“What the fuck ever, wino!” He shot me a killer grin. It slightly softened the fact that he thought I was a raging alcoholic.
“If the shoe fits.” Angie’s sweet voice popped in my head.
“Screw you, Angie,” I whisper-hissed.
“You aren’t supposed to curse at angels.”
“And you aren’t supposed to be an asshole, yet you are.”
“Truth hurts.” Her voice held a nah-nah-nah-boo-boo lilt to it. “And don’t put the vodka you’ve got hidden in your blazer in the juice.”
“I wasn’t gonna do that,” I whispered, still doodling.
Angie harrumphed. “Keep it up and you’ll be one of those sad episodes of Unsung where the artist didn’t get a chance to reach their potential because they died too young.” Angie’s buzzkill voice was low and serious.
“We’ve all gotta die.” Denny finally popped into the conversation. “Might as well have fun doing it.”
“You’ve got to die for your sins to live again,” Angie whispered and drifted like a faint voice on the tail end of the wind.
I stopped my doodles. “You’ve gotta die to live again.”
“What’s that?” Monica asked. She’d initially sat at the front by Ethan. Now she sat across from me on the bus. I hadn’t even heard her because Denny and Angie were taking up my headspace.
“Just being a psycho and talking to myself.”
Troubled heart, why do you let your sins weigh you down? So heavy, you despair. Can’t you see the life that you lead will end in death?
Troubled heart, why are you crying? You just have to believe. Give it up, give it all, get it all.
I slouched back in my seat and smiled. Angie had given me a good nugget. More words flew through me like a strong gale of wind. I just had to hold on, pick out the good parts, and stand strong.
Warmth filled my core. The good kind. The kind I hadn’t felt in a long time. And it was better than the warmth that whiskey gave me. The armor that Daddy had unconsciously given me was cracking. Not much, just a little. Something was unfurling in me; with each stroke of my pencil, something shifted in my soul. This song was for me. A love letter to myself. And, no, I wouldn’t heal overnight, but I knew, like this song, I had to give it a try. Each day would be a battle, but one day it wouldn’t.
“Good luck with that,” Denny’s voice held a small tremor.
“Fuck you, Denny,” I said, writing the final words to the song.
“Yeah, fuck you, Denny,” Angie parroted.
“What kind of angel are you?” I shook my head, closing my song book.
Angie sighed. “You know I’ve gotta be a little cray-cray to deal with you.”
* * *
We were two songs away from finishing out the set with a racy song that had Trent working the stage, slick with sweat. The Memphis crowd was live, vibrant with pure rock-and-roll and the band fed off it. But now we were coming to a close. Davey signaled the slowdown with his drums; Drew followed suit and slowed it up with a new song I’d composed before we went on the road. And then I noticed him.
Maybe it was the trick of the lighting, or maybe it was by design, but it seemed as if a spotlight illuminated James, making him stand out from the crowd.
I nearly stumbled in my two-step I’d been doing across the stage, nearly slipped the chord on my guitar. Catching myself, I walked stage left, swapped my acoustic for electric, and sat on a stool. The tune was slow, bluesy. Sad, yet sexy. About someone who wasn’t ready for love. Someone who wasn’t ready to love themselves. Denny and Angie had been busy again. I flicked the plectrum, making the guitar cry—no, making my soul cry.
Focused on my husband, as if we were the only two people in the room, I told him what I couldn’t put into words.
My world was darkness until I laid eyes on you.
Heart caught on fire, oh, the things I would do to you.
I’m spinning and twisting in the whirlwind that is you.
Pinch me, I’m dreaming, I’m falling into you.
I wasn’t ready for you.
I wasn’t ready to love you.
Wasn’t ready to love myself.
My heart belonged to another, my soul bound to the liquid fear.
Can’t hold the light you bring. Can’t break the darkness over me.
Still, foolishly we jumped and drowned together.
Till I pulled you down,
Pulled you down, down, down.
Catch our breaths, you’re breathing again.
Go back to shore, I can’t let you back in.
Leave me be, let me drown.
Don’t let me pull you down, down, down.
I couldn’t read James’s expression from so far away, but I’d said what I had to say. After I sang the last of the lyrics, I exhaled into the mic. Thunderous applause followed, as they chanted Nikki! Nikki!
Tears leaked from my eyes. I wanted to keep hold, stay in this moment, and somehow make the world of music and my home life meld into one. I thought we could have it all, but I was beginning to realize that it was bullshit. To get more, you had to give less elsewhere.
My soul was split in two, because in my heart, I knew James was making a stand. He wasn’t here to smile, clap, and support me from the crowd. I had a feeling he wanted me to choose.
Somehow, I got it together. Finished up the last song of the night and marched off the stage.
“Did you see your guy out there?” Davey smiled.
I cleared my throat, stiffening. “Was that you? Did you ask him to come?”
He nodded, taking in my stance. “Bad move?” His voice was slow, careful.
“No, I’m happy, I just . . . I just hope he’s here to reconcile, not to break up.”
Davey threw back his head. “Break up? Are you serious? That guy loves you. Didn’t take too much to convince him to get his sorry ass out here.” He chuckled low again. “And you’re well past the point of breaking up. You’re married, have a mortgage, two kids, and a minivan.”
“SUV,” I quickly corrected him.
“Same difference. Go get cleaned up. I’ll distract Trent so he doesn’t get his faced wrecked by your man. See you in ten.”
“I didn’t bring anything. I figured we’d do the handshakes, VIP gig, and then head back to the hotel.”
“Got you covered, sis.” He walked to his backpack and threw my bag with toiletries over, then tossed me a Tee and my stonewashed jeans.
“How in the hell—”
“Had a little help from Monica. Now go get changed.” He gently pushed me toward the hallway.
“Why, thank you. I’ve always wanted my very own fairy godmother. I thought I’d get an old white lady, but a bald white guy will do.” I leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the cheeks.
“Such a little asshole. Save those sweet words for your man.” He shook his head. “I’ll see you later.”
I nodded and headed for the women’s bathroom. The venue was sweet, decked out with a college-style communal bathroom. After taking a shower, I swiped on some deodorant and slathered myself with lotion. I took a quick glance in the mirror, then hurried back to the VIP room.
The guys worked the room with our fans. Monica was busily typing away on the computer in the corner, ignoring the men and women who sniffed after her lover. She was a confident woman, and Ethan was firmly under her spell, if the not-so-secret glances he snuck her way meant anything.