by Sandy James
Because Brad had sworn he’d never write another song. After learning that Katie didn’t really love him, it was as though all the joy he’d once found in music had vanished. Angry and humiliated, he’d built a bonfire in the backyard and burned her incriminating diaries. Then he’d tossed every blank music page he could find lying around on the pyre. The musical part of his life was over. He’d punctuated his promise by also tossing on his guitar and watching the flames lick at it until it, too, was reduced to ash.
A mahogany Martin.
Morose memories were swept aside as more of the new melody screamed at him. He hastily tried to hold on to each note as he fought a battle with himself. Writing one song wouldn’t hurt, wouldn’t open a door back into a world he’d left behind.
Would it?
“What in the hell?” a voice called.
As if he needed an interruption. His own thoughts were distraction enough. Brad scowled at Russ. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs, tossing some drunk out?”
“Probably,” Russ replied. “But it’s a helluva lot more fun annoying you.” He strode over to the desk, which was now riddled with badly scribbled music. “What gives?”
Brad refused to answer. If he said a word to Russ or Ethan about what he was doing, his friends would have a million questions. Instead, he grunted and pointed at the office door, hoping Russ would take the hint.
Instead of obeying, Russ strode over to the wall of cabinets and jerked one open. “Never mind. I think I know.” Then he pulled out the transcribing electronic keyboard that Brad was sure he’d told the guys to pitch.
After plugging it in, Russ flipped the power on, cleared the keyboard’s memory, and prepped it to record a new song. Then he put it on top of the small pile of papers. “Try this,” he suggested. “’Cause I can’t read a single note of that chicken scratch you’ve got all over the desk.”
Brad stared at the keyboard, a bit surprised at being happy to see it. His fingers caressed the keys before he pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned. “Who said I needed that?”
Russ let out a cynical snort as he picked up one of the pages. “You might not have said as much, but you’re begging for it.” His gaze grew solemn. “Did you suddenly wake up this morning and decide you wanted to be a songwriter again?”
“I think someone else made that decision for him,” Ethan said as he strolled into the office. “A very pretty woman who sings like an angel.”
Russ scoffed. “No way.”
“Yes, way,” Ethan said with a nod.
“Don’t tell me our Savannah got to him,” Russ said.
So Russ knew her, too. Brad wondered when he’d stopped giving any woman notice, especially his own employees. “You heard her sing. You agreed to my hiring her.”
“I did,” Russ replied. “And she deserves it. I was nice and close for that great performance, too. She asked me to stand close to the stage so she could see a friendly face.”
That gave Brad pause. “You’re her friend?”
“Well, yeah. She works here.”
“I knew that,” Brad snapped, but it wasn’t the truth. He might’ve signed her paychecks, but he barely knew her at all.
Ethan shot him a grin. “No, you didn’t. But quit beating yourself up about it. She works lunch rush and mostly weekdays.”
That explained a lot. Russ or the assistant manager, Ellie, ran the restaurant from opening time until Brad came in to work dinner. He was the one who locked the doors after last call, especially on weekends.
“No wonder he didn’t recognize her,” Ethan said. “Feel better, Brad?”
“Yeah, I do.” Brad glared at them. “Now get out.”
With a cluck of his tongue, Russ went to the door. “Such an asshole. I’d forgotten how much fun you are when you’re in writing mode.”
Writing mode. Russ and Ethan’s name for the nearly obsessive state of mind Brad fell into when a new song took control of his mind. He often became so focused on getting that song out of his head before it was lost for all time that he forgot everything else around him. Like eating. Or sleeping. Or running the restaurant. The post-Katie Brad would’ve grabbed some bourbon and holed up in the office until the song was purged.
This song would have to be born without anesthetic.
“Get out,” he repeated, trying to hold on to the bridge that was now drowning out all other sounds.
“Don’t worry, old friend,” Ethan said. “I’ll pick up the slack downstairs until you’re done.” He joined Russ at the door. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your touch.”
