Southern Rocker Boy (Southern Rockers Book 1) (5 page)

I couldn’t stop thinking about her, no matter how hard I tried.

I would take a page from Gaynell’s book and overlook her attitude, to help her succeed whether she wanted to or not.

By the time I got there, however, she and Gaynell were going toe-to-toe over wardrobe. Gaynell wanted her in a leather mini-skirt. Lacy wasn’t having it.

“Those assholes are going to try and see up my skirt,” Lacy said.

“Yep,” Gaynell agreed. Lacy was floored. “And Jonah will stand as a barrier between. The more appealing we make you, and the less accessible, the better for your brand.”

“My
brand
?” Lacy sneered. “What am I? A set of tires?”

“You are a product, baby girl,” Gaynell told her. “The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.”

“Fuck that,” Lacy responded hotly. “I’m not wearing it. Period. It’s not me.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” Gaynell said. “I think you’ll find, the more famous you get, it’s not a bad idea to have a disguise. This,” she said, referring to the stage, “is completely different than your real life. It has to be.”

“I won’t let anyone get to you,” I promised as I made my presence known. Gaynell smiled for the backup, but Lacy very nearly growled as she stared at me. “No one will see a thing. I promise.”

“No one but you, I guess,” she snarled.

“I’d have to be interested enough to look, darlin’,” I told her with my own cock-eyed grin. That took a little wind from her sails. She grabbed the skirt and headed backstage. When she emerged again, she was wearing thigh-high boots, the leather skirt, a red top with spaghetti straps showing off all her tattoos, and a studded Fedora. She looked amazing. I couldn’t stop staring even if I wanted to.

She strutted past me. “You might want to roll your tongue back in your mouth, Mr. Disinterested,” she said.

My job that evening was to help form a line between the stage and the crowd with three other bouncers. I stood center-stage, where Lacy would presumably perform, and the whole vibe gave the crowd the impression that Lacy was someone important, rather than some underpaid placeholder for the headliner that night, which just happened to be a band from England, who had just hit the Top 40 list in the states.

The crowd was just as rowdy as the night before. I came face-to-face with several drunks in the crowd who wanted to get a look up Lacy’s skirt. Most backed off when I raised my hand. Some had to be physically held back, especially when she launched into a Pink anthem that basically promised every single one of them only had their hand to look forward to that night.

I had to keep my back to her throughout her act, which sucked. I could tell from the faces in the crowd she was killing it. I would have loved to have watched the show. But I had a job to do and I was determined to do it. After she left the stage, I headed backstage. I was to escort her out of the club while the second band was performing.

It gave me a little downtime, which I planned to use getting a little closer to Lacy. When I got backstage, however, the shirtless lead singer of the English band was hovering over her, trying his level best to charm her. “You really have something, love,” he said as he leered down at her. “Go on the road with us and I guarantee it will launch your career.”

She smirked. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Nah,” he said as he stroked her arm, despite the fact she tried to inch away from him. “Come back to my suite tonight. Five star hotel, imported champagne. You’ll see that I’m like no one you’ve ever met.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” she said as she spun away from him, right into my chest.

“Need some help?” I asked, glaring over her shoulder at the pseudo sex god behind her.

“No, mate,” he said as he tried to step between us. “We’re good.”

She sidestepped him. “I need to change.”

“Nah, baby, you’re fine just the way you are,” he said as he tried to run his finger along her hip.

“The lady said no,
mate
,” I told him. He glared at me like I was some peon, which, of course, I was. “Come on, Lacy,” I said and she gratefully followed.

“Thanks,” she said, her gratitude coming a lot easier than the night before. “This is why I don’t want to dress like a slut for my shows. Every guy who watches assumes it’s true.”

“Not every guy,” I told her. Our eyes met and she looked away.

“Gaynell isn’t going to be happy.”

“Why not?”

“You cater to the talent, don’t you know? Big act like that? They get whatever they want.”

I chuckled. “Well, call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think of women as party favors. You get to decide for yourself if he’s worth your time.” Our eyes met again. “And he wasn’t.”

This time she laughed, and the sound danced over my skin like velvet. “Right?” We reached her dressing room.

“I’ll wait out here,” I said. She nodded and slipped inside. Fifteen minutes later she reemerged, looking like a whole new person in just a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She had rinsed away all the makeup, making her look younger and oddly more innocent, despite all the alterations she had done to her body. Her hair would have given her away anywhere, but she had it tucked under a black knit cap. She looked like a skater girl rather than a Goth sex goddess. She completed the disguise with dark-framed glasses. “Excuse me, miss? Can you tell me what happened to the slutty rock goddess?”

