Becky Wicks - Before He Was A Secret (Starstruck #3)

by Becky Wicks

  She looks to the sky, wipes her mouth with a napkin and sips more of her coffee. I can’t help watching her. Her mouth is wider than Grace’s, and her lips are way more pink and… why the hell am I thinking about her lips? ‘Guess I’m just chasing the Music City dream, like everyone else,’ she says. ‘Only I don’t have too many songs to work with right now.’

  Three kids run screaming past us, followed by their harassed looking mother and we both dodge a ball as it flies overhead. The park is pretty busy already, actually. Everywhere is crazy.

  ‘Everyone here I’ve seen is just so talented. It’s a little daunting, you know? I guess it’s just taking some time to adjust.’

  ‘Understandable. So you sing, too?’ I say, still fixed on her lips. For a second, for some strange reason, I see her on a beach around a fire, pouring out a song. I see other people, and that Greek girl, Alyssa… holy shit. My heart rate speeds up as it hits me suddenly who she is. ‘You were on that show, weren’t you?’ I say in surprise. ‘The one on the island? Deserted.’

  She looks to the river, looking awkward. ‘I don’t watch much TV,’ I tell her quickly as she crosses her boots over in front of her on the grass and stares at them, ‘but God, you’re good, Stephanie. I saw a little of one episode, when they showed you singing with some guy. He was younger...’

  ‘My brother.’

  ‘He was good, too. Why are you concerned about what other people are doing here? You have to do your own thing.’

  ‘I know that,’ she says, still looking at her boots. The sun’s glinting off the buckles. ‘I try to write every night. I used to have so much to say but lately… I don’t know. I just feel like all these words are stuck behind some wall and I can’t reach them. Not like you obviously can.’

  I raise my eyebrows. She’s trying not to show it but she’s upset about this. I know how she feels. I hate when those walls come up around my own songs. They’ve been doing that a lot lately, especially around anything remotely happy or upbeat. Pain seems more inspiring than any happiness ever was and I fucking hate that sometimes.

  ‘It’s a catch twenty-two,’ Stephanie continues, crunching her empty coffee cup against the side of her daisy dukes. ‘I don’t feel inspired ‘cause I’ve been stuck in the restaurant, but the less I do of what I really came here to do, the more crappy and lost I feel and the more I just think screw it; I may as well take another shift while I figure things out, you know? God, I must be sounding so lame right now, I’m sorry…’

  I bump her shoulder with my own. ‘Don’t beat yourself up, you just got here, right? And you’re earning money. That’s always good.’

  ‘I’m hiding,’ she says, looking at me now. Her long hair flies out in the breeze again and brushes my face. ‘I shouldn’t be, I came here to help my…’ she trails off and sighs, forces a smile onto her pink lips. ‘Hey, at least I have the best buttermilk biscuits to hide out with, thanks to you.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up - that food cart changes every week. Look, I think you need some real inspiration,’ I say, another idea forming as I speak. ‘You also need a deadline. Don’t you find you get more stuff done when there’s a deadline?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I fish in my pocket for the flier I picked up this morning, hand it to her. She reads it, frowning. ‘Singer songwriter night? At the Bluebird? Conor…’

  ‘When’s your next day off?’

  ‘Tomorrow, but... woah!’ We duck the flying ball again and a flustered mother yells at the child who threw it. ‘I was planning on the Opry and the Hall of Fame, maybe the Johnny Cash Museum…’

  ‘Forget all that,’ I interrupt, picking up my biscuits and standing up. I reach down a hand to pull her to her feet. ‘That stuff isn’t what inspired the greats – that’s just what they left behind for the rest of us. What you need, Stephanie, if you don’t mind me saying, is to get the hell out of town.’

  5.

  Stephanie

  Bob Barker bounds up to the door before I can even reach it myself and the second I see Conor’s tall frame and broad shoulders through the screen my heart somersaults. I pull Bob back by his collar and let him in. He leans into kiss my cheek and I notice how he smells like shower foam. He's wearing a relatively tight white T-shirt; tight enough for me to see the lines of his muscles at least, jeans and a green baseball hat and his hair is curling cutely out of the sides. It's still wet at the bottom at the back. I picture him getting ready to drive to my house. Was he nervous, like I am?