Chapter Three
Mama!”
Savannah smiled at Caroline’s excited call. “Hi, pumpkin.” She set her well-worn guitar case next to the stairs as her four-year-old daughter came running across the room, dodging the toys that littered the living room carpet.
“D’ja sing, Mama? D’ja sing pretty?” Caroline reached for Savannah, who picked her up and rested her against her hip.
Savannah kissed her daughter. “Yeah, I sang.” She gave Caroline’s pert little nose a tweak. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“She was too excited to sleep.” Mary Wolf stepped out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a blue dish towel before tossing it back at the sink. Then she started picking up Caroline’s toys.
“Good thing tomorrow’s Saturday then,” Savannah said. “We can sleep in.”
As if. Caroline seldom slept past seven. Since Savannah was a night owl, she had no choice but to yawn away her time until her waitressing shift started at ten. She doubted the day would ever come when she got enough sleep—at least not until Caroline hit high school and could drive herself places.
Savannah was more than happy to wait. No way would she wish time to move that quickly. Caroline was everything to her, definitely worth being sleep-deprived.
“Please don’t do that, Mom,” Savannah scolded as her mother dropped some toys into the nearly empty wooden toy box. “Caroline and I will take care of picking up.”
“We could stay,” Mary said as she gathered up a few more toys. She glanced at her husband. He’d kicked off his shoes, opened the recliner, and was contentedly snoring. “Daddy’s already down for the count.”
“No, but thanks, Mom.” Savannah set her daughter back on her feet and pushed her toward her grandmother. “You help Grandma pick up.” She waited for Caroline to nod her approval. Then she turned to her mother again. “You and Daddy have done enough. Thanks for watching her tonight.”
Mary flipped a hand in Caroline’s direction as she turned and ran back into her Savannah’s arms. “Let’s face it, darlin’. We hate watching our grandbaby. It’s absolute torture.”
“Yeah, well…I’d don’t want to use and abuse.”
The last toy now in the toy box, Mary shut the lid. “You still haven’t told me how things went.” Which meant the discussion was over.
Smiling at the memory of her night on the stage, Savannah rubbed her cheek against her daughter’s dark hair. “I got an encore.”
“Oh, darlin’!” Mary exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”
Savannah returned the smile with one that had to be as happy as her mother’s. “Even better…You’re looking at the new warm-up act for Words and Music.”
Wrapping her arms around Savannah and Caroline, Mary hugged them tightly as she laughed. “I’m so proud of you.”
Paul Wolf jerked to life with a loud snort. He ran his hand over his face, wiping the sleep away. “Did I hear my baby girl’s voice?”
“Hi, Daddy.”
Caroline kicked her legs hard enough that Savannah had to keep a tight hold on her. “Pop-pop! You’re up! Wanna play?”
Savannah set her daughter on her feet. Caroline immediately ran to her grandfather and crawled up onto the recliner, settling herself on his lap.
“Our baby’s not gonna wait tables anymore,” Mary announced.
Paul knit his brows. “What’s this?”
“She gonna sing agai
n.”
Savannah rushed to point out, “The boss promised I’d earn more than I am as a waitress.”
A smile lit his face. “That’s my girl.”
The reality of her new job was finally starting to sink in. “I’m gonna sing again,” she said in a reverent whisper. Then worry set in as she realized what her singing meant for Caroline. “I’m gonna have to work evenings now.”
As he picked up one of Caroline’s books from the end table, Paul said, “So?”
“So,” Savannah replied, “I’m gonna need help watching Caroline. There aren’t any day care centers that take kids in the evenings—at least none that I know of.”
Things were happening so damned fast. There was supposed to be time to prepare, to slowly build a career as a singer. Her head was spinning at all the changes that would happen because of Brad Maxwell’s offer.
Mary let out a gasp. “And what exactly is wrong with us watching her, young lady?”
