AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yes! Exactly! We can go to shitty country bars, wear bolo ties, and drink cheap beer! We can be so quintessentially American that it stresses out Bruce Springsteen! C’mon boys, what do you say: Will you be the yee to my haw?”
“I’m intrigued, but Priya, I didn’t pack a bolo tie,” Vince starts. While the band is distracted, arguing amongst themselves about where we should go, Vince slips his hand around my waist and whispers in my ear.
“I’d love to take you out on a real date.”
I can’t help myself. My stomach flips. Who knows what will happen in a loud, dark bar?
I’m curious to see what Vince is like in the so-called “real world,” So many of our interactions have been delegated to the rare moments of normalcy on tours, laundromats, and gas stations. I want to see what Vince is like at a bar. I want him to buy me a beer.
Priya didn’t pack a bolo tie, but she went thrifting today.
Back on the bus in her Master Suite, she gestures to four embroidered button-downs folded neatly on her bed.
The shoulders of each shirt are covered in elaborate designs: roses snake along the sternum of one, ochre thread forms a galaxy on another, a sage-green serpent pops against black linen with gold cufflinks, and finally, silver horseshoes flank the chest of a black top.
“Boys, I know your size, but Lyndsey, I had to guess yours. Although, I suppose they’re unisex.”
“Did you get one for yourself?” I ask.
Priya nods and unsheathes a hot pink blouse with lime-green vines forming a corset design along the front. An embroidered canopy drapes across the shoulders.
“Do we have to wear these?” Henry asks, thumbing the material of one.
“Henry! C’mon, when in Rome! Don’t be such a sourpuss; take your pick!” Priya begs.
“Dibs on the snakes,” Vince declares.
“I picked that out for you; good choice,” Priya nods and hands it over to Vince. Who promptly discards his tank top and runs to his suitcase to find a new one.
“Apollo?” Priya prompts.
“Um, the stars, I guess?”
“I knew it. And Lyndsey?”
Priya’s staring at me now with her wildly persuasive brown eyes, and I sort of hate costumes, but I try and remember the last time I did something new on tour, and nothing comes up.
“The roses.” I decide.
Priya hands me the shirt; the linen is soft and tough. I like the beveled feeling of the embroidery. I run into the bathroom and slip the shirt over my tank top. It fits like magic, the shoulders are structured but still roomy, and the embroidery highlights my tits.
I look good, cool even. I tie my hair into a messy bun and fold the sleeves back to my elbows. When I walk out of the bathroom, Vince whistles.
“Well, howdy, partner.” He cocks his hip to the side, and I drink him in.
The embroidered snakes wind down the arms, accentuating his buff arms while the serpent’s head sits squarely on his firm chest. The dark linen brings out the blue tones in his hair, making it look more lush than usual.
His green eyes pop against the dark fabric. He’s beautiful. I can’t tell him to quit it with the phony country accent because I’m speechless.
“Howdy,” I start before bursting out laughing.
“I can’t believe Priya found our shirts.”
“She’s never met a theme she doesn’t like,” Vince says.
I’ve passed through Nashville half a dozen times on various tours, but I’ve never had the chance to go out at night.
Tourists flood the streets stomping in their cowboy boots. Each bar has a neon sign boasting a cowboy boot or critter flashier than the last. We pass dozens of bars advertising open mics, and live music of every genre pours out each doorway: blues, reggae, funk, and a lone singer-songwriter add to the eclectic musical tapestry that forms the city.
