Now, however, we’re all grown up and living our lives accordingly. Crew is a successful architect and married to a sweet girl named Jane, who’s pregnant with their second child, and James owns one of the most important accounting firms in the city.
We eventryto be on our best behavior when we’re out together like this, but our college days’ good-times nostalgia runs deep. Being around them makes me feel young and dumb again, and since Shane is never anything else, this Friday night shouldn’t be any different for him.
“What’s up first, Dom?” James asks, taking a swig of his beer before gesturing with it toward the stage. “‘Friends in Low Places’ or ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’?”
“Oh, James, please.” I shake my head, faux disgusted. “You can’t plan the Karaoke Cowboy. The Karaoke Cowboy plans you.”
“What?” Shane asks, his laugh cutting through the bar’s overall noise. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Sure it does, sweetheart.” I slip my white cowboy hat on and head for the stage. I turn to yell over my shoulder, “It means stop asking questions and get ready for a show!”
I jump onstage as the group of them starts to whistle and shout, busting in on the band right in the middle of their song—“Save a Horse (Ride A Cowboy)” by Big & Rich.
Tex, the big, bearded guy on guitar in front of the microphone, laughs. “Uh-oh, here we go,” he manages to exclaim into the mic before I claim it for myself.
“Good evening, beautiful people!” I greet everyone with a big, flashy smile. “The Karaoke Cowboy has arrived!”
The crowd cheers, and I hear Shane shout, “Take your shirt off!” from the back.
Quite a few women in the crowd agree with him, but I don’t waste any time before belting out the lyrics of the song in time with the band. Buddy, the bald dude on drums, rolls his eyes in amusement, while Reed, the redheaded ace on the bass, walks over to swing a playful boot toward my ass.
These are some of the coolest dudes I’ve ever met, which is often the case when it comes to live acts in Nashville. They’re as used to me—the Karaoke Cowboy, as I’m known here at Honky Tonk Parade—as my friends are, and the whole crowd joins me as I sing about being the only JohnWayne left in this town. I jam as Tex dives deep into his guitar solo and then start my signature stage dance, rolling my hips round and round until the women in the crowd scream their approval.
Honky Tonk Parade is the only bar in the city that does karaoke with a live band, and I’ve been coming here since my freshman year of college. Me and my karaoke skills are practically a tour-guided exhibit in Nashville at this point, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The song builds to a crescendo, and I sing about saving a horse and riding a cowboy and send my hat into the crowd before diving into it myself. I crowd-surf on their outstretched hands, thankful for their excited yet sturdy guidance across the dance floor, and when I reach the end, I hop back to my feet and take my hat from a pretty lady with a wink.
Women and men alike pat me on the shoulder, and one woman in a skimpy dress, boots, and platinum-blond hair slips a piece of paper into my hand as she whispers, “Call me, Cowboy,” into my ear.
I offer her a little smirk, shoving the paper into the back pocket of my Wranglers, and signal the bartender for another beer as I saunter back to the boys.
When I get to the table, I slide the folded piece of paper over to Crew without even looking at it. “Got a number for ya, buddy.”
Crew just laughs. “Pretty sure my wife would be pissed.”
“Oh, right,” I say with a grin, having known that would be his reaction, and redirect the paper to James. “Here ya go.”
“Hold the fucking phone,” Shane chimes in as James, a very much single dude like me and Shane, shrugs and shoves the number into the pocket of his jeans. “You feeling okay, Dom?” He makes a show of checking my head for a fever with the back of his hand.
I won’t deny that, on most nights, I’d consider using the number myself. I mean, I’m a guy without any ties besides my job, and I like women. Love them, actually. But at thirty-five, I’m reaching a point where picking up chicks in bars feels like ... I don’t know ... something I don’t really want to do anymore.
If I’m being honest, one day soon, I’d like to have what Crew and his wife, Jane, have.
“Do I need to call a fucking medic?” Shane asks, still razzing me, and I just shrug one shoulder.
“Wasn’t feeling it.”
“Excuse me?” Shane’s eyes scrutinize my face. “The Karaoke Cowboy isn’t feeling the hot-as-fuck blonde who won’t stop shaking her ass in his direction?”
“Uh-oh ...” I pause and reach out to gently pat his hand. “Are you upset, bud? Do you feel like I’m playing favorites because I gave her number to James and not you?” I frown in sympathy. “Because if it’ll make you feel any better, I love you just as much as I love James. Don’t forget that.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Shane mutters, and both James and Crew laugh.
“You know what, bud?” I continue and take a sip of my beer. “The next number I get tonight has your name written all over it.”
Shane doesn’t need my help getting numbers, but I sure as shit love giving the cocky bastard a hard time when I can.
“You’re so damn ridiculous, Dom,” Shane says with a laugh as I put the cowboy hat back on my head and secure it down. I tip the front of it in answer, and he shakes his head. “The only thing crazier than you is the week we’ve just had. I don’t know about you, but I did not picture someone like Hannah working for Call Me Anytime.”