She laughed. “She’s hanging in a closet like she should be.”

We avoided the area where the headlining band was now romancing other wait staff and pre-selected groupies. Though we were supposed to wait until the second band performed, I tucked her under my arm and led her right out the side door, through the half-dozen drunks waiting around for the sex kitten in a miniskirt.

We walked, unnoticed, to her car in the parking lot. “I guess Gaynell really does know what she’s doing,” she said as she tossed her backpack in the back seat.

I indicated back to the large building that housed Southern Nights. “She’d have to.”

“Well, thank you anyway. Without your intervention, I would have taken a sip of ‘imported champagne’ and likely woken up in England.” She slid into the car.

“My pleasure,” I said, shutting the door behind her. I knelt down to her open window, which I was beginning to suspect was broken. “Maybe we could go out for lunch or something some time.”

She sighed. “I don’t do lunch.”

“Coffee?”

“I don’t do coffee.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I said as I searched her face. “Any reason why?”

Our eyes locked. “Yes,” she said, but did not expound on it.

“Fair enough,” I said as I stood.

“It’s nothing personal,” she said. “My life is just really... complicated.”

I nodded. I certainly understood that. “I guess I’ll see you next Friday, then.”

Slowly she smiled. “It’s a date.”

Her little car sputtered to life and wobbled out of the parking lot. I watched it disappear down the street before I went back into the club.

Gaynell pounced on me the minute I walked through the front doors. “Everything go off without a hitch, then?”

I nodded. “Although, I think the lead singer of your visiting band might be a little miffed at me for whisking her out of there before he could really lay on the charms.”

She laughed. “I filled his dressing room full of groupies. He’ll be fine.”

“So you’re not upset?”

“Oh, honey, no. You did what I hired you to do. You protected the talent. We’ll never have any quarrel as long as you’re protecting my interests.”

The way she said it told me that I wanted to avoid falling out of her favor. I didn’t think Gaynell Hollis was one to suffer fools gladly.

I felt more confident of my decision to take on this job as I drove back to the apartment that night. The work was fairly easy, and a lot more exciting than standing in some factory ten hours a day. Sure, it took me away from the family, but no more so than Daddy’s work on the farm would have done.

We still had Sundays. And suddenly I couldn’t wait to spend a day off with Mama and Leah.

I let myself in the door of our darkened apartment. Mama had fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room, a book opened on her chest. I covered her with an afghan her grandmother had knitted nearly a century ago. Before I could raid the fridge, I heard Leah suffer another coughing fit. I raced through the hall to get to her before she woke Mama. She was gasping for breath as I closed the door softly behind me. “You okay?” I asked and she nodded.

“Bad night,” she said. She patted the space on the bed next to her. Of course I joined her. “How was yours?”

“It was good. A lot of fun people. A lot of great music.”

Her eyes widened. “Did you play?”

I chuckled and shook my head. “Nah, that’s not my thing. You know that, Peanut.”

She wrinkled her nose at her childhood nickname. “You should play,” she told me. “You’re good enough.”

I tweaked her nose. “You have to say that because you’re my sister.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”

I couldn’t argue that. I brushed her hair from her face, staring into her cloudy eyes. She was exhausted but couldn’t sleep thanks to the lingering respiratory infection. I fluffed her pillows so she could incline as she rested. She grabbed my hand. “Sing to me?”

I softened immediately. “Of course,” I said. I pulled my guitar out from under the bed. “Any requests?”

She crossed her arms and pursed her lips as she thought about it. “Sing something you heard tonight,” she said. “So I pretend that I was there with you.”

Her words broke my heart. I started to sing one of the songs Lacy performed, but slowed it way down into a ballad. Leah smiled as she nestled in her covers. She was asleep before the last note was done. I slid the guitar back under the bed. Before I left, I stooped to kiss my sister’s head. “You’re always with me, Peanut,” I said.

I turned off the light and closed the door behind me.

If I thought the first week of factory work was long and monotonous, it was nothing compared to Week Two. Now that I had another job to compare it to, all the repetitive tasks as a cog in the machine wore my spirit down more than usual. I couldn’t wait until the end of the week, when I could get to Southern Nights again.

When I could see her again.

I thought about Lacy constantly throughout the week. Every song I heard on the radio I wished I could hear in her voice. Gaynell was right. She was destined to be a star. I was excited that I could be around to watch it happen.

