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I spin in his arms, needing to see him.
He’s been off the last few days. He’s still come in for dinner and gone home with me. But the urgency in his touch, the way he murmurs my name, and the punishing way he’s made love to me, as though he can’t get deep enough inside my body, are different. It feels like he’s marking me again and again, holding me tighter and tighter, which would be amazing if I didn’t feel a sense of sadness beneath the layers of his smiles.
He’s grieving the loss of the contract. He probably will for days and weeks to come. On some level, tonight might feel like a step backward even though people are clamoring for him to sing, already creating a buzzing energy in the bar.
“I only care about one fan, and she’s in my arms,” he murmurs into the breath of space between us.
“I love you,” I reply. He’s wanted to hear it again and again, the chorus to our moments together.
One of his hands moves to cup my cheek, the other gripping my ass tightly. He kisses me like he can’t get enough of me, and I let him take what he needs, anything he wants to stay steady and strong.
“I love you too,” he whispers against my lips. I take his breath into my lungs, wanting him to be only mine for a second longer.
It’s not meant to be, though.
“Bobby!” a voice calls out from across the room. “Woohoo! Welcome back, man!”
“Your fans await,” I tell him. “And my customers are getting thirsty.”
There’s no way Unc could sleep, or even doze, through the noise of this crowd. The pool table balls crack, people cheer and talk, and the jukebox is playing nonstop.
He comes out, offers me a nod, and perches on his stool. He must’ve stopped by the kitchen on his way down the hall because Ilene comes out a few minutes later with a plate filled, and I do mean filled, with scrambled eggs and buttered toast.
He looks better, maybe not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but open-eyed and upright, at least. And eating.
I keep manning the bar, letting him finish as much of the breakfast-for-dinner meal as he can. When I step down to his end to get a few drafts, he pats my hand with his. That’s his version of saying thanks. I don’t need him to, but it feels good to know that he appreciates my help.
Since our talk, when we both came clean, he’s been better about accepting that I’m here for him. I won’t go so far as to say he’s happy about my doing things for him, but I think he’s letting me if that’s what it takes to keep me here.
In the long run, I think fixing what’s left of our family is important to us both.
He finishes, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, and sets the empty plate in the sink. At least I know he got that down, and as long as it stays that way, the protein will be good for him.
He washes his hands and tells me, “Okay, Willow-girl, I’ve got the beers. You’ve got the mixers.”
I nod and keep at it.
What seems like minutes later, I hear a few strummed chords vibrate through the room and look up, already smiling.
Bobby is onstage, his hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it. He slips a guitar pick between his teeth, the flash of white almost smile-like, but he scrubs his palm over his stubble without joy. Taking the pick out, he strums again.
“Hey, everyone. I’m Bobby Tannen,” he says, giving his usual bare-boned intro. After a moment, he adds, “Some of you know I went to Nashville last weekend. It was . . . big.” The crowd laughs, leaning forward to get any crumbs of information they can direct from the source. “Afraid you’re not getting rid of me that easily, though.”
That’s all he says about not getting the deal we all thought he would. It takes people a second to realize what he means, and I can see the surprise dawn on their faces. A murmur of disbelief goes through the crowd, but it’s covered by Bobby starting his first song.
I freeze, letting the grit and gravel of his voice wash over me. His pain threads through every note, adding a break to the end of a line he holds out too long. As his voice cries, my heart does too.
He’s amazing, truly gifted. I have no idea what NCR Records could be thinking or what more they could possibly want. Bobby is everything music should be about—heart, soul, rhythm, and connecting people through lyrics that stick in your mind and resonate in your spirit.
The crowd sways with the music, under his spell the same way I am.