  ‘So where are we going?’ I say, trying not to sound rattled as I beckon him inside and Bob Barker tries to escape out the door. Conor laughs, forcing the door shut with his back as Bob jumps up at him regardless.

  ‘Is he yours?’ he says, petting his head as I try and fail to hold him back.

  ‘He’s mine. Conor, meet Bob Barker. He’s kind of restless, sorry,’ I say, holding down my green sundress where Bob’s bunched it all up.

  ‘Well, he can come. He’ll have a good time where we’re going. So this is your place, huh? How many roommates do you have?’

  ‘Two.’ I motion for him to follow me down the hallway. ‘Tal and E-beth, but they left early for work. Coffee before we head out?’ I cleaned up this morning, made sure the place was presentable and that all the dishes were on the racks and shelves in the kitchen and not piled up in the sink as usual. Conor’s Converse shoes pad after my bare feet on the thinning carpet as Bob bounds after us.

  ‘I packed us everything we’ll need,’ he says. He looks a little sheepish as I turn to him. ‘I got you one of Mitch’s coffee’s too. The ice is probably melting…’

  ‘Oh, OK. Wow. You really did think of everything! But... if Bob’s coming we can take my car. I don’t want to get dog hair all over yours.’

  ‘That’s no problem…’

  ‘No, seriously Conor, he sheds like a llama I swear, I’ll just grab his leash.’ I head for my room but when I turn around, Conor’s followed me further down the hallway.

  ‘Tal’s mom,’ he notes, stopping and pointing at a photo of Molly Nixon on the wall.

  ‘Can you believe that?’ I reply, looking at it with him as I tie my hair back in a loose knot. I’m already wondering if I’m showing too much cleavage in this sundress. I don’t know if this is a date, or if we’re really just going someplace to write songs like he said we were yesterday when he walked me back to The Nice Rack after our biscuits. I didn’t come here to date, after all. I promised Brock I was coming here for me. It doesn’t stop him calling me every day to say his offer still stands.

  ‘There are a lot of kids living pretty good off their parents in this town,’ Conor says without an ounce of spite.

  ‘You and Tal aren’t friends, right?’

  ‘We see each other around, I know who she is. But we’ve never hung out. I think she knows my…’ he stops suddenly and I study his profile as he studies the picture from under the rim of his hat. He has a really nice nose. ‘She’s lucky to have such a generous mom,’ he says and I pull my eyes away quickly as he looks at me.

  I walk into my room, grab the leash from the hook on the wall. I can’t stop thinking about the look Tal gave me last night when I told her I was heading out with Conor for the day. She seemed surprised, but she didn’t exactly elaborate on that reaction before she rushed off to see a show.

  Bob Barker barks behind me. ‘OK, OK, I’ll hurry up,’ I say, shoving my cell into my purse and pushing my sunglasses onto my head. I spin around. Conor’s leaning in the doorframe now, looking around in amusement.

  ‘Nice bed, Jackson. Where do the other six dwarves sleep?’

  I laugh and slip on my boots. ‘It’s pretty small huh? Sometimes my feet get cold when they stick out the end at night.’

  ‘We’ll have to get you some socks,’ he says, and something about the way he says we’ll makes my heart skid, but he draws his eyes away and starts walking back down the hallway. ‘Let’s get going!’

  I lock the door behind
us, follow him down the driveway and fish for my keys. I run my eyes over his body from behind. He has a really nice ass in these jeans, and the white T-shirt only enhances his shoulder muscles. I'm pretty sure E-beth would add him to her laminated list if she saw. The thought of her doing so annoys me. Then I hate that I'm annoyed. He's tall; not as tall as Brock, but he's in awesome shape and I can tell he works out. ‘Are you sure you want to ride in this?’ he says when we reach my car.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I tell him, laughing now. ‘It just looks like it’s about to die. This thing’s got a lot of life left in it yet.’

  ‘Okaaaay,’ he says, ‘if you say so. I’ll just grab the guitar.’

  I throw my purse inside as Bob jumps in and takes his place on the backseat. Conor comes back with the hard case over his shoulder and two iced coffees in his hands. He hands me them and tells Bob to look after his guitar as he lays it down in the back, then goes back for the food he’s packed. I put the coffees in the middle, sweep the dog hair away from the passenger seat hurriedly.

