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And maybe I’ll lay
With you again
In time.
Maybe next time, baby.
Maybe next time.
Maybe next time, baby.
Maybe next time.
Maybe next time, baby.
Maybe next time, baby.
Maybe next time, next time,
Next time.
Maybe next time
Is the time.
The light and sound guy dimmed the spot and pulled back the mic, and Marcella Lewis and The Lowdowners went dark. Marcella stood still, her hands still on the mic stand, and listened to the crowd roar.
They were at Azure tonight for their release party—a semi-private, ticketholder-only event, and the venue was packed. The sound of all those people cheering washed over her. Yes, they were family, friends, and true fans of the band, so of course they’d applaud enthusiastically. But the place was sold out. They were piping music into the parking lot and people who couldn’t get tickets had packed the lot, out there dancing and partying in in a parking lot tent in fuckingJanuary.
Maybe this was their big break.
The thought was heady, and not without some trepidation. Once, she’d dreamed of hightailing it to Los Angeles and making it big. But that had been twenty years ago. Now she was forty, with a kid she adored, and a man she loved. They had deep roots sunk in Tulsa. So did she. What would ‘making it’ with the band mean if she wouldn’t uproot her family?
She didn’t know.
But that was a potential problem for later. Right now, she felt on top of her own Oklahoma mountain, and it was good.
The stage lights came back up, and the house lights, and the crowd got louder. Grinning, Marcella pushed her hair off her sweat-soaked face and looked out across the club. Everybody was on their feet, yelling and jumping and clapping. And it was just the end of their first set.
Eight was there, at the bar, pumping his huge arm and shouting so she could hear him over the clamor. “That’s my girl! Yeah!”
Around him was a small sea of black leather. Most of the Brazen Bulls, and their old ladies, were here for the party.
How wild was it that the fuckingBrazen Bullsnow counted among her friends and family?
She felt Dash come up to her side again. He hooked his arm around her waist and leaned to the mic.
“This here is the amazing Marcella Lewis, and we’re the Lowdowners!” Another swell of cheering. When it subsided a bit, Dash said, “Thank you all for supporting us and sharing our excitement tonight! We’re gonna take a break, get set up for Act Two. Now’s the time to hit the john, fill your bellies, maybe find a quiet corner and … well, you know what to do.”
The band filed off the stage. Eight had made his way over, and he grabbed Marcella around the waist and swung her around.
“You’re the shit, babe!” he crowed. “The absolute shit.” As he set her back on the floor, he gave Dash a terse nod. “Dash.”
“Eight Ball.” Those two were never going to be great friends, but as long as they kept their hands to themselves, and let her have her relationships with each of them, she didn’t need them to make nice.
Dash moved his attention from Eight as fast as he could, and he smiled at Marcella. “You coming back?”
She looked at Eight. If there was anything he liked less than being in conversational proximity to Dash Cotter, it was sitting in the green room of a blues bar. Tonight, all his buddies were here, too, so there was no chance at all he’d be good with hiding out backstage. “I’ll be back for a few minutes before we go back on.”
