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

by Becky Wicks

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he says after a moment, holding his hand out to me again. ‘There’s more to my surgery you haven’t seen yet.’

  We stop the car again after a turn off at Milepost 404. Conor says Jackson Falls is our destination and he grabs the guitar from the back, hands me the picnic bag before we make our way down a green, tree-lined path and down a steep, rocky slope. ‘Careful,’ he calls back to me as he goes on ahead. It’s a little slippery in my boots but I manage and I hear the falls before I see them – the roaring flow that takes me back to the island all over again. We spent so many afternoons there, unravelling the world and all its problems.

  'What do you think of your falls, Jackson?' Conor grins and I laugh.

  ‘They're beautiful!’

  We reach the bottom and Conor puts the guitar down on some rocks. He takes the bag from me as I look around us. Bob Barker runs straight into the water. We’re standing in what feels like some kind of crater, with nothing but the swaying tall trees and the mossy walls surrounding us. The falls must be forty-feet high, crashing into a clear pool some ten meters away. Birds and butterflies are fluttering everywhere. ‘It’s like some kind of dream,’ I tell him, standing on a rock in front of the falls and holding my arms out.

  ‘We had to come early,’ he says, ‘before everyone else shows up.’ He comes up behind me, hands me a bottle of water from the bag and I take it gratefully. It’s hot down here too, although the air feels fresher and the spray from the water catches me in cool, fine jets.

  ‘This is where inspiration’s about to strike, Mr Judge?’ I say. I watch him swig from the bottle, his big hands, his brown eyes closing in the shade of his hat as the sun hits the dimple in his chin. He really is beautiful. But not in a way that could make a girl feel permanently uneasy. He's beautiful in that he radiates honesty and charm and warmth, and makes me happier for being beside him. I barely know him, but I realize trust him.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ he answers, running a hand over his mouth and screwing the cap back on his water bottle. ‘So, what’s the last song you wrote?’ He sits down on a rock, starts getting the Martin out of its case. His hair is the color of chocolate in the sun. I watch him tune the strings – the way his thick black eyebrows slant and fall as he searches for the perfect notes. I can hear them when he hits them, like he can.

  ‘I’ve written bits, here and there,’ I say, walking towards him. ‘There’s the one I call The Nice Rack Asshole…’

  Conor laughs. I like his laugh. ‘You wrote a song about Travis Flynn?’

  ‘Oh, he has inspiration written all over him,’ I grin. ‘But I only have a few lines. You want to hear something fun instead?’

  ‘More fun than a song about Travis?’ he says, patting the rock next to him. 'Is that even possible?'

  'Let's see!' I sit down and he hands me the guitar. He puts the strap over my shoulder and his arm brushes mine, just as my bare leg brushes the denim of his jeans. A butterfly flits past our faces and somehow winds up in my stomach.

  A fun song seems less intimidating to play than a sad one, so I start to strum the country rock tune that came to me on the drive from Homewood to Nashville. It comes out of my mouth and fills the crater and as my boot taps in the dirt, my nerves dissipate in the breeze, like they always do when I fall into a show of any kind, thank God.

  If you think I’ll be staying home and cooking supper

  Saying no to invitations as I turn into your mother

  If you think I’ll be making plans to have your kids

  Snuggling up in the shadows of the chances I missed

  I’m saying no

  I’m saying no boy, I’m saying no…

  What’s the rush, take it slow, take my hand and we’ll go

  Say goodbye

  We’ve got a lifetime

  Now let’s have the time of our lives

  We’ve got a lifetime

  Now let’s have the time of our lives

  Conor’s foot is tapping along with mine now as he watches my fingers on the strings. I can tell he’s waiting for a second verse but I stop abruptly on the G major chord and he shrugs comically, raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s all I have,’ I say.

  ‘You’re hilarious, that’s awesome! Seriously, that’s really good.’

  He really does look impressed. ‘Thanks!’ I say. The way he’s looking at me now with admiration is making my cheeks feel hot. 'Glad you like it.'

