Being on the makeshift stage wasn’t the same rush that had electrified my bones when I performed onstage with Tattered Souls at the Tabernacle. But Rev and Go had a lot of charm. Hard Rock Café meets crazy corner coffee shop. A mixture of high and low tables, high-back chairs, comfy couches, and framed autographed pictures of musicians, artists, and sports stars. The East Atlanta neighborhood had an eclectic crowd of business professionals, someone’s eccentric aunt or uncle who probably sculpted nude models, and “retired” trust fund kids.
It wasn’t my neighborhood. Don’t shit where you sleep, Daddy used to say. So, I booked a recurring gig thirty miles away from home while Mama stayed with the little ones.
“Woo! You rock!” A deep voice snagged my attention.
I smiled at the silver fox with a salt-and-pepper goatee. “Thanks, man.”
I gave him and his group of coffee buddies a quick wave and weaved through the tables to the front of the house. Slapping my hands on the counter, I leaned over to bug my favorite barista. “Give me your strongest drink, Jonas.”
He was facing away from the stainless-steel cappuccino machine. “Triple shot espresso?”
“Not quite. Hot coffee, a little sugar, fresh creamer, and, oh, whiskey, if you have it.”
He snorted and turned to face me. The lanky recent college grad gave me a smug smile and smoothed over the side part in his chestnut hair. “No alcohol, just the freshest ground coffee you’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.”
“Joking.” I patted my back pocket with my bedazzled flask. “I’ve got the whiskey.”
Jackie D. Tennessee. The same brand Daddy loved. I didn’t smile at the thought, or at the memories of Daddy’s sweat-soaked clothes smelling of stale cigarettes and rubbing alcohol. He’d squeeze me too tight, but I didn’t complain. I was just happy he was home.
“Love you, baby girl,” he’d say, trying to whisper, but his voice boomed in my ear. His breath was a combination of bile and booze and honey.
Goose bumps darted down my forearms. I’m not like him.
James or my babies would never see me like that. The key was greasy food, like a burger and fries, and hydration. A shot or two never hurt anyone. It was the benders that were dangerous.
Jonas pushed the coffee to the side table and motioned toward a waiting customer. After he gave the customer her beverage, he turned to face me. “You’re gonna get me fired one of these days,” he mumbled as he made my “virgin” Irish coffee. “Eric is gone, but you still need to go out back.”
After six weeks of performing at Rev and Go, Jonas and I had a routine. He’d caught me sneaking booze near the corridor between the bathroom and the employee break room. Whatever I’d concocted had been so terrible, I coughed and sprayed the floor with my failed experiment. He shook his head, made me clean up the mess, and gave me a lecture about alcohol on the premises and how Eric, the owner, would can my ass if he ever found out.
The following week Jonas crooked his finger toward me to follow him to the employee break room, opened his work locker, pulled out a thermos, and gave me the best Irish coffee I’d ever tasted. Since then, he’d told me he’d make the drink, I just needed to bring the whiskey.
“Thanks, Jonas.” I tipped the mug in his direction.
“No problem. You’ve earned it. I’ve noticed we’ve got a bigger crowd since you’ve been playing for us. People are sticking around and ordering food. Eric even mentioned looking into getting a license to sell beer and wine.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Yeah.” Jonas smiled and pointed to the red and white flyers with my picture and name. “You’re our star. I had a few customers mention they’d come from Macon to see you. You’re generating some buzz, Nikki.”
My heart slapped against my chest. This was good, really good. But I didn’t want them to depend on me. What if one of my kids got sick, or if James caught on and wanted me to quit?
“Th-that’s cool. I’ll start the last set after I finish my drink.” I rushed to the back exit and flung open the door. I didn’t realize how hard I’d been breathing until I saw puffs of breath dotting the cold air. Shit. I leaned against the brick wall while my mind raced. Grabbing the flask from my pocket, I dumped the whiskey into the mug.
I felt sick to my stomach. This was getting out of hand. Sooner or later, I’d have to come clean. The lies I’d told my mom and James continued to pile. James thought I was either doing PTA stuff or hanging with the girls. Mama was so happy that I’d invited her to hang with her grandbabies, she hadn’t noticed, which had been surprising. The lady was as sharp as a finely honed tack. Nothing usually got past her.
Just last week, I’d written two songs for the band, and somehow they’d convinced me to sing on the tracks. Now there were flyers for Rev and Go.
When I signed the ninety-day contract for the coffee shop gig, Eric had something in there about using my image for advertising, should I gain a following. I quickly signed it, excited that someone wanted to pay me to sing. I should’ve let Sienna review it first. Damn. Just one misstep and everything would be crashing around me like dominoes.
I had to come clean, and I would. Soon. I just needed another week of this to myself. I needed this high, this unfiltered emotion. Something that belonged to me. I didn’t have to run it by Mom for her to shoot me down, or see James’s nervous fidgeting, like I’d leave our family for music. I didn’t have to worry about how I would eventually be a bad mom when this came to a head.
And it would. Sometimes you just know when things are going to happen. The stars were aligning, and I knew it was my time to shine. What I didn’t know was if I was ready for the spotlight.
I chugged the rest of my drink. The liquid stung the back of my throat, the perfect stimulus for me to get out of my head, pull myself together, and sing my heart out on stage.
* * *
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel as I waited for the other cars in front of me to pick up their kids. As I finally reached the curb for pickup, my daughter ran to the car, pigtails flying behind her, with a bright orange sheet of paper in her hand. “Mommy, Mommy. Guess what?” She peeked through the passenger-side window.
“Get in the car, precious, then tell me the good news.”
Bria swung open the door and hopped into the SUV. She swallowed, inhaled, and opened her mouth, but then shut it.
I was about to pull away from the curb, but instead I shifted the gearshift back to park. Cars honked behind me, but those impatient fuckers would have to wait. “Spit it out, Bria-bree.”
She leaned over and shoved the paper into my waiting hand. I scanned it. The first ever talent show hosted by the school, at the top of the next school year in the fall. The grand prize was $300. Nothing to sneeze at for elementary school students.
“Very cool.” I arched my brow into the rearview mirror. “You want to do this?”
She bobbed her head. “Yes, Mommy. And I want you to finish teaching me how to play guitar.”
A smile broke free on my face. I’d been teaching her little by little, like Daddy had done. Just a few chords, easy songs to learn on guitar like “Wonderful World” by Sam Cooke and “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley. I needed to figure out an age-appropriate song that didn’t suck. God, I hope she didn’t want to do any bubblegum pop songs that would likely be featured on a Kidz Bop album.