After all her parents had done for her, Savannah had a hard time not feeling guilty at needing their help yet again. But how could she let this opportunity pass her by? “You’ve already done so much for us. I can’t possibly ask you to do that.”
“Who’s askin’?” Her father opened Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and started reading to his only grandchild in his rumbling baritone, the one that had comforted Savannah throughout her childhood. God, she was a lucky girl to have grown up with two such caring parents. Maybe one day Caroline would realize she was every bit as lucky to have them as her grandparents.
“You know we wanna help,” Mary said. “We can work things out just fine.”
Savannah’s guilt kept talking. “Yeah, but…several nights a week? That’s not fair.”
“To whom?” her mother countered. “You don’t hear us complaining about spending time with our grandbaby.” She laid a gentle hand on Savannah’s arm. “You know it’ll be fine.”
But Savannah didn’t know that. Things hadn’t been “fine” in a very long time. Only the last year had seen her life approaching something next to normal. And that normalcy was mostly due to the monetary and psychological support of her parents.
The bitterness was still difficult to push aside. Holding on to that anger—mentally counting the money that was stolen from her and the money Caroline’s father should be paying in child support—wasn’t going to change anything.
At least her heart would heal.
Eventually.
And singing at Words & Music would help her on the road to earning a decent living as a singer instead of a waitress. She’d tucked away a small nest egg, and she hoped to add to that if the new salary was good. The future seemed to have taken on a brighter hue. She just needed a moment to catch her breath and then start making some plans.
“What nights will you be singin’?” her mother asked.
“I’m assuming Thursday through Saturday. That’s when the Freaky Geeks opened for the main acts.”
“Freaky Geeks?” Paul shook his head. “What happened to normal names for bands? Chicago. The Eagles. Heart.”
As if she’d let him get away with one of his “in the good ole days” comments. “How about Blue Oyster Cult? Credence Clearwater Revival? The Sex Pistols?”
He chuckled. “Point taken.”
Mary wouldn’t let things drop. “When you’re sure about your schedule, we’ll make arrangements to come here and take care of Caroline so you won’t have to worry.”
Although she planned to do some research to see if there were any other arrangements she could make for evening child care, Savannah nodded. The likelihood was that she’d have to lean on her parents. Once she was successful, she had plans to repay them for their endless support. They’d always wanted a boathouse on Old Hickory Lake. Oh, how she wanted to give them that.
Maybe one day…
“Thanks, Mom. I couldn’t do this without you and Daddy.”
* * *
It’s done.
Brad grinned as he punched the Print icon on his computer and then unplugged and set the transcribing keyboard aside. He scanned his basement studio as familiar satisfaction swept through his heart. Rather than grow maudlin over what he’d lost, he let the pleasure of finishing the song lead his thoughts. He believed it was a good, catchy melody. Fun words. But after a couple of years away, he might have lost his touch. One thing was certain—Savannah would do it justice once he convinced her to sing it.
Ready to finally leave the studio, a place he’d all but ignored for close to three years, he went to the door and flipped off the light, knowing he’d be back. He was a composer, and he couldn’t hide from that part of his life any longer, even if he wanted to.
In the old days, he’d always raised a bourbon toast to the finished work. Despite the draw to repeat the tradition, he walked past the studio’s locked liquor cabinet.
As he climbed the stairs, he was surprised to hear the sounds of someone puttering around his kitchen. A glance at his watch told him he’d worked through the night, an old habit since he had a problem keeping track of time when he wrote. His stomach rumbled in protest to his skipping dinner. Then the smell of something cooking, a scent that made his mouth water, hit him.
Brad stepped into the kitchen to find Ethan standing at the stove, flipping a pancake as if he were a professional chef. Russ sat on one of the kitchen island stools, attacking a stack of pancakes that had been liberally doused with butter and syrup.
“Is it done?” Ethan asked over his shoulder.
“It is,” Brad replied with a grin, taking the stool next to Russ.
“How many?”
