“Hey,” she said quietly, and he whirled around to find C.C. standing right behind him. He fumbled the metal case in his hands, nearly dropping it before he clutched it tightly against his chest.
“Hey! Hi.” His face grew even hotter as he set the case on a cart. “Hey.” And he already said that. What an idiot.
“I just wanted to thank you. Again,” she said, holding out his sunglasses. “I found mine. They were right there in the tent next to my stuff.” She shook her head with a little laugh, and Dalton wished he could see her eyes.
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” He took the shades and slid them up onto the top of his head. “It's no problem. I can't really wear them during a show anyway, because—” He waved toward his regular glasses, hitting them in the process and creating a big smudge in front of his right eye. Maybe she didn't notice—“I need to see, and, uh. I could get prescription sunglasses. I probably should, but then you couldn't have borrowed them, but—” He wished, in that moment, that a natural disaster would sweep in—a tornado to whisk him away or an earthquake opening up the ground and swallowing him whole. Anything but the ridiculous rambling he couldn't seem to stop.
C.C. gave him a little smile and tucked her hands into her pockets. “Well, you really helped me out. I know it's weird . . .” She shrugged and looked down at the ground.
“No!” he said. Too loudly, if her little jump was any indication. “I mean, it's not weird. People have superstitions or routines or whatever that keep them comfortable. I get that.” He cleared his throat. “It's not. Weird.”
The crowd out in front of the stage cheered, and C.C. glanced in that direction. “It's not superstition,” she said quietly. “It's the only way—” She gave a little shake and turned back to him. “It's not important. But thanks.” She hesitated, tilting her head. “Dalton, right?”
“Right.” He held out his hand, which was so stupid, but there was no going back now. “Dalton Gregory.”
Her lips twitched up a little, but she shook his hand. “C.C. DeVera.”
And this whole encounter was humiliating, but he didn't want it to end, so he asked, “What's the C.C. stand for?”
Then mentally kicked himself for the question. Maybe she didn’t like her real name. Maybe she’d think he was pushy and invasive and never want to speak to him again.
“Cecilia Clemente,” she replied.
Or maybe it would be okay.
“After my aunt and my grandmother,” she added.
Dalton realized he was still slowly shaking her hand. And his hand was sweaty. He pulled it away quickly, tucking it into his back pocket. To her credit, she didn't immediately wipe hers off.
“I'm named after my grandfather,” he said. “The Dalton part, not the Gregory part. That's for my dad . . . and actually, my grandfather, too. Not the one named Dalton, but the other one, so—” Why could he not speak like a normal person?
C.C. took pity on him. “Well, I think it's a nice name,” she said. “It suits you.”
“Really?” He wrinkled his nose. Because Dalton was a perfect name for a babbling dork, obviously.
This time she laughed. “It's a good thing.”
“If you say so.”
She shrugged. “Guess you'll have to take my word on it.” C.C. glanced over her shoulder. “I should go. Gonna grab a bite with the girls, then watch the rest of the show.”
“Right! Yeah, of course.” He nodded, feeling like a bobblehead doll. He stopped nodding. “Have fun.”
“You, too.” She paused, like she was going to say something more, then snapped her mouth shut. “Okay, then. Thanks again, Dalton.”
He liked the way she said his name.
“You're welcome.”
She turned on her heel and jogged over to meet the other girls, and they disappeared into the crowd.
Dalton returned to his work, and tried not to replay the conversation over and over again, thinking of things he should have said.
He failed.
***
“Morning,” Mac rasped the next day, slipping into the dinette beside C.C. and snagging a sip of her coffee. The bus rolled along, the sun barely over the horizon. The other girls were all still sleeping, but C.C. had always been an early riser, something she probably inherited from her mother, who rarely slept past five. They'd pulled out of Austin around four-thirty, and she hadn't been able to get back to sleep, still not used to the noises on the road.
“Hey!” C.C. pulled her cup protectively toward her.
“Have mercy on me,” Mac begged. “It was a late night.”
