Page 11 of Once Upon A Christmas Song

“Explain to me again who decides what groups will play our venue,” Simone asked after a lull.

“Certainly,” agreed Evie—she’d told us to call her that.

The payments, how the money was handled, Simone was clear on all that, but I already knew she was having flashbacks of the gospel group as she spoke to Evie.

“My understanding was that we would decide who plays here,” Simone said gently, though her tone held a trace of warning. Those of us who knew her would have taken several steps back already. The whole angled head and slitty eyes said she was trying to figure out the best way to filet you.

I scooted my chair a bit away from the table to be on the safe side.

“As I explained before,” Evie began, she too sounding somewhat strained, “there are different acts that come through New Orleans and⁠—”

There was some noise behind us like someone had come into the club, and for whatever reason, more than one server seemed to be greeting them. And we were a bit slow at the moment, so that might have happened, but Simone was a stickler for guests not ever feeling overwhelmed by overly solicitous service. There had to be a balance in all things.

Because of the noise—my people were excited by someone or something—Evie glanced over to see what was happening. Simone and I were both facing her, and neither of us wanted to be rude by turning around.

Evie’s breath caught.

“And?” Simone pressed her, trying to get her back on track.

“And we… Oh my God,” she nearly moaned.

There was no other choice—we had to see what the big deal was. Both Simone and I turned at the same time.

“Oh. My. God.” Simone barely got the words out, her tone quite different from Evie’s. Hers was more like finding out that the new house you just bought had termites that had eaten the frame down to dust.

It was the craziest thing. I was both elated and terrified. Because of course, the moment I was sure I was never going to see the man again was when he walked back through the door of my club.

“Oh,” I said hoarsely, “look at you.”

Even though my words were low and rough, our new guest must have heard me since I was the one he was staring at, and his rakish grin, coupled with the sparkle in his deep-blue eyes, was enough to make me want to both run away and run to him. The see-saw I was on, up one moment, down the next, was hard to find balance on.

“What is Dawson West doing in your club?” Evie asked breathlessly, excitedly.

A damn good question. Because after two years of no calls, texts, emails, letters, or any kind of correspondence at all, you could have knocked me over with a feather.

THREE

Unlike our last band, which was not destined for greatness, Dawson West and the Dregs had been, and still were, huge.

Dawson had left the club with his band, with my complete support, to pursue his dreams of success. Wild West, as his fans called him, had gone on the road, touring, playing any venue that would have him, working nonstop, and had made his way to Nashville, where he hit it big. He was signed to a label almost immediately and then went right back out on the road, opening for some of the biggest names in country music. In between the touring, he returned to Nashville and recorded his first album, titled simply The Road, which ended up, no surprise to me, skewing a bit more rock than country.

All during that time, a year in all, and despite making peace with his leaving, with him going off to seek fame and fortune, I’d missed him far more than I ever thought possible. He stayed in constant communication with me, but the ache only got worse. Even with the visits, a night here, a day there, it left me feeling more miserable than loved. When I’d called and put a stop to them, he had not been happy.

“You need to concentrate on what you’re doing,” I told him over the phone at two in the morning my time, me in New Orleans, him in Los Angeles. It was the only time I could get him, right after a show, so I’d stayed up to talk.

“I know what I need to do,” he replied irritably. “You don’t need to tell me.”

Shit. No one liked other people thinking for them, and that was my default with everyone. It was a terrible quality, but it had served me well in business and relationships over the years. I always knew when to cut my losses. “Yeah, I know, but⁠—”

“I’m working as hard as I can, all the time. You get that, don’t you?”

“Of course, but⁠—”

“I need you at the end of the tunnel, yeah?” There was an unmistakable strain in his voice. “Please don’t try and do what you think I want. Listen to what I’m telling you instead.”

But that was so hard. “I’m not, I’m really not, I swear, but, Dawson, you don’t have time to try and⁠—”

“We talked about this, remember? Before I left, we went through everything.”