Sweet Seduction Serenade

Sweet Seduction Serenade

Book Two in the Sweet Seduction Series

By Nicola Claire

Copyright © 2013, Nicola Claire

All Rights Reserved

Kindle Edition

ISBN: 978-0-473-23573-4

http://nicolaclaire.blog.com/

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

More books by Nicola Claire:

Kindred Series

Kindred

Blood Life Seeker

Forbidden Drink

Giver of Light

The View From Here: Volume I

Dancing Dragon

Shadow's Light

Entwined With The Dark

Mixed Blessing Mystery Series

Mixed Blessing

Sweet Seduction Series

Sweet Seduction Sacrifice

For:

All those romantics who like

a little Garth Brooks in their life.

And for my sister, who introduced me

to Garth Brooks all those years ago.

(Oh, and of course, for Garth Brooks himself -

my Sweet Seduction Serenade muse).

Every author will tell you that they are influenced by something when a story forms in their head. Everyday life, a trigger they've seen or heard or read. We live in a world so full of stimulation, that there is bound to be
something
that makes it through and settles in our hearts.

Garth Brooks was the influence for me whilst writing
Serenade
. I'd listened to him when I was younger, then moved away and found other artists that made me soar. But found him again when I decided I'd write a story about a singer and how music featured in her life. I chose Country and returned to my all time favourite Country singer: Garth Brooks.

The songs that featured the most on my MP3 player as I wrote this book, were from his
Ropin' The Wind
and
The Ultimate Hits
albums.

And appear below in no particular order:

Burning Bridges
written by Garth Brooks and Stephanie C. Brown

Which One of Them
written by Garth Brooks

Shameless
written by Billy Joel

Cold Shoulder
written by Garth Brooks, Kent Blazy and Kim Willaims

Rodeo
written by Larry Bastian

The Thunder Rolls
written by Garth Brooks and Pat Algar

The Dance
written by Tony Arata

Wrapped Up In You
written by Wayne Kirkpatrick

Standing Outside The Fire
written by Garth Brooks and Jenny Yates

I've Got Friends In Low Places
written by
DeWayne Blackwell and Earl Bud Lee.

I'd like to put a big shout-out to this talented artist and those who wrote these beautiful songs. They really did
soothe my ragged soul
.

Thanks, from this wannabe cowgirl-in-the-rodeo-ring.

"Eva! Get your arse in here, I can't make the commode!"

I let a long breath of air out on a sigh. There were definitely better ways to wake up. Hell there were better ways to torture yourself, but I was obviously a glutton for punishment.

"You hear me, girl? You deaf or somethin'?"

I rubbed a hand over my face and pushed my tangle of tumble-weed hair off my face. If I had time, I'd brush it, like I did every morning and night back home. But since I've been here, I haven't had time for a lot of things. Today, that would change.

"Eva!"

"I'm coming, Dad. Hold your horses."

"Ah, it's too late, girl. I've gone and messed the bed."

Ah darn. It was enough to make a cowgirl cry and we don't cry easily.

I stumbled out of bed and hit the play button on my MP3 player, the Dixie Chick's
Cowboy Take Me Away
started blaring out of the portable speakers from beside my bed. If I was going to have to clean up my father's mess, I needed a little encouragement.

Bypassing the multiple towers of Lipton Tea boxes down either side of the central hall of his council flat, I slipped into the bathroom and raided the newly purchased cleaning gear I'd stashed in the cupboard there. Clean sheets, warm soapy water and a sponge, I braced for the task ahead.

"Number ones or number twos?" I asked cheerfully as I walked into his dimly lit bedroom. I could smell the ammonia from out in the hall. His bladder had to have been full.

"Just wees, girl. You're lucky this time," he grumbled uncharitably from his slumped position on the bed.

"Okey dokey then," I said with false bravado as I prepared a clean towel on the seat beside his bed and helped him move across to it, managing to removed his sodden night wear in the process. "You sponge yourself down, while I deal with the sheets," I suggested.

"What, I gotta clean myself too? What good are you then, girl?"

"If you like, I can leave it up to Gabe. Or maybe your latest girlfriend? Where is she anyway?" Great and now I felt guilty for biting back. I shook my head in disgust at myself. My father had always been a no-hoper, skank-loving, barely-present parent as I grew up, but the man was dying of cancer. The least I could do was see out his final days with a smile on my face.

"You know damn well that Gabe'd be here if he could. The light of my life that boy. Bloody saint."

Yeah, a real saint, currently spending five to eight behind the fortified walls of Mt Eden Prison for car theft and possession of cannabis for supply. And like he'd be wiping our father's bum or tucking him in at night if he wasn't.

"And Sharon left me," Dad mumbled, chucking the now used sponge back in the bowl.

I stood upright from the bed. "I'm sorry, Dad."

He grunted, then added, "I'm cold. Grab me some clothes."