“Well, there's a pot over there.” C.C. pointed to the built-in coffee maker mounted under one of the kitchen cabinets. “Get your own.”
“Fine.” Mac huffed, getting up to pour herself a cup. She took a long drink and sighed happily.
“Better?” C.C. asked.
“Better.” She took another sip. “That was so much fun last night.”
C.C. grinned. “Yeah, it was.”
They'd had a blast watching the other shows—some from backstage, others from a VIP section set aside for the artists. They'd screamed themselves hoarse, sprawled on the grass to watch the fireworks display, and stayed up until the early morning hours dancing with the crowd.
Oh, and they'd actually met Willie Nelson.
He'd been so nice. He'd complimented them on their album—he'd actually heard their album!—and gave them all signed red bandanas. C.C. had hers pinned up on the wall in her bunk next to the pictures of her family.
Then he'd offered them a word of advice.
“You girls are going places,” he'd said, scratching his scruffy cheek. “Just don't forget where you came from.”
And Willie Nelson obviously knew what he was talking about. C.C. was thinking about getting a tattoo to commemorate the experience. She just wasn't sure what. Idly, she ran a finger over the heart on the inside of her wrist, the stylized letter N in honor of her Lola Nene, her grandmother and biggest supporter.
“Any idea where we are?” Mac asked through a yawn.
C.C. pulled up her maps app. “Middle of Nowhere, Texas.”
Mac snorted and gave C.C. a wink before she sweetly called out to the driver. “Hey, Danny? Any plans to stop for breakfast?” It was no secret half the girls had a crush on him, even though he was happily married and treated them all more like little sisters than anything else.
The huge man glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Brownwood's a little over an hour out,” he replied. “Val says we can stop there.”
Mac got up to rummage in the kitchen cabinets. “I'm going to need something before then,” she muttered, pulling out a box of miniature blueberry muffins. She tossed one to C.C. and ate the other in two bites, chasing it with more coffee.
C.C. nibbled on her own muffin and scrolled through the news feed on her phone while Mac flipped through the latest Entertainment Weekly. Eventually, the other girls staggered out of their bunks, pouring coffee and collapsing into every available seat.
“Morning, Sunshine,” C.C. said once Rissa finally joined them.
“How can you be so chipper?” she replied, yawning widely. “It's too early for chipper.”
C.C. shrugged. “My Lola Nene always says, the hardest person to wake up is the one who is already awake.”
Rissa stared at her blankly. “What does that even mean?”
C.C. smirked. “I have no idea.”
Mac laughed, and Danny called out, “Brownwood in fifteen, ladies. Get ready for breakfast!”
They all cheered, and a short time later were sitting in a booth at an old-fashioned diner with dark paneling, red carpets, and a faded sign offering all you can eat silver dollar pancakes for five bucks. Between the band and the crew, they filled almost all the tables, and the waitresses looked a little worried as they scurried around, offering water and coffee.
The front door opened, allowing in a humid rush of air, and C.C. looked up to see Dalton Gregory walk in. He scanned the room fo
r a place to sit, then approached an empty chair at the next table. When he sat down, he was facing her almost head-on, and she smiled, shoving her sunglasses to the top of her head.
He looked startled for a moment, but then he smiled back, before looking down at his menu.
“And what was that?” Mac murmured from beside her, wide-eyed and waiting expectantly, lips pressed together.
“What was what?” C.C. focused on her own menu. “I think I'm going for the pancakes. How about you?”
“Uh uh.” Mac plucked the menu from her fingers. “What was that little moment with Dalton?”
At the mention of his name, Dalton's head popped up, and C.C. wanted to die of mortification.
“Would you stop?” she hissed, leaning forward on a hand to hide her face.
“What's going on?” Cinnamon asked from across the table. “What are you two up to?”
“Nothing,” C.C. said quickly, jabbing Mac in the side with her elbow.
Mac sighed. “Nothing,” she agreed. “I'm trying to talk C.C. into splitting an order of pancakes, but she wants the all you can eat.”
“I don't know where you put it,” Katie Lyn said, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “No offense, girl, but you eat like a linebacker.”
