Probably for the best. Making eye contact with Nick right now will only make me more nervous. I don’t want to see the most boring, predictable version of myself reflected in his eyes; I want a clean slate, a fresh start, the chance to be someone exciting, unpredictable, and new.
With one final glance at the neon sign, I square my shoulders and start for the entrance to the bar.
The bouncer, a big guy with massive biceps and worn cowboy boots, remembers me from last night and waves me in without checking my I.D.
Soon, I’m enveloped in cool, faintly beer-scented darkness.
Outside, it’s still twilight, but inside The Horse and Rider, it’s always midnight. Midnight pierced by pockets of light in the darkness like dying stars. One muddy yellow ring surrounds the fifty-foot circular bar on the left side of the room, another moody blue puddle illuminates the tables on the right, and a brighter white with flashes of red lights the stage against the far wall.
Ghost Town Double Wide is already playing, and center stage is currently occupied by a twentysomething guy wearing Wranglers, a sleeveless black vest fraying around the armholes, and shiny black cowboy boots. He belts out a popular Top-40 country song extolling the virtues of his daddy’s truck, while behind him the four members of the band play backup—Lila, the only female of the group on bass, Hank on backup guitar, Reggie on lead guitar, and Seth on drums.
After chatting with the owner of the bar, Willy John, last night, I got the feeling he would prefer a male singer. The last lead singer was an older woman, and he mentioned it could be nice to see if a good-looking dude might be a better draw for the ladies.
So far, Wrangler Guy seems to have a strong voice and a good rapport with the audience. The dance floor is hopping, and more than a few women are casting longing glances at center stage. He’s good. If he’s good enough, it might not matter that his audition song is cheesy, or that his vest looks like it should have been buried in a shallow grave sometime during the 1980s.
The thought is snarky. Snarkier than my usual, and as I watch him, I feel a strange emotion rise inside me.
It takes a few seconds to pin down the hot, prickly feeling.
It’s the competitive instinct, sharpening its claws inside me.
I’m not usually a competitive person, but I’m beginning to think I want this more than I realized when I was prepping earlier today. I want to be up on that stage every Friday night, losing myself in the music, free to be a different Melody than the one I am at work or at home or even out with my friends. I want to belt out songs that make people want to get up and move, songs that help people forget their troubles for a little while and remember life is an adventure that demands dancing and laughter and moments of celebration.
I decide not to hold back.
I’m going to give this audition everything I’ve got.
Curling my hands into determined fists, I head for the wings of the stage with a spring in my step, ready to show Wrangler Guy who’s boss.
Chapter 5
Nick
The first thing I see as I walk through the doors of The Horse and Rider on my Friday night “Forget about Melody March” mission is…
Melody March.
Fuck me.
She’s wearing a red sleeveless dress that emphasizes her killer curves and flares around her thighs and a dangerous pair of brown motorcycle boots. Dangerous because they make her look even hotter than she did last night in that purple dress and heels.
There’s just something about a girl in boots…
I pull in a ragged breath. Melody in boots would be enough to stop my heart if she was just standing at the bar, but she isn’t. She’s up on stage. Singing. And she has one hell of a voice, high and sweet, but with a rough edge on the lower notes that lifts the hairs on the back of my neck and makes my skin prickle.
I freeze just inside the door, mesmerized by the way her hips swivel as she belts out the chorus of a country song about cheaters that I’m positive has never sounded as sexy as it does coming from her lips. Her red lips, the same color as that red dress.
Jesus…
“Dibs!” John says, shouting to be heard over the music.
I frown. “Dibs on what?” I ask, still unable to tear my eyes away from Melody.
I’ve never seen her like this, so wild and free and lost to something in the best way. She’s having so much fun it almost seems wrong to stare at her, like I’m spying on a private moment, but that doesn’t stop me—or any of the other men in the room—from keeping our attention glued to the stage.
“Dibs on the blonde singer,” John says. “I’m in love.”
My frown morphs into a full-blown scowl. “No. No way.” I turn to pin John with a don’t-even-think-about-it look. “Melody is off-limits.”
His eyebrows lift. “You know her?”
“Yeah, I know her. She’s my boss’s little sister. She’s a kid, a sweet kid.”
John grins. “Doesn’t look like a kid to me.”
“She’s not one of your Friday night fucks, man,” I snap. “Do you get me? Or should we go talk about this outside?”
John laughs, and a knowing look flashes in his eyes. “You should have just said something, man. Clearly, you’ve got it bad for the girl. I get it. I totally get it. No worries.”
“That’s not it. At all.” I cross my arms at my chest and try not to sound defensive. “I told you, she’s my boss’s little sister. I just feel obligated to look out for her.”
John nods a little too long. “Right. I feel you. Like I said, no worries, brother. I’ll turn my attentions elsewhere.”
“You do that,” I mutter, not liking the way John is looking at me—like I’m the punch line in some dumb joke—but at least we understand each other.
Melody is off-limits.
For both of us.
Too bad I can’t force a similar promise from every man in the bar.
By the time Melody comes offstage to applause louder than I’ve heard in three weeks of Fridays at The Horse, half the men in the place are lined up offering to buy her a drink.
I have to fight my way through a crowd three deep to get to her.
For my sanity’s sake, I should leave right now—do not say a word to Melody or get any closer to her dangerous boots—but she clearly needs a bodyguard. Half these men are old enough to be her father and should absolutely know better than to mess with her.
But they don’t, so I’ll just have to glare at them until they get the message.
I’m already glaring when I reach Melody’s side. And then she turns, beaming up at me with a smile so bright it’s like a slap in the face.
But a good slap, a nice slap, the kind that wakes you up in the middle of a nightmare, chasing all the bad things away.
“Nick, hey!” She throws her arms around my neck, giving me a giddy hug that makes my blood feel fizzier than it did a second ago.
My arms go around her on instinct, and they stay around her by design. I glower at the rest of the horny bar idiots over her shoulder until finally, one by one, they back away with defeated expressions, and I’m left with nothing to do but enjoy how warm and soft she feels in my arms.
God, who knew hugging could feel this good?