  ‘I love it. Wow… I wish I could write happy songs.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  He stops, looks kind of anguished for a moment. Then he takes off his green hat and swipes a hand though his hair. I gather his songs are about his ex; at least the ones I heard in McFlannerys. I wonder what she was like. ‘So… who wanted to have your kids?’ he says without answering me.

  I lean over the guitar. What the hell. ‘Brock, I think. We dated for a month or so before I came here.’

  ‘He didn’t want to come to Nashville?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have let him. We weren’t ever serious.’ I look to him, garnering his reaction. ‘That didn’t stop him proposing though.’

  Conor eyes widen as he puts his hat back on. ‘He asked you to marry him? After a month?’

  I shrug. ‘I think he always liked me but I never had much time for relationships. Maybe he just didn’t want me to leave again, once he thought he had me.’

  ‘Maybe he knew when he was onto a good thing,’ he replies and the butterflies dash and dart inside me like they're doing around the waterfall.

  He takes the guitar back and puts the strap over his shoulder. ‘I just broke up with someone, too,’ he says, almost hesitantly.

  I try to act surprised. ‘Really? How long were you together?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  ‘What?’ I laugh suddenly, expecting him to laugh too, but he doesn’t. I put a hand to his arm. ‘Seven years? Conor, that’s… forever.’

  ‘I like where you’re going with this song,’ he says changing the subject, fishing for a pick in his pocket. ‘Do you know what I was thinking when you went into the chorus?’ He stands up.

  I shake my head, watching him. He just got out of a seven year relationship? And there I was, all confused and singing about something that lasted four stupid weeks. No wonder he has so much to sing about. It’s all there, all the emotion, all the pain. I felt it rippling through me in that bar. What the heck has he been through with this girl?

  ‘I was thinking, wouldn’t it be a romantic endeavor if a guy sang a verse next – something similar, you know? Did you bring your notebook?’ he says, adjusting the tuning on his guitar.

  My head’s spinning. I have a hundred questions suddenly as I reach for my purse, pull it out, then fish for my pen as he starts to strum the same chords. The moment he sings again however, he pulls me back to that place again; the one where I can’t think of anything else at all.

  If you think I wanna rush you down the aisle

  Put diamonds on your fingers…

  He stops thoughtfully as start to scribble. He’s picked up the tune right away.

  Well we’ll wait a little while…

  ‘Nice!’ I say. ‘You're good, Conor Judge.’ He plays the chord progression over a few times, humming and scrunching his eyebrows together thoughtfully. Then he starts again.

  If you think I wanna rush you down the aisle

  Put diamonds on your fingers, well we’ll wait a little while

  If you think I won’t surrender to adventure, I remember how I met ya

  And I fell for your fire

  Yeah let’s go girl

  I’m saying let’s go girl, I’m saying let’s go…

  I’m scribbling furiously now as he improvises to my exact tune, standing in front of me in the sunlight, smiling the whole time with that killer watt smile. He’s such a showman. He starts to sing the chorus and before I know it I’m harmonizing with him along to my own song and Bob’s sitting
at his feet, looking up at him like a star struck groupie.

  What’s the rush, take it slow, take my hand and we’ll go

  Say goodbye

  We’ve got a lifetime

  Now let’s have the time of our lives

  ‘I have a bridge,’ I say, and he motions for me to sing.

  And we’ll run, and we’ll run

  But we’ll run for each other

  And we’ll catch one another when we’re ready to fall

  ‘Great, keep going,’ he says. So I repeat the last lines. Conor sings over me and under me and right through me, till it’s just us two in a whole other world and our voices bouncing off the walls.

  6.

  Conor

  The girl has a voice that could fill the whole damn Trace, and stadiums too, no doubt. The moment she opened her mouth I could hear what my father would call ‘it’. They’ve got ‘it’ he’d go around saying, whenever anyone truly talented came into the store, or whenever we’d hit a live gig and someone new blew the crowd away. Stephanie’s got it, but there’s something about our voices blending together that I know without even recording anything would make people listen. She hears it too - I can tell by the way she’s looking at me.