I helped him into clean underwear and clothes and then made him use his walker to head out to the lounge, while I finished off in the room. Disinfectant makes him feel nauseous, so I have to use a splash of lemon and vinegar to get rid of the smell, with copious amounts of hot soapy water. In the three months that I've been back I've picked up a trick or two. Shame these skills won't help me land a recording contract.

I threw the dirty laundry into the washer and came out to prepare his breakfast and make sure he took his meds. We had a routine going, it wasn't much, but it worked. I was slowly chucking out all the crap accumulated over the past fifteen years of hoarding anything and everything, detail cleaning his house in the process, all the while feeding him and making his last months, if not comfortable, then at least liveable.

What he wanted with over three hundred full boxes of Lipton Tea I did not know, but
convincing him that they were a fire hazard in the house and needed to be stored in the shed out back took six weeks. They were on my list to scrap tomorrow. Whatever made it to the "shed" never saw that light of day again. So far I'd discarded seven-hundred-and-twenty-eight dog-eared magazines and faded newspapers. Twenty 50 watt light bulbs, thirty 75 watt light bulbs and a whopping great big ninety-three 100 watt light bulbs. Broken toasters, sandwich presses and kettles coming out the wazoo. A room full of moth eaten hand knitted jerseys. Fourteen battery operated transistor radios. Nineteen boxes of  'C' sized batteries to go in them. Five cases of bottled water. Three boxes of canned goods, labels all peeled off. And, the hardest of all, twenty-one underfed, flea bitten, cats.

It had been a hard, long three months.

But tonight I would break free of the monotony, even treat myself to a mini-makeover; body lotion, make-up, the works. And sing.

First, I needed to make sure Aunty Jessie was still on for father sitting duty.

I settled Dad at the table with his breakfast and pulled out my cellphone to dial my aunt. Dad's sister was just as low-rent as him, but she loved her brother and baby sitting him on the weekend was the only thing she'd willingly do that helped me. She did it for Dad, of course. Not her niece who was too big for her cowgirl boots and left the trailer-trash life, they all lived, behind eight years ago.

"What do ya want?" came Jessie's dulcet toned answer to her phone ringing down the line.

"Hey, Aunty Jessie, it's Eva."

"Yeah?" she grunted in reply.

"You still on for tonight?" I asked, making sure I didn't sound too desperate. If she had an inkling of how important tonight was for me, she'd ditch baby sitting duty, her love of her dear brother or not.

"Yeah, said I would, didn't I? I'll be there, Miss Hoity-Toity. Better make sure you leave me some food this time, your friggin' pantry was bare last week. Had to go get me some food from the corner store, your poor father was beside himself by the time I came back."

I frowned down at the floor. There'd been food. $330 dollars worth to be precise, purchased that morning by me. What there hadn't been was ciggies. And alcohol. And any other mood altering product she decided she simply had to have right then and there.

"There'll be food, Aunty Jessie. I made sure," I said meekly. There was no point riling her, she'd only turn up three hours late, or not at all. I had to be there on time, the guys were counting on me. Besides, Gen was opening the store especially, so we could sound test for a couple of hours to make sure the gig worked for us and her.

"Right then," she muttered. "Fuck off!" Then the phone went dead.

"Eva!"

"I'm right here, Dad," I said wearily.

"Get me some more tea, girl! A man could die of thirst with you around!"

"Coming right up."

I spent the rest of the day clearing out the back porch, which Dad had somehow turned into a depository for broken china and bent utensils. Not to mention a spider's perfect habitat. Three-hundred-and-forty-one pieces of crockery, six-hundred-and-three single pieces of cutlery, and over one thousand spiders - I was sure - later, and I was done.

Dad had eaten his lunch out on the back lawn, listening to Eden Terrace on a Saturday afternoon and the odd staunchly resistant bird in the Rimu trees nearby. I liked him to get a bit of sun, but being winter it had been hard. Today shone bright and clear however, so lunch out on the back lawn in his wheelchair it was.

By five in the evening he was waning, I wasn't feeling much better, but I still had several more hours of work ahead of me. At least the type of work I had planned, though, would make me soar.

I settled him into the couch with another cup of tea to watch the early news, while I took the opportunity to shower and finally brush my wayward hair. I'd cut it off, if I could, but Country singers tend to do better in Nashville if they have luscious long locks. Mine aren't necessarily luscious, or at least I don't think so, but it does come as far down as the top of my rear. Auburn, my best mate from home, Cary, calls it. He says the lights on stage make it glisten and sparkle, a halo fit for a cowgirl princess. Of course, I hide it beneath my
Bullhide
tan leather cowgirl hat, not to mention braid it in a thick plait down my back. Cary always teases me when I perform with my hair tied back. I reached for my hair tie now and in a fit of delusional rebellion decided I'd let it go natural tonight. If there was any hint Gen didn't want us to perform, maybe the hair would make her think twice.