AllFreeNovel
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by Shelley Ann Clark
Available from Loveswept
The first time Tom heard Emme’s voice, he dropped a bottle of gin.
Having heard and played with a lot of bands over the years, he’d never seen anything quite as entrancing as Emme. She looked like she’d walked out of a 1960s wet dream, all teased blond hair and dark eyeliner and curves. The bass groove of her first song had Tom ignoring his customers even before she opened her mouth.
Her voice damn near melted his spine. It was big and dark, full of longing so fierce it brought tears to his eyes. Her phrasing was meticulous. He heard desire in her voice, and he longed to give her whatever she wanted. By the time the first song was over, he ached to play in her band. More than that, he halfway wanted to crawl inside her songs and live there.
Once the first song ended, he pulled himself together enough to pay attention to his bar, but he still found himself staring at her every moment he had the chance. His fingers absently shaped chords and played notes against the polished wood of the bar, and he hummed harmonies as he poured drinks for his customers.
At the break, all Tom wanted was a cigarette and a chance to talk to Emme, but the rush never slowed. He did talk to Andy, the bassist and a friend he’d played with a few times.
“She’s good, huh?” Andy grinned. “Told you.”
“I believed you or I wouldn’t have booked you without hearing her first. I trust you.” Tom poured a vodka tonic for a thin brunette as he talked. “But damn.”
“Yeah. She gets that reaction a lot. Writes all the songs, too.”
Tom shook his head in disbelief before he made change for a guy in a non-ironic trucker cap. “I’d love to sit in sometime.”
Andy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You may get your chance. They’re going on tour in two months and there’s no way I can keep my day job and go. They’ll need a bassist. Want me to recommend you?”
“How long?”
“Two months. Mostly through the Southeast. College towns.”
Two months away from the bar. Ouch. Tom opened a Sam Adams for Andy. Two months away from Katie. “I don’t know, man. I’ll have to think about it.”
“It’s a good gig. She pays well. Dave and Guillermo are pretty cool, too.”
For the rest of the set, that was all Tom thought about. That, and how to get a chance to talk to Emme, even though he suspected he’d sound like some high school kid asking the prettiest girl in school to the prom. He was considering bringing her a glass of the two hundred and fifty dollar scotch that had been gathering dust under the bar as a tribute when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket.
COME GET ME, the text message read.
Tom sighed and rubbed his temples. He’d offered to pick up his sister if she ever had too much to drink, but that had been when she was sixteen. She was twenty-five now. She knew Tom was working.
CALL A CAB, he texted back. He slid his phone back into his pocket and closed out the tab of a couple who were pulling on their coats. They’d barely signed their credit card slip when his jeans vibrated again.
NO MONEY. WILL JUST DRIVE.
Shit. Up onstage, Emme was making magic with the piano. Drink orders had slowed a little and the crowd had thinned as the night grew later, but there were still all the closing duties to complete.
WAIT FOR ME, he texted back. WHERE ARE YOU?
He motioned for the bar-back to take over. There was nothing else he could do. He shrugged on his jacket and slipped out the back, the music cut off abruptly as the door shut behind him.
Emily Hayes was nothing like Emme.
That was Tom’s first thought when he walked into the audition. He wasn’t sure what he had expected when he walked into the living room of the unassuming ranch house in one of Louisville’s older subdivisions. Mirrors, gilt, marble, and velvet fainting couches, maybe, or fluffy white cats and champagne fountains everywhere, Emme lounging in a silk-and-marabou dressing gown. Instead, he walked in the open front door and found amps, guitars, a couple of keyboards, a tangle of wires spread out over the carpet, a case of microphones open in one corner, contents spilling over the floor, and a giant, incredibly ugly green couch that looked like it had been picked up off the curb.
The diva was sitting on the floor wearing yoga pants and a hoodie and untangling a cord of some kind. She stood up when she saw him, brushed dust off her butt, and held out her hand. “Tom! Nice to meet you,” she said with a smile.
Onstage, she’d been all teased hair and false eyelashes and voluptuous curves. She definitely had those; even the baggy hoodie couldn’t hide her shape, and those yoga pants were downright obscene on her, but her brown eyes were friendly and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. As he took her much-smaller hand in his, she said, “Call me Emily.” The girl-next-door name didn’t match her, somehow. He couldn’t shake the image of her onstage, hair haloed by the lighting, holding the crowd mesmerized in the palm of her hand. And even here, sitting on the floor, when she looked at him, she radiated authority. Like when he’d had a pretty, smart teacher he wanted to impress, he nearly called her “ma’am.”
She introduced him to the drummer, Guillermo, a big guy with an even bigger beard, and Dave, the lead guitarist, who barely looked up from tuning his guitar when Tom greeted him. “How familiar are you with our music?” she asked.
I’ve been listening to your album over and over again every night since you played in my bar. Wait. That sounds creepy. “I’m pretty familiar. I’ve worked out most of the bass lines, and there are a few that I might want to try tweaking just a bit.”
