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Logan shook his head with a laugh. “Christ, I missed you man.”
“I don’t remember the last time I heard you laugh, Lo.”
“It’s been too long. But you should see this shitty little barn, Z. It’s just like when we played in Houston for that month to make enough to get back to Los Angeles.”
“Geeze that was a dive. Man, are you cha-chaing down memory lane. How many whiskies have you had?”
“Just one.” The tear of paper on the other end of the phone made him smile. Zeke was undoubtedly peeling his beer label off the bottle. It was a good sound. A familiar sound.
One that he hadn’t realized he missed. He and Zeke had lived out of each others pockets for the better part of fifteen years. Even ten days apart and it felt like a millennium.
Most of the ten had also been foggy as shit.
“I’ll be there by morning and I’ll make some calls.”
The tension he hadn’t known was sitting on his shoulders suddenly released. “Thanks, Z.”
“Anytime.”
The line went dead and Logan fished out his cell. The mountains were crap for cell service, but good enough for blasting off a few texts. Charlie, his manager, would have to do something besides wine and dine whatever girlfriend was with him in Paris.
He needed contact numbers and quick. With songs filling his head, he grabbed his tablet off the piano and scrolled through his playlist on both streaming media and his personal catalogue of thousands of songs.
From the obscure, to the new, he created a setlist that covered Dylan and Otis Redding, Bruce and Miranda Lambert, Bon Jovi with Maroon 5.
All the songs that would stir a crowd.
He’d make it work.
He always did.
Four hours later, he had a half dozen responses from people who were willing to come up for rehearsals and some who could come up the day of the festival. He made a tentative schedule and when his tablet let him know that his battery was beyond low, he plugged it in, then wandered into the kitchen.
It was well past eight and twilight was pulling the shade on the sun for the day. The sky was a wash of blood red and hazy pink. Another hot one would be upon them tomorrow.
He poured another two fingers of whisky and opened the fridge. A sticky note explained his two meal choices. He went with the marinated chicken and pulled a pan out. Though he was a mediocre chef at best, at least he could cook chicken.
His phone winked on, and an unknown email popped up on his notifications. He set the pan to heat and opened the email. His gut clenched at the name.
Isabella Grace.
She wanted to talk and left her mobile. Taking a chance, he dialed a number for the second time in the same day. It was a banner day for old school communication.
He knew it was a fifty-fifty shot of her answering since his home line would come up blocked. And sure enough, she declined the first try. Hoping she’d be curious enough to wonder if the same number called her back, he tried again.
“Isabella Grace,” she answered briskly.
“Good evening, Mz. Grace, have you been vetoed in the most recent town meeting?”
“You know very well that I was vetoed, Mr. King.”
Her crisp tone was all librarian crisp and shouldn’t give him a hard on, and yet his jeans were significantly tighter. He looked down at his zipper. Traitor.
When the blood swelled from semi to uncomfortable, he bit back a sigh. “I wasn’t there.”
“I’m sure your spies have checked in.”
“You give me a helluva lot more credit than I deserve.” The fact that he was expecting a call from Sharon that night or in the morning didn’t need to be shared.
