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“Thank you.”
“Greg insisted I bring a sandwich back. Are you sure you won’t eat something?” he asks.
“I can’t.” I rub my fingers over my throat. “Besides being too nervous. It’s not good for my vocal cords.”
“You won’t mind if I do?” He lifts the box in one hand.
“Nope.” Honestly, I’m happy he has a distraction. Something about having him watch me get made up—false lashes and all—feels awfully intimate.
“What color is your dress tonight?” Cindy asks.
“The royal blue one with the teal and blue ruffles.”
She stares at her eyeshadow palette. “Gold. Let’s go with a smoky gold. Maybe a little teal liner on your lower lashes for some pop.”
“Go for it.” I close my eyes.
She’s slow and methodical, no longer ruffled by Rooster’s presence once she starts working.
“Lash time,” she announces minutes later.
I open my eyes, staring at the little packet in her hand.
“What do you think? Not too dramatic.”
Only a portion of Rooster’s long legs are visible to me in the mirror, so I can’t tell what he’s up to or if he’s even listening to us. I study the long, feathery lashes for a second. “They’re okay.”
She sets the packet on the counter and peels one off its backer, slowly flexing it between her fingers.
“Sit still, Shelby. Look right here.” Cindy points to a spot over her shoulder. The same ritual we go through every night. You’d think I’d be an expert by now, but I still flinch as the tweezers holding one of the lashes comes at my eye. “Close.”
She gently presses it down and then we repeat it with my right eye. When Cindy’s satisfied with my face and eyes, she steps back and studies her work. “Good. Go ahead and drink your tea while I start on your hair. We’ll do your lips last.”
“Thanks.”
While she works on brushing my hair, I sit forward and tear open the packet of honey and suck it down in one shot.
“Not for your tea?” Rooster rumbles.
My face heats enough to melt the foundation off my forehead. “A straight shot of it works better for me than diluting it in my tea.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch him nodding.
Even more nervous now that I know he’s paying such close attention; I sit forward and squeeze the slice of lemon into the paper cup of tea. Before taking a sip, I dip my finger in to check the temperature and take the tea bag out, setting it on a few tissues.
Rooster scoops it out of the way.
“You don’t have to—”
“Might as well be useful.”
I sip most of the tea down before I start warming up. Some nights, I’ll vocalize out loud. Other nights, I’ll hum some scales and concentrate on breathing exercises. Tonight, feels like a humming night. Cindy’s careful tug, brush, and curl of my hair soothes me. I close my eyes, humming my favorite scales, concentrating on the show ahead of me.
Don’t trip. Don’t croak. Don’t flash butt.
Nope, too negative. Concentrate on more positive mantras.
You’ll project the voice of an angel.
The sound will be great, not tinny.
Someone knocks, startling me out of my trance. Disoriented, I stare into the mirror, assessing Cindy’s handiwork while she leans over to open the door.
“Oh, Mr. Roads.” Her voice wobbles.
My heart stops.
“Hey, Cindy. Shelby.” He greets me with what my mama would call a thick East Tennessee brogue. Thumbs hooked into his belt loops, he strolls into the room. His gaze lands on Rooster and he tips his head. “Shelby’s guest.”
“Oh!” I spin around in the chair so fast I almost knock Cindy over. “Mr. Roads—”
“Dawson,” he corrects.
“Dawson, this is my friend, Logan. He lives nearby and came to see the show tonight.”
Rooster stands and the two men perform a slow assessment of each other. Dawson’s older than Rooster by at least ten years. In height they’re almost evenly matched but Rooster’s a lot bulkier muscle-wise.
“Good to meet you,” Rooster finally says.
“Shelby doesn’t have guests. So, this is nice. Welcome.” Dawson dips his chin, then returns his attention to me. “Shelby, how do you feel about coming out onstage with me for ‘Let the Night Go?’”
I blink. My mouth opens but no words or sounds make it past my lips. Maybe I fell asleep while Cindy was working on my hair and now I’m dreaming?
“Huh?” I grunt like a cowgirl who just took a mule kick to the head. “I mean, are you sure? That’s, uh, I mean, that’s your song with…” The dark expression on his face forces me to swallow down the name of his ex.
“You know it?” he asks.
“Every word.” That might be an exaggeration, but I’ve always been a fake-it-’til-ya-make-it girl.
“Great.” He claps his hands like the matter’s settled. My inner fangirl threatens to break loose and embarrass the tar outta me, but I manage to remain calm and professional.