C.C. shrugged. “I have a high metabolism.”
“Well, I unfortunately, will be sticking to the egg white omelet and a fruit cup,” Taylor said. “I don't—” Her phone chimed and she snatched it up quick, a smile blossoming as she read the text.
“Let me guess,” Rissa said with a smirk. “Eddie?”
Taylor shrugged, her cheeks growing pink. “It's the best time to chat, given the time difference.” Her fiancé, a British pop sensation who made girls swoon and scream in equal measure, was back in London at the moment. C.C. imagined the separation had to be tough, but they seemed to be making the best of it.
“Well, say hi to him from us,” Rissa replied.
“Speaking of love interests . . .” Mac zeroed in on Rissa. “What's up with Jake, lately?”
Rissa sighed. Jake was Val's, son and part owner of the Turquoise Horse, their home base back in Nashville. He was also the love of Rissa's life.
“He's working hard,” she replied. “Things are going well at the bar, though. They hired another bartender, and we're hoping he'll be able to fly out for the Country Jam weekend.”
“I might have news on that front.” Val appeared at their table, dragged over a chair and straddled it, her tattooed arms folded over the back. “I wanted to talk to you girls about something.”
“What's up?” Rissa asked, a little nervously.
The older woman smiled. “It's nothing bad. In fact, it's good news.” She ran a hand through her auburn curls and stifled a yawn. “The thing is—the Lipstick Outlaws are blowing up, and that's great—it's fantastic—but, I've got to tell you, it's a heck of a lot of work.” Val picked up a straw wrapper and idly tied it into a knot. “Too much for me, I'm afraid.”
“What?” Cinnamon sat up straight. “You're not—you're not quitting are you?”
“We can't do this without you!” Rissa protested.
“No! No, absolutely not.” Val held up a hand. “I'm just saying it's time to bring on someone new. I'm constantly getting calls about new opportunities—gigs, licensing deals, this Amazon thing is taking up a ton of my time.” She shook her head. “I want to hire a road manager. Someone to handle things here, freeing me up to work on some of these other deals, and to help Jake manage things at the Turquoise Horse. I've kind of left him holding the bag.”
“A road manager?” C.C. said, frowning slightly. “You think we need one?”
“I do,” Val replied. “I'll still check in with you regularly. I'll even join you on the road now and then to make sure everything's going the way it should. But we need this. I need this, to be honest.”
The table fell quiet as the waitress approached and took their orders. The clink of glasses and silverware and the low hum of conversation surrounded them, but the girls seemed lost in their own thoughts. It was strange. It had always been the seven of them—the girls and Val against the world. But they were growing, and C.C. couldn't decide if she felt excited or nervous about it.
Probably a little bit of both.
“So,” Rissa said, once the waitress had left, “I'm guessing you have someone in mind?”
Val nodded. “I do, actually. His name's Jack Bradley. I've known him for years . . . worked with him back in the day.” She met each of their gazes in turn. “He's good. One of the best. And he's available, but he won't be for long. I need your okay to reach out to him.”
“Well, I'm fine with it,” Cinnamon said, taking a sip of her coffee. “If you say we need him, that's good enough for me.”
The rest of the band agreed, and Val let out a sigh. “Good,” she said. “I'll give him a call, and hopefully he'll meet us in Montana.” She got up and headed back to her own table, already pulling her phone from her back pocket as the waitress delivered their food.
“It's going to be weird not having her with us,” Katie Lyn said, shaking ketchup onto her hash browns. “It's kind of like having our mom here, you know? Just don't tell her I said that.”
The others laughed.
“I guess it's all part of the gig.” Mac took a bite of her toast, spread thickly with strawberry jam. She swallowed and licked her lips. “We get bigger, the crew gets bigger.”
At the mention of the crew, C.C. glanced at Dalton, who was deep in discussion with another guy at his table. His glasses had slipped down his nose a little and for some reason it made her smile. She sliced off a bite of her pancakes and swiped it through the puddle of syrup. “I think we have to try not to get caught up in it too much,” she said. “I trust Val, and I trust her to bring on good people. Our job is to focus on the music and the performance.”
