” I say, trying to keep my emotions in check. “Is this the part where you play protector and say something that’ll end in me getting arrested?” I turn to him and flash a smile.
He nods and huffs out a laugh in response.
We both watch on as Wyn steps over to where Birdie is set up.
An ornate rug with a table at its center.
Birdie’s perched behind it, with another person sitting across.
Lit lanterns aren’t giving off much in the way of lighting, but it sets the mood of what I would assume is either palm or the tarot readings that she’s so known for doing.
“That wasn’t what I planned, but I will say this, and take it exactly as I mean it.
” I turn to look at him once again. “That woman has been through enough. The entire family, really, but Wyn has lived through things that most wouldn’t.
So if you’re bringing more trouble her way, I’m not asking nicely, Colton.
” He clears his throat. “Tommy won’t say it, so I will.
I’m telling you to get the fuck out of here now if you’re going to make more of a mess for her. ”
A part of me respects and appreciates that she has someone to say it. The irony is that I typically clean up problems, not make new ones.
I drain what’s left of my beer, giving myself a minute not to overplay this.
It feels genuine and like he’s coming from a good place.
“I have a feeling you understand what it’s like to be an outlier here.
” I shake my head, swallowing past a sudden lump in my throat.
“The new guy, showing up at the wrong time . . . but I’ve been trying to find her since the moment I thought I wouldn’t see her again. ”
He tips his chin up, listening intently to the honesty of what I’m sharing.
I look out at the crowd, taking inventory of the faces—very few that I recognize from my short time here. “I’m not planning on hurting anyone, but most definitely not her.”
It must be enough for him, because he nods and pivots the conversation. “Theo mentioned you were on the invite for our next guys’ night.”
I glance at the detective, and then back to the crowd, trying to catch Wyn’s eye.
“Did he?” I ask, feeling like being included with these men might not be the worst idea.
If I was going to be here, then carving out a place with the men woven between the Crownes seemed like it’s exactly where I should be.
I’ve been so used to coming and going, spending time with friends while I’m in and out of their towns, I don’t think I’ve ever been included a guys night.
Stevie walks ahead of Wyn, holding Nash’s hand on her way toward the horde of musicians, but Wyn stops to talk to someone, maybe two people. Who is that?
Jameson continues as I try to see through the crowd. “Listen, Nash heard him say the guys’ night thing, too, which basically means you have no choice now.” He’s about to take another sip, but then stops his cup halfway to his mouth just as someone new starts singing over the mic.