  I can also tell she’s wondering about my relationship now. I’d have thought Tal might have mentioned Grace. She mentioned her that night at McFlannerys after all. Everyone in the damn city seems to know about us; and the mess that still binds us. I grip the Fender to me.

  ‘You were right – it’s inspiring out here.’ Stephanie says now. ‘There are no biscuits, but I’m still impressed.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ I say. ‘You ma’am, have an incredible voice. Maybe we need to write more together. And play more, and not just here. There’s something better than biscuits in that bag, by the way.’

  Her blue eyes are wide now. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I got the most awesome muffins from this guy…’

  ‘I mean are you serious about writing more together, and singing?’ She pulls the picnic bag to her.

  I’m more serious about this than I probably should be, but I keep any concern out of my voice. She’s already igniting something in me I haven’t felt in months and God knows I need to start living in the moment. ‘We’ll shape it up before we take it to the Bluebird. We can write a couple more, come up with a set,’ I say. ‘You know how it works there, right?’

  ‘I know it’s always been one of the most respected songwriter's clubs around,’ she replies. She’s pulled out my notebook at the same time as the muffins. I step towards her, but she’s holding it now, opening it up, scanning the pages.

  ‘Writers still have to audition to play,’ I say, watching her slender fingers turn the pages.

  ‘And you’ve never done that before, on your own? Conor, you have some great stuff here! Did you write all these songs?’

  I nod, start picking at the strings again as the sunlight dances across her features; the way her pretty face is changing now as she flicks through the book. ‘Not all of them have music yet,’ I say. ‘Maybe they were waiting for you.’

  ‘Yeah right!’

  ‘I’m serious. You’re really good.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘Then I guess we’re lucky to have found each other.’ She tilts her head to me and I realize how my words could be interpreted, but the truth is, regardless of how goddam beautiful she is, when I meet people like Stephanie, with talent running pure through their veins, magic can happen. It’s like we just bounced off each other and I can’t even remember who wrote what, or how. It’s pretty rare to find that, even with all the talent in Nashville.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to audition at the Bluebird for years,’ I say now, ‘but I could never afford to think about it seriously enough to actually do it. I had my relationship, I had my work. I mean, I still do… have my work… but maybe I’ve been making excuses, too.’ I realize as I say it that it’s true. My father always assumed I'd run Fret and so the acceptance sank in, that maybe I'd never make music the way Micah and I dreamed we would. ‘You make me want to do this,’ I tell her sincerely. ‘That’s how good you are. I want… hell, maybe I need to get more words out there of my own.’

  She closes the book, looks up at me. ‘So, you want to join forces, doctor? A song writing surgery,’ she smiles.

  ‘If you want to,’ I say. ‘I mean, I know we came here for you, but…’

  ‘I wouldn’t have ever finished that song on my own,’ she says. ‘I’d be honored to write with you.’

  ‘OK then,’ I say, holding out my hand. As our palms collide I get the distinct feeling that something’s changing, that something up there in the heavens is dictating or orchestrating something I can’t quite grasp yet. It's the stuff of songs, perhaps. She hands me a muffin and calls to Bob again and I sit down, put the guitar between us and force myself to think only of the fact that this girl who came with me in McFlannerys when I sang, could take us both someplace else if we work at it. I’ve been waiting a really long time to go someplace else.

  We play, write and sing all afternoon, improving the first song all the time and throwing ideas around for several more. Stephanie has a natural ear for harmonies and a huskiness to her voice that I know will make ears prick up on stage. More than that though, she’s sharp and her lyrics flow like her sound. And she's beautiful, inside and out.

  Before long, the morning sun has turned into late afternoon and we haven’t even left the falls. ‘I haven’t written this much in a long time,’ she says. I watch the golden sunlight turn the blue of her eyes into turquoise as she holds up the book.