“You're right,” Rissa said on a sigh. “Still, it's kind of hard to let go, you know? Let other people have a piece of our band?”
“It's still our band,” Taylor pointed out as she finally set down her phone and started to eat. “Nothing's going to change that. Not for us. And not for Val.”
The group agreed, and eventually, everyone cleared out of the diner and boarded the buses.
Mac, Taylor and Rissa started a card game in the front lounge while Katie Lyn went to her bunk to video chat with her little girl, Madison. Cinnamon opened her notebook to work on some lyrics, and C.C. grabbed her laptop and headed for the rear lounge.
“Chatting with a mystery man?” Mac asked with a smirk.
C.C. scoffed. “I wish. Nah, I need to call my family.”
“Say hi to your Lola Nene!”
C.C. waved over her shoulder in response and made her way to the leather couch, setting her laptop up on the table before her. It was relatively quiet in the back, other than the low hum of the bus engine and the occasional laughter from the girls up front. As she waited for her parents to answer, she grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge and took a long drink.
Her mother's face appeared on the screen. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mom!”
“C.C. it's you!”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Who else would it be? “Yeah, it's me. How's everything there?”
“Oh, you know. Crazy.” Her mom laughed. Gloria DeVera was fifty-eight, but didn't look a day over forty. Her dark hair was cropped short and she wore a pair of silver hoop earrings that almost reached her shoulders. “Marisol's driving everyone nuts with the wedding plans, but what else is new?”
C.C. was the youngest girl in her family, followed by Marisol, who was a year older, and the first to get engaged. Her fiancé, Noah, was a financial whiz and a really patient guy. Which was a good thing, because Marisol was something of a bridezilla.
“How about you?” her mother asked. “Where are you?”
C.C. peered out the window. “Somewhere in Texas,” she replied. “We have a show in Lubbock tonight, then
we're heading to Montana for a festival in Whitefish.”
“Oh! Here's your dad!”
Benjamin peeked in from the side of the screen. “Hi, sweetie!”
“Hi, Dad!”
“Is that C.C.? I want to talk to her!” a voice said from off screen, and before she knew it, Marisol and her oldest sister, Analyn squeezed their faces in.
“Ceece, when are you coming home?” Marisol asked, her long dark hair in a braid dangling over one shoulder. “The wedding's less than two months away and we need to make sure your bridesmaid dress fits.”
“It's going to fit,” Analyn said, rolling her eyes. Her own hair was short and dyed red. “She hasn't change sizes in the past six months.” She paused, brow creased. “You haven't, have you Ceece?”
“No, I haven't,” she replied. “And I should have a week off next month, so I'll be home then.”
“Next month?” her mother pushed her way back into the group before the screen. “We won't see you for a month? Why aren't you playing in Seattle?”
C.C. shrugged. “Not on the schedule right now. We'll be at the Gorge on the first weekend in August for Watershed, but we have to leave the next day for Vancouver, so I won't be able to come home.”
“That's okay, sweetie,” her father said. “We'll see you next month.”
Her mother frowned, but said nothing.
“Cecilia!” And that was the voice she'd been looking forward to hearing. Analyn and Marisol disappeared, allowing C.C.'s grandmother to take a place in front of the camera. She wore a Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt, her white hair tucked under a matching cap. “How are you? You look skinny! Don't they feed you?”
C.C. laughed. “I'm eating, Lola. I promise.”
“Mom, leave her alone,” Gloria said. “You'll give her a complex.”
Lola Nene waved a dismissive hand. “Someone has to look out for her.”
“I can look out for myself,” C.C. said, but was promptly ignored.
“I was talking to my friend, Angela,” Lola Nene said, and C.C. fought the urge to groan. Her grandmother met regularly with a group of women to play mahjong, but the game was an excuse, in C.C.'s opinion, to get together and gossip about their children and grandchildren.
Taylor’s Legendary Heart: Sweethearts of Country Music, Book 2 Page 17
