Eric shrugged. “I heard you were good. Wow me.”
“Right here?” I looked at all four customers in the café.
“Yep. They’re regulars, so I’ll want their approval.”
“Let me grab my amp from the car.” After I wheeled it in, I noticed the group of customers clustered around the front with Eric in the center.
“Up here, Nikki.”
“All right.” I moved my guitar to the front and strummed the opening of “Purple Haze” by Jimi Hendrix, one of my favorite electric guitarists. I took them on a psychedelic experience, minus the narcotics. Two of the regulars popped from their seats, dancing and darting around like wood nymphs.
My performance was met with loud claps and whistles from the group and the staff.
“So, Nikki,” Eric said with a shit-eating grin. “When can you start?”
* * *
For the last few weeks, I’d been living my double life as a mom by day and musician by night. No one had been the wiser.
I felt like hot garbage, lying to James. But every time I tried to tell him, my mouth dried up. My tongue would get thick like I was having some allergic reaction. My feet got all tingly, and I had to slam them against the floor to regain feeling.
Not to mention, I’d sweat like a hooker during Communion. One time I’d been sweating so bad, James asked if I’d been running.
There were reasons, legit reasons why I couldn’t tell him just yet. Like the one time when, for our four-year anniversary, we went to this shitty all-inclusive resort in Jamaica. The food was crappy, so we drank too much and screwed like bunnies. It was fun until he drunkenly confessed that he was happy his wife was no longer a musician because music took too much time and he liked me being home. He passed out.
James was usually so careful with me, with his words and his actions. I knew he didn’t realize what he’d said. So I buried it deep, pretending to be perfectly happy.
He hadn’t realized that I’d written him a song and planned to sing it for him.
He hadn’t realized that my heart had dried, fractured, and crumbled into a million pieces. Because for once in my life, my soul mate hadn’t realized what fed my soul.
So I quit. Put up my guitar. Buried my lyrics in the closet and the music in my heart.
I became a good little wife and kept house. I could tell it made James happy. He stopped giving me nervous looks when an epic guitar solo came on the radio because I stopped strumming the chords in the air.
And he no longer did the weird head bob thing when I launched into a tirade about good music.
Or maybe he stopped because I stopped. And it was the day that music died.
And my perfectly happy life worked until Raina’s big-ass mouth and terrible ideas made me feel again.
But things were different now. Bria was pretty mature for her age. Junior was practically potty-trained. And as soon as I grew a spine, I could ask Mama to help out.
I can do this. I am doing this.
I dropped my babies off early this morning, and after swapping my pearls for my guitar pick necklace my father had given me, and the skirt and blouse for stonewashed jeans and a tee, I connected my laptop to my television.
The gig thing was sweet, but there was no way I would be discovered in a coffee shop.
The easiest way to do it was to reach out to my old band. They already had a hit song, courtesy of moi, and I was sure I could write a few more if given the chance.
Davey, the drummer, used to send links to their new songs, but for the last few years, I’d ignored him. I couldn’t any longer. If I wanted to pitch the idea of writing a few songs for them, I had to see if I could fit into their new brand.
I pulled up YouTube and searched the band’s name, Tattered Souls. Some super fan had created and shared a playlist.
My fingers froze and hovered over the keyboard. A band of steel wrapped around my chest; my lungs, hot and burning, ignored my inhales.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe, dammit! My body finally obeyed my silent commands and a deep gush of oxygen rushed into my body.
“This is a terrible idea.” Despite my reservations, I pressed play. “You can do this. Just fold clothes and listen to your old band.”
Somewhat relaxed, I turned my attention to the fresh basket of laundry near my feet and a four-pack of Riesling minis on the table.
I tapped my feet along to the upbeat tune as I folded clothes. The song wasn’t bad but I could tell from the simple rhythm and bubblegum lyrics, they were chasing the Billboard Hot 100. I hadn’t heard the song, so I guessed they hadn’t reached the top charts yet. The catchy rock tune ended and was replaced with a solo guitar. The A-minor chord reached into my chest, pulled out my heart, and owned it. The strums were long, angsty, and achingly familiar. I tossed the clothes on the sofa, eyes now focused on the laptop.
My band, my fucking band, playing my fucking song I’d sold them a few years ago. It was right after JJ was born. I’d written it for Trent Masters, my ex and former bandmate. It was about seeking redemption and absolution. I’d written the song for my daddy.
I’d written the song for me.
Trent’s soulful blue eyes stared at me from the screen. I bet women loved him. They always had, which was why our relationship had been so volatile, finally crashing when James barreled in and stole my heart.
Trent had the voice and face of an angel, but despite all his talent and looks, I had been the leader of the band. I felt a hot weight land on my vocal chords. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe as my ex twisted my heart. The song ended and the band became a blur behind my misty eyes.
After downing a mini-bottle of wine to cool the heat in my throat, I grabbed my laptop and googled Tattered Souls. In a matter of seconds, the website popped up as well as a list of their tour dates. They’d be in Atlanta next week. Without thinking twice, I purchased a ticket—with my own credit card, of course. I did not want to hear James’s shit. The seats were cheap, so I splurged on a good one.
What’s the plan, Nik? I jumped from my couch thinking through what to say to them. I could reach out before the concert. No. I didn’t want them to know. I just needed to see them live first. I wasn’t all that sure if I wanted to join the chaotic rocker lifestyle again.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself as if I were concocting an evil plan. “Go to the concert, call Davey afterward, get a drink with the guys, and go from there.”
Now I just needed to figure out an excuse for going to the concert by myself.
* * *
My hands shook as I gave my phone to the venue attendee to scan my ticket.
The burly, bald man smiled at me. “Great seat. Enjoy the show.”
Enjoy the show. That was yet to be determined, but one thing that would help was a big dose of liquid courage. I made a beeline to the nearest bar. No sissy drinks for me. This girl needed bourbon.
Booze acquired, I walked down the aisle, all the way to the second row, center stage, of course. I was frugal by nature, but not when it came to music. After thirty minutes and some shuffling behind the stage, it went dark, and the venue became electric. Hoots and hollers and screams filled the air. The lighting snapped back on and lit the band on the stage: Davey on the drums, Ethan on electric guitar, and Drew on bass.
Trent was front and center. He looked good. Really good. A few strands of his long hair were just over his left eye. The rest of his dirty-blond hair was tied at the nape of his neck. On entering, I’d noticed more women than men. Needing more booze, I threw back my bourbon, neat and straight. The brown liquid blazed a fiery path down my throat, and I welcomed the pain and the distraction. The lights went out again, and smoke billowed up.