So, I’ll hold you closer.
Keep you warm in my heart.
Your name is a whisper.
Until we’re not apart.
She tore her gaze from his before the next verse picked up. Maybe this wouldn’t be a train wreck of a performance after all. As long as he sang from the heart, as long as she kept her cool, they might just be able to pull it off. And then? She’d move on and Travis King and each and every one of his bad mistakes would go back to being tomorrow’s scandalous headline for the entertainment tabloids.
***
Travis had taken one look at Loretta Gram and known this was a mistake. The tension had been so much he’d resorted to taking one of his anxiety pills. Not that it helped. Since the studio was mostly packed up and ready for the move to the home studio, cup options were limited. After a quick search, he’d found only the whiskey glasses his father and Ethan Powell had used to toast the sale of the recording studio. Not exactly appropriate but he had no other options. Still, the ice rattling around in the cut crystal tumbler had him reaching for the guitar pick he kept in his pocket. It was a focal point. Something tangible meant to help him pause and process. When things pressed in on him, stringing him so tight he might break, rubbing the smooth surface between his thumb and forefingers helped him focus. It was also a tangible reminder that life was about the choices he made.
Like now. He didn’t want any of it.
It had been a year since he’d been on a stage. A year. A lifetime. Now Three Kings had a tour coming up, a tour that was supposed to be his return to the stage. That was something he’d done hundreds of times, safe and sound, with his sisters front and center while he played and sang from the periphery of their spotlights. But even after years of touring under his belt, he worried about screwing something up.
Singing? A duet? Bearing the weight of a spotlight?
If his daddy hadn’t asked him to step in, he’d have offered up an alternative—any alternative. But his father had asked, something he never did. It had been his choice, but there was no way Travis could say no.
Maybe I should have.
He already felt like a damn imposter—filling in for Hank King. It was a fucking joke. He was a fucking joke. He’d grown up in his father’s shadow knowing he’d never be his father. His father was a country music legend for a reason. The charisma. The voice. The energy and confidence.
Travis was a backup singer.
To make matters worse, Loretta Gram showed up, all narrow-eyed hostility. He got it. She was anything but pleased with the situation. That makes two of us.
The only time she hadn’t looked ready to tear off his head was when they’d been singing. Music did that. It was powerful. It smoothed off the rough edges, filled an empty ache, triggered memory or longing… Singing the chorus together, the first time, had been the only time those amber-topaz eyes of hers hadn’t been shooting daggers his way.
Now they sat, silent and awkward, while his father played back the recording of the session. A recording. Not exactly standard practice protocol. But the recording wasn’t for them. It was for Wheelhouse Records. Because his own record label didn’t trust him either. Nope. They’d needed verifiable proof that he was capable of pulling this off.
Apparently, his father was the only one who believed he could do it.
Since his release from the Oasis, he’d been working out daily. The physical exertion helped work out the stresses of the day. Tonight, he’d need one hell of a workout.
Travis’s phone vibrated from the recesses of his pocket.
He ignored it. According to Momma, playing on your phone while keeping company with others was rude. Considering how popular he already was with Loretta, he figured he’d avoid adding fuel to that fire.
Still, Loretta was studying her fingernails like they were the most interesting damn thing in the world. She had been since they’d stopped singing. Her long, dark hair hung forward over one shoulder, a glossy curtain hiding most of her face from view. There is no way her nails are that interesting. But her nail-gazing was better than her glaring hostility.
His phone vibrated again. Screw it. He pulled it from his pocket and swiped it open.
A picture—from his sister Krystal. A very flattering picture of Loretta Gram. Long brown hair. A mischievous smile on red lips. A pale blue sweater that hugged curves he’d been hard-pressed not to acknowledge since the moment he’d spied her waiting for them this morning. It was a good picture. Of course, the Sonic Blue Fender Jazzmaster guitar in her lap helped.
Damn fine guitar.
Three little blue dots bounced on the screen until Krystal’s text popped up. Is she madly in love with you yet?
He glanced at the woman sitting opposite him. No smile. No eye contact. Hell, he wasn’t even sure she was breathing. About the only thing he was certain of? She did not like him—not one teeny-tiny bit.
His response was short. No.
Three little dots started bouncing again. Emmy Lou says you should tell her you’ve stopped being a man-whore.
Travis burst out laughing. His twin little sisters were as different as night and day. He knew damn well Emmy Lou would never say man-whore. But Krystal? She wouldn’t think twice. She was likely laughing as she typed the text.
His laughter had temporarily halted Loretta’s all-encompassing nail inspection. Now, those big tawny eyes were waiting. Actual eye contact.
He smiled, holding up his phone in explanation.
There it was. The death glare.
Loretta turned her attention to the sheet music now. She lifted the pages from the stand, reading over each one as if it was the first time she’d lain eyes on the notes and lyrics she’d been singing so sweetly for the last thirty minutes.
His phone vibrated in his hand.
Krystal’s text popped up. Okay, fine. I said man-whore.
I figured as much, he responded. Thanks for the vote of confidence.
What? Am I wrong? I said no longer, didn’t I? Never mind. How’d it go? Knowing Krystal, she was rolling her eyes right about now. I’ve been sucked up inside Emmy Lou’s wedding vortex all morning. When are you coming to save me?
Travis smiled. Wedding vortex? Emmy Lou’s wedding was the best thing that had happened to the family in recent years. But Krystal wasn’t one for making a fuss out of things and just about everything involved in Emmy Lou’s wedding had fuss involved.
Wrapping things up here now. If there’s cake involved, save me some. He hit send, then followed it up with, Session went well. He thought. He hoped. The musical part anyway. But he was no Johnny Hawkins. Johnny had been a rare artistic soul. A musical pioneer. How he’d found a way to blend folk, rock, classical, or rap into hit songs was a mystery. Most die-hard old-school country music fans didn’t take too kindly to their country sounding like anything other than country. But Johnny had made it work. He and Loretta together? They’d had the sort of connection that made their music soulful and true.