More than that, I couldn’t wait to unravel the mystery of this pixie powerhouse. She could pivot from sweetheart to bitch on a dime. Why? What had she been through? How had she been hurt? Or was she naturally a feisty wolverine that could tear your arm off the minute you got too close?

She reminded me of a raccoon I had as a kid. Bandit was an informal pet; no one really knew I had him. I found him behind the barn when I was all of twelve. He’d been wounded in some kind of skirmish and could barely move his back leg. I approached cautiously, knowing what kind of danger the wild animal posed. But it was clear to see the poor thing was merely wounded, not diseased, and it was really pissed off that it couldn’t get away.

For a week solid I brought him a little food and water to eat, getting a little closer each and every time, until I could put the bowls right next to his mouth. He eyed me cautiously from the beginning. I was like a hundred times his size and his defenses were all compromised. What poor critter wouldn’t be intimidated? I soothed him with my voice and my words. Eventually he was eating right out of my hand. I was able to cleanse his wounds, barely, and finally Courtney and I were able to take him to the county vet to set his leg.

By then Mama and Daddy were pretty cheesed off that I would have taken such a risk with a wild animal, but they knew it was in my blood. They didn’t punish me. Instead they paid the vet bill and we brought Bandit back home to recuperate until he was well enough to return to the wild.

No matter how long I had him, he still eyed me cautiously, weighing whether or not I would do him harm. I won him over slowly but barely. I think he was relieved to go when I set him free.

I never saw him again.

Lacy reminded of me of that raccoon. She’d been wounded somehow, scarred. I knew I could help her if she let me, but I’d have to convince her that I posed no threat, despite our difference in size and, most importantly, my gender. I wasn’t like the rest of the drunks who harassed her, who thought she owed them something simply because they thought she was hot.

These were the kinds of backwards-thinking men who thought all women owed all men something by virtue of being women. If they were unattractive, these guys were pissed they didn’t work harder to lose weight, wear makeup, dress nice or look young. If they were attractive, these guys believed that they owed them all the physical attention they wanted, just because they wanted it.

It pissed me off something fierce. If any boy ever dared treat my mother or my sister that way, they’d be looking down the service end of my shotgun. I was raised to believe women were treasures to prize, not possessions to own.

I suspected that Lacy hadn’t been introduced yet to a man like that.

It was about damned time that she was.

By the time Friday rolled around I was busting to see her again. I cashed my check from the factory, grabbed something greasy from a drive-thru and headed home to shower and change. I stopped only to kiss Leah’s head and hug Mama, before I sprinted to my bedroom.

The more I thought about Lacy, the more excited I got. I took special time with my cropped brown hair, and shaved again before dipping into one of my favorite colognes. Then I slipped into the black, short-sleeved T-shirt with SOUTHERN NIGHTS proudly emblazoned on the front, and SECURITY printed across the back. I stepped into my best-fitting pair of jeans and, of course, my boots, before I was out the door and heading to the pulse of Austin.

My shift started at nine o’clock, but I was there before eight, even before the doors opened. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of Lacy rehearsing, just like the week before. And, just like the week before, she and Gaynell were going head to head over costume choices. Gaynell was willing to cave on the blue jeans as long as she wore a red and black corset on top. You would have thought she was asking her to wear pasties and a fig leaf.

“I’m not some prostitute!” she screamed.

“Lacy Abernathy can be whomever she wants,” Gaynell told her, before revealing the new program. “But Blaze knows how to pack a house.”

Lacy stared at the paper, which showed an artist rendering of her new alter ego, based on the miniskirt she had been forced to wear the week before. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I watched from the sidelines, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. I could understand her anger, but I was more afraid that her hotheadedness would torpedo her career before it even got off the ground. A darkening cloud crossing Gaynell’s face only reinforced that fear.

“No, I am not
fucking kidding
you. When you signed the contract to work here, you gave me creative control to help your career in whatever way I thought best. This isn’t my first rodeo, honey. I know what I’m doing. And if you had any idea what you were doing, you wouldn’t need to sing for me.”

I could see anger rise in the petite songstress. Surprisingly, she said nothing.

Gaynell shoved a garment bag at Lacy. “Welcome to Southern Nights, Blaze.”

Lacy snatched it and stalked away. I wasn’t sure she’d perform right up until her set was introduced. “For the first time anywhere, Southern Nights is proud to introduce our very own Blaze!”

I held my breath as the spotlights gradually filled the stage with red, white and blue lights. I knew from the opening notes that Lacy had changed the set, opting to start her set with “Bad Reputation” by Joan Jett.