  The second our seatbelts are fastened and the engine starts, my palms start sweating. It’s hot out, as usual, but the close proximity to Conor in an enclosed space isn’t exactly helping. What am I, fifteen? What’s wrong with me? We’re two adults, taking a drive with a dog.

  ‘We need to head left from here. Head towards Loveless,’ he says.

  ‘The café?’

  ‘Yup, best food in Nashville. Well, if you’re a tourist,’ he winks as we pull away and Bob jumps up at the back window. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been there yet either?’

  ‘Nope.’

  He sighs, leans an elbow on the window ledge, looking at me. ‘So much to see,’ he says, pretending to be disappointed and I try to ignore the way his bicep is kind of bulging impressively in the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  We drive on through the city. The whole way, Conor points out houses and stores and locations from the TV show Nashville - things I feel like I should probably know by now. ‘So, you’ve lived here your whole life?’ I ask him as we reach the café and he tells me to head south.

  ‘Most of it. I was born in Ireland.’

  ‘Hence the name.’

  ‘Hence the name, yes. My mom’s family are there, but my father seduced her when he travelled to Dublin on a tour with his first band; brought her back here. They went back and forth for a while but we settled here when I was two. All his family are here. My grandfather opened Fret.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘So, have you ever been to Ireland?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Not yet. I was planning to go with… sometime. What about you?’ he says after a moment. ‘Where are your parents?’

  ‘They died.’ I keep my eyes on the road as the city turns into fields of green. He nods thoughtfully. I can tell he’s unsure what to say. ‘I have two brothers,’ I tell him. ‘They’re living with my aunt in Homewood.’

  I see a look flash across his features. ‘Well, I bet they’re proud of you, being here.’

  ‘I have to make them proud,’ I say. ‘One way or another. I don’t particularly want to be known as that girl from the island forever, you know? The player. Do you have brothers and sisters?’

  That look again. ‘One brother,’ he says. ‘Well, I did have.’

  ‘He died?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know where he is. And what do you mean, the player?’ he raises an eyebrow and I frown at him. ‘I take it you’re not talking about tennis,’ he adds. I smile as my thoughts whirl. He doesn’t want to talk about his brother? And he was planning to go to Ireland with somebody. I realize I'm storing every word he says in some kind of box marked 'keep for further analysis.'

  ‘I told everyone I was a virgin, so Jaxx would try and change that. I knew he liked me and I played my part out there, you know? He gave me the immunity charm to keep me in the show. Everyone thinks I slept with him to get it.’

  Conor’s shaking his head, a half smile playing on his mouth now. I know what he’s thinking. ‘I didn’t sleep with him,’ I say. ‘Maybe the edits made it seem like I did but it’s TV, Conor, they have you believe what they want you to believe.’

  ‘Trust me, it’s not just TV shows that do that,’ he says dryly. ‘I don't watch much, myself. Personally the only thing I trust is music.’

  I turn to him. ‘I like that. The only thing I trust is music. You should make that a lyric.’

  ‘How ‘bout we make it one of our lyrics?,’ he says. ‘We’re going to need a few songs if we’re going to get you up at the Bluebird.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I say, as a whole new bunch of nerves crash and collide through me, but he puts a hand on my arm. I look down at it. Big, tanned... like my father’s.

  ‘I told you we were going to write a kickass song out here and I’m serious, Stephanie. I know what it’s like to have words you can’t say stuck inside you. We’re going to get them out.’

  ‘You sound like a doctor,’ I laugh.

  He nods thoughtfully, withdrawing his hand. I notice the absence of it instantly. ‘If I’m a doctor, this is my surgery,’ he says. He motions around at the scenery in front of us. Somehow the city’s disappeared. We’re surrounded by rolling green hills, with the odd house dotted on the roadside and the sun spilling through gaps in the branches overhead. ‘The Natchez Trace,’ he says. ‘Originally it was a footpath for the traders. They came here on their rafts and boats on the Mississippi and once they’d traded their goods, they sold their rafts too and walked back.’