  ‘I was going to show you more of the Trace,’ I say as I finally put the guitar back in its case. ‘We can drive a little further if you like?’

  ‘I promised Indie Pete I’d go jam with him tonight,’ she says, packing up what’s left of the picnic food and putting everything back into the bag.

  ‘Indie Pete?’ I say.

  ‘It’s my first day off in a while - I’m always making excuses not to go meet his people but he’s holding me to this one.’ She looks up at me beguilingly through her bangs. ‘You could always come? They play all night, usually, a bunch of them. Sounds kind of fun... if you don’t have plans.’

  Something like relief floods through me along with hesitation. I don’t want our day together to be over just yet but I know my father’s expecting me at some Hearts Community meeting. I shake the thought from my head. I do everything he asks. He owes me this. ‘You don’t think he’d mind?’ I say, putting the guitar case over my shoulder and gesturing for her to follow me up the steep slope, back towards the car.

  ‘I think he’d say more fingers on frets, the merrier,’ she tells me as Bob Barker blasts past us, chasing a butterfly. ‘House concerts, he calls them.’

  'I know,' I say. Everyone who write songs in Nashville – and that’s pretty much everyone – goes to all the house concerts they can. It’s where we showcase new stuff and get feedback.

  Stephanie looks around her again as the breeze rustles the trees, and sighs contentedly. ‘Conor, thank you so much for bringing me here. I needed today. Shame we didn’t bring our bathing suits though, right? Could’ve done with a dip!’

  She gestures at the falls and I take in her pretty flushed cheeks; the way the breeze has tousled up her long bangs throughout the course of the day. Instantly I’m picturing her in that hot pink bikini – the one she was wearing on the TV; swimming up close, floating next to me, blonde hair flailing out around her, small, pert breasts breaking the water as she lies on her back, singing, singing, smiling at me.

  ‘Next time,’ I tell her, clearing my throat. I realize I’m cursing the fact that I forgot the bathers, as well as thanking my lucky stars.

  The sun is fading in the sky by the time we pull up at the house. ‘This is it,’ Stephanie says, holding up her phone with the address on Google Maps. There’s no one out front or on the porch, but as we get out of the car and I reach for
the guitar again, we can hear the sounds of music playing over the roof.

  ‘Guess they’re out back in the yard,’ Stephanie says, as Bob Barker bounds right up to the gate at the side of the house and we walk after him. I lift the latch to let us through. And straight away we see him.

  Stephanie freezes. I bump straight into the back of her, gripping her shoulders to steady us both. He’s sitting in one of six wooden seats around a fire, wearing a black cowboy hat. The buckles of his boots are reflecting in the flames and he’s swigging from a longneck. He reaches forward to pet Bob before he looks up. ‘You,’ Stephanie says, clenching her fists to her sides.

  Recognition and shock crosses his rugged face but before he can say anything a skinny, tall guy is walking towards us quickly, looking awkward. A small silver skull is attached to his eyebrow. The guy and girl stop playing their guitars for a second, then start up again. ‘What’s Travis doing here?’ Stephanie hisses, grabbing his arm and pulling him over to the wall. He reaches a hand to his scraggly beard.

  ‘Dacey invited him,’ he says, lowering his voice and pulling an apologetic face. ‘My roommate. Trust me, Alabama, I don’t want him here either, but you’ll be pleased to know he’s sober. That’s his first beer.’

  ‘Well, I hope he won’t have any more,’ Stephanie says, folding her arms. I try not to smile. The sweet, happy, warm blond I’ve been with all afternoon has gone. This girl is ice cold right now, not that I can blame her. I’m guessing the last time she saw Travis Flynn was when I threw his drunk ass into that cab.

  The guy extends a hand to me. ‘You’re Conor, right? I’ve seen you play, you’re great man. I’m Pete.’

  ‘Thanks, man,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘Hope you don’t mind me crashing.’