When the spotlight hit her, she was indeed wearing her leather pants and the corset, but underneath it she wore a torn black T-shirt so that she didn’t bare any inch of skin she didn’t want to. I glanced over to Gaynell, who had infiltrated the crowd. Her face was wooden but her eyes were dark and lethal at the open defiance.

Despite the angry anthem and the costume change, the drunks, obviously regulars at the club, didn’t really give a shit what she sang or what she wore. She was a hot little piece of ass in their book either way, and the more inaccessible she made herself, the more entitled they got that they could say anything and do anything they wanted. One guy tried to grab at her when she stalked his side of the stage. She nearly kicked his hand away, but I intercepted the blow. I was taken aback by the strength she possessed for such a tiny girl.

I should have never underestimated the power of anger.

It sustained her through her next two songs before she exited gratefully from the stage. I headed immediately backstage, where Gaynell was already waiting to bawl out her opening act.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded as Lacy skipped down the stairs, blotting her face with a towel to sop up some of the sweat.

“That was Blaze,” Lacy shot back. “You want me to play a character, that’s fine. But I get to decide what that character is.”

They stood, staring each other down, for a good minute or so before Lacy sidestepped her and headed for her dressing room. “I should have gone with Cherry,” Gaynell gritted before she took a deep breath and she turned to me. “Are you sure you can’t sing?”

I said nothing and she headed back out into the club. I was leaning against the wall near her door when Lacy reemerged. “Hey,” she greeted, much softer now that she was out of costume and, by default, out of character.

“Hey,” I said as looked down at her freshly scrubbed face. “You okay?”

She nodded. “How about your hand?”

I smiled as I held up my palm for her inspection. “Barely a broken bone.”

She offered a small smile. “Sorry I kicked you.”

“My fault for getting in the way,” I said. “Heading to your car?”

She shook her head. “I should probably go collect my last check.”

“Gaynell’s not going to fire you,” I said.

She chortled. “What makes you so sure?”

I indicated that she should follow me, which she did with no complaint. We peered out through the crease in the partition between the backstage area and the stage, surveying the crowd milling around on the dance floor. “That crowd is twice as big as last week, with no national act to headline.” She said nothing as she took it all in. “You give Gay six months and you’ll be the headlining act. I’m sure of it.”

She glanced up at me where I towered over her petite frame. “You think?”

I nodded. “You just have to meet her halfway is all.”

She nodded, but kept quiet as she went back into her dressing room to retrieve her bag. I followed her, though she didn’t technically invite me. “No easy escape this week,” I told her. “There’s already a crowd of admirers at the door.”

She chuckled. “Ironic, isn’t it?” she mused. “I started singing to share what I thought was my gift with the world, but the more I give, the more they want to take.”

I sat on the chair in the corner, next to her makeup table. “You should share your gift, Lacy. It’s incredible.” She eyed me as suspiciously as my old raccoon friend, Bandit. “Confession? I’ve waited all week to hear you sing.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You did not.”

“I did,” I said, crossing my heart with my finger. “Every song that came on the radio I wanted to hear sung by you.”

“Yeah?” she asked as she sat in the makeup chair. “I hate doing covers,” she confessed. “I really want to do my own stuff but she says I have to get a following first.”

I nodded with my head to the roaring crowd on the other side of the stage. “Six months,” I reiterated. “Or you could stop singing, pick up a security T-shirt and work with the rest of us grunts,” I added with a grin.

She pursed her lips as she considered my words. Finally she reached for a spiral folder, which she handed to me. “Pick one.”

I opened the folder and it was filled with sheet music to hundreds of songs. These were obviously the pre-approved songs Gaynell had instructed her to sing. It was a mix between classic rock, southern rock and current hits. I thumbed through until I found one I had heard all week and had desperately jonesed for her to sing. Only she could match Pink’s powerful vocals, and it was hard-edged enough that, while a ballad, it hit right in the gut. It opened her up to a vulnerability I wanted to see if she possessed.

“That’s not what I would have guessed that you would pick,” she said as she studied the music.

I had to laugh. “Why not?”

“Good ol’ country boy like you?” she said with a grin of her own. “Right down to your shit-kickers.”

“Teach you to judge someone by the way they dress, Miss Abernathy,” I drawled.

Her smile softened. I knew it meant something to her that I saw her as she really was instead of some product.

I walked her out to the car as soon as the next act took the stage. I noticed that she had taken the sheet music to study, which made me look more forward to seeing her again. Southern Nights lost a lot of its sparkle when her dilapidated old car disappeared out of some to parts of Austin unknown.

It wasn’t much.

But I felt a few inches closer.