  ‘They walked back? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Easier than paddling upstream perhaps? After steamboats came along though, the Trace pretty much disappeared… till they paved over it of course. Now it’s just, well, this.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say as we pass a picturesque farmhouse that looks like it belongs in a storybook. There’s even a pond with geese.

  ‘Over four hundred miles of beautiful. So tell me, what kind of music do you play?’ His eyes are on my face as I drive. I can feel them. I have got to get a grip. We’re just two adults, taking a drive with a dog. It’s just that every time I glance at him his lyrics start playing on my heart again. He got to me when he was up on that stage. He got to someplace deeper in me than Brock or anyone else ever has with that two damn songs and that magic carries over into every word he speaks now, somehow. Even yesterday, sitting with him by the river, I was noting every single time our arms brushed, every crumb of buttermilk biscuit I probably had sitting embarrassingly on my lips before I could wipe it away.

  ‘I grew up on country,’ I tell him, realizing he’s waiting for me to speak. ‘Patsy Cline, the Carter Sisters, Kitty Wells… anything my parents put on. All the greats. Country’s in my blood so it usually slips in there, but I mostly try and go with what comes into my head.’

  ‘I hear you,’ he says as a flock of turkeys suddenly takes flight in a field to our left. I slow to watch them. ‘You can’t change certain songs – they just demand to come out a certain way, right?’ The turkeys squawk against the sun and Conor puts a hand to the dash. ‘Wait, we should stop here. The Meriwether Lewis monument.’

  ‘The what?’ I pull over. He opens the door and I get out of the car, letting Bob bound out behind us. Conor strides over to a gray plaque on a patch of grass and I follow him, standing to his side as the breeze tussles at my dress and hair.

  ‘He was President Jefferson’s private secretary,’ he says, folding his arms over his chest. ‘He was shot here mysteriously two hundred years ago and buried. No one knows why.’ I follow his eyes over the sign to the tiered stone monument up ahead on the grass. Then I read from the plaque.

  ‘His life of romantic endeavor and lasting achievement came tragically and mysteriously to its close on the night of October 11, 1809.’

  ‘Imagine,’ Conor follows, and we stand in silence for a moment. The words romantic endeavor repeat in my mind. What an interesting choice of words for such a mission. I wonder if they’d ever call someone�
��s life a romantic endeavor these days.

  ‘Don’t you think calling it a romantic endeavor is interesting?’ Conor says from out of nowhere. ‘I wonder if they’d ever call someone’s life a romantic endeavour these days.’

  I feel my eyes widen as I turn to him. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was just thinking that.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ he grins. Our eyes meet and I know I'm doomed.

  ‘Maybe he was on a romantic mission; more so than we know,’ I sigh. My smile fades as I look back to the monument. ‘Maybe he was singing his songs as he walked, thinking about a girl.’

  ‘Maybe he had a family back home who sat there waiting for a man who never came back.’

  ‘I know what that feels like,’ I say and he reaches for my hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, Stephanie. So do I.’

  ‘What happened to your brother?’ I venture now, and Conor tilts his head to the sky, closes his eyes for a moment. He looks uncomfortable and I wish I hadn’t asked.

  ‘Seriously, I wish I knew,’ he says eventually. ‘He left when I was twelve. He stopped calling. So, you were sixteen when your parents died?’

  ‘Yes.’ I look down at our fingers, entwined. I get the feeling he’s not ready to talk about what happened, not to me at least. ‘They went out in the car to…’ I stop. The breeze rushes through my bangs and I pull my hand back to sweep them aside. I don’t usually talk about my loss either, but seeing as I seem to blurt all kinds of stuff in this guy’s presence, my words come out anyway.

  ‘My life pretty much stopped. My aunt Sandi took us in but my uncle left her a year later. He didn’t bargain on a whole new family, I guess, but she never left us. She just let him go. I owe her so much, Conor. I’d never left Alabama before I went to that island and now I’m here I just want to do something good, something bigger, for her and my brothers.’

  ‘And for yourself,’ Conor says. Bob Barker pads up to us with his tongue out. I kneel down to pet him and Conor does the same, looks at me over Bob’s soft fur. Our hands brush and again, sparks flicker and then flame around my heart. His eyes are concerned, thoughtful, deciphering me. I contemplate telling him about the biggest reason I’m here, but the words won’t come out.