Ethan’s question made no sense. “How many what? Verses? Notes?”
“Flapjacks, moron.”
“As many as you can fit on a plate. I’m famished.”
“Skip dinner?” Ethan slid the pancake he’d just finished onto a rather impressive pile that rested on a serving platter. After setting the hot pan aside, he grabbed two empty plates. Ethan served part the stack to himself, gave a few more to Russ, then filled the last plate and handed it to Brad.
“I did. Thanks for cooking.” Brad snatched up the syrup bottle before Ethan could get it. He poured a fair share over his breakfast before handing the bottle over.
The first bite made him hum in appreciation. If he could ever convince Ethan to give up his ranch and horses and become head chef at Words & Music, they’d double their business.
Ethan nodded as he set about devouring his own breakfast. “You’ve done the same for me before.”
Only one thing could get Brad to leave the food. He jumped off his stool and went about pouring himself a large mug of coffee.
Caffeine. A vice that he had no intention of ever giving up.
It wasn’t as though he’d planned on giving up sex. That had just…happened. He’d awakened one morning in a hotel room, badly hungover yet again with some woman whose name he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t have even described her face had his life depended on it, and he sure as hell had no idea if they’d both been too drunk to use protection.
Entirely disgusted with himself, he’d stumbled to the bathroom—grateful to find a used condom in the wastebasket. After hastily dressing, he’d muttered some awkward farewell and gone home to take a long, hot shower. As he’d let the water beat down on him, he’d had an epiphany.
For the first time in his life, Brad had realized he didn’t need to sleep with every woman whose gaze was a sexual invitation. A grown-up man should be able to say, “No.”
What had he been trying to prove anyway? That he was a man? That women desired him? That he could fuck any woman in Nashville? In Tennessee?
Ethan was a player, too. And even he called Brad a “man-slut” and made a few pointed comments about how often Brad held a glass of bourbon in his hand.
Brad had only been following his father’s lead. What a ladies’ man Bill Maxwell had been, and most of Brad’s memories of his father were of him smelling like booze. As Brad hit p
uberty, he’d fallen into the same pattern. Drink enough to be numb. Then love ’em and leave ’em. Once he’d met Ethan in high school, they’d become fast friends—brothers, for all intents and purposes.
By the time Brad wrote his first hit song at twenty-two, they were a hell of a partying pair. Brad, the Hitman. Ethan was the son of Dottie and “Crawfish” Walker—the “King and Queen of Country Music,” which made their only son pretty much Nashville royalty.
Brad and Ethan made quite a panty-dropping combo.
“When do we get to hear it?” Russ asked. “I’m dying to find out if you’ve still got the touch—if you can still hit the Billboard chart.”
Brad shrugged. He might still have the touch, but he hadn’t written the song to get himself back on any chart.
He’d written it to get Savannah Wolf on the chart.
The potential was there. The woman was going to be a star. A superstar. Yet she seemed clueless on how to go about that goal. Since helping singers was something he knew how to do damn well, he figured he’d do what he could to see that she found herself on the way to the top.
Yet a part of him couldn’t fight the feeling of regret. For the first time in his life, he had his shit together. No more drunken nights with one-night stands. He had a great job that he was good at. His life finally made sense.
So why in the hell was he writing songs again? That part of his life was supposed to be over. If he opened that door again, even only a crack, would it all come flooding back?
No. Things were different now.
But what if the song wasn’t as good as his older works? What if he’d lost his touch? Could a voice like Savannah’s overcome bad material?
“C’mon.” Ethan jostled Brad hard with his shoulder, nearly knocking him off his stool. “You can’t hold out on us. We’re your best friends.”
“We’re your only friends,” Russ teased. He set his fork down, having polished off the last of his breakfast. “We wanna hear the song.” A grin filled his beard-stubbled face. “Why not have our Savannah sing it tonight?”
Brad gathered his brows, not sure why Russ’s words bothered him so much. “Our Savannah?”
