by Terri Osburn
“About fucking time,” Aiden drawled, high-fiving Jack.
“I’m so sorry,” Charley said. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
Jack waved her words away. “I should have done that months ago. Once we lay down the banjo part, I’ll have Aiden burn you a CD.”
“You’re serious about that?”
“Hell yes. I don’t doubt we have the right songs, but like I told Paul, the sound isn’t there. Any input would be appreciated.”
Now she really was dreaming. “I’ll do my best,” Charley promised.
“Appreciate it. Now, how’s your pool game, Monroe?”
“Rusty,” Dylan answered.
“Let’s dust it off, then, while Aiden gets Tater over here.”
Leaping off his stool, her escort rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Yes, sir.”
Never in a million years could Dylan have predicted how this night would turn out. At least now his left nut was safe, since he’d never be working with Paul Story. Best-case scenario had been Charley getting an autograph, a picture with her favorite artist, and a story she could someday tell her kids. Never had he imagined she’d get all that and a production credit on a future Hall-of-Famer’s new album.
“Surreal,” she repeated for the fourth time. “That’s the only way to describe what just happened. Sur. Real.”
Dylan scooped a chunk of fudge out of his banana ice cream. “I’ll never again hear the word banjo and not think of you.”
“I don’t even know where that came from,” Charley squealed before shoving a spoonful of cherry ice cream into her mouth.
“Years of listening has given you more musical insight than you knew. It’s a genius idea.” One he wished he’d thought of. “Down Here Down Home” would be killer with a banjo behind it. “And that song is going to be better for it.”
“If I’d known that was Paul Story,” she said, “I never would have opened my mouth. He’s worked with everyone from Willie to Reba. Who am I to be voicing an opinion in his presence?”
“Someone with a fresher ear,” Dylan replied, repeating Jack Austin’s words. “How’s your ice cream?”
“Awesome,” Charley mumbled around a piece of cherry. “How long did it take you to make your album?”
“Six months,” he answered. “We spent the first couple months finding the right songs and the next four recording the album.”
Brown eyes narrowed over her waffle cone. “I bet my best boots that you have enough songs to make several albums, Dylan. Why spend a month looking for others?”
“Having the songs doesn’t mean they’re good enough to go on an album.”
“But they’re your voice. That’s what listeners want.”
Dylan wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Like I said in the interview on Monday, the songs on the album are all tunes I can relate to. They’re my life and my history.”
“Not the same,” she countered. “I know that lots of artists have successful careers without writing their own songs, but you have the talent to do both. Why not use it?”
“Charley, you’ve heard one song. And not even a completed song. For all you know, every other thing I’ve written could be total crap.”
With a knowing smile, she said, “But they aren’t, are they?”
He didn’t think so, but he’d been wrong before.
“The album is done, so it’s a moot point anyway.” Biting a corner off his cone, he turned his attention to the pedestrians passing by outside.
Taking the hint, Charley changed the subject. Somewhat. “Have you always wanted to be famous?”
This was a common misconception that drove Dylan a little nuts. “I’ve never wanted to be famous. I want to sing for a living. I love performing and feeding off a crowd. The fame is only part of the package, not the draw.”
Charley nodded. “I see we’ve hit a nerve,” she muttered, loading her spoon. “For me, it would be a deal-breaker.”
“You don’t want your fifteen minutes?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not at all.”
Dylan pointed out what seemed obvious to him. “As a disc jockey on one of the most listened-to country stations in a country music town, you’re asking for a bit of fame, aren’t you?”
After a quick bite, she licked a drop of ice cream from the corner of her mouth, and the blood flowing to his brain immediately changed direction. “People might know my name, but that isn’t the same thing.”
Pressing the cold cone to his forehead, he said, “That’s what fame is, darling. People knowing your name.”
“But they won’t know my face,” she insisted. “In your line of work, once a person makes it big, he can’t go anywhere without getting mobbed by fans. I’m a little radio DJ. A faceless voice coming out of their speakers, killing time between the music people like you make.”
“You’re seriously underestimating yourself. Fans are going to know who you are. Jack did.”
“That’s because you told them I was coming.”
“Nope,” he corrected. “I told Aiden I wanted to bring a friend by. I never gave them your name.”
Blinking, she said, “Then how did he know it was me?”
Dylan pointed out the obvious. “He’s a fan, just like he said.” Her modesty was cute, if naive.
The comment earned him a scoffing wave. “You aren’t listening. I don’t have fans. You have fans.” Eyes cutting to his left, she added, “In fact, I’m guessing there’s one a few tables down.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, spinning to scan the crowd behind him.
“Don’t turn around,” she snapped. “The lady in the Johnny Cash T-shirt has been watching our table since she sat down with her ice cream. I’m guessing you’ve played around town a lot?”
“I’ve done my share of working the bars, but we haven’t played a show in Nashville since January, and that was after being on the road for the better part of 2016.”
“Oh,” Charley drawled. “Then I bet she’s a tourist excited to see the hot singer who stole her heart and melted her panties.”
Dylan had never been accused of that one. “You’re giving me more credit than I deserve.”
The white plastic spoon twirled in the air. “Granted, I’ve never seen you live, but I’d lay odds I’m right. Admit it. The women love you. Which is why being your girlfriend would suck.”
He’d officially lost control of this conversation. “You don’t think that when you intro some band at a big show that every guy in the audience isn’t wondering how he can get your number?”
“Not remotely.” Ducking her head, Charley whispered, “Don’t look now, but she’s coming this way.”
“She’s probably headed to the bathroom.”
“We’re in a corner, goober. She’s coming to talk to you.”
Before Dylan could argue further, a woman appeared beside their table, only she wasn’t looking at Dylan.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I hate to bother you, but aren’t you Charley Layton?”
His non-famous friend was too busy gaping in shock to respond.
“She is,” Dylan replied for her. “How do you know her?”
“Oh, I listen to her every day. You’re so much better than that awful man who was there before you. That Hugh person? He never played my requests and was even rude on the phone when I’d call. But you’re so nice. I’m Sharlene,” the woman offered, holding out her hand. “We talk at least once a week, so I feel like we’re old friends. Would it be weird if I asked for a picture?”
Dylan used every ounce of control not to burst out laughing. Charley still couldn’t speak, but she nodded and rose from her chair as Sharlene handed him her cell phone.
“Oh.” Sharlene paused, staring at his face. “You’re pretty. Charley, honey, you’re a lucky woman.”
“That’s what I keep trying to tell her,” he quipped, standing to take the picture.
Once he’d captured the image, Dylan passed the phone back
to its owner, who turned once again to her favorite radio personality.
“Thank you so much. My friend Brenda is never going to believe that I met you, so I had to have a picture as proof.”
Charley finally found her voice. “Tell her I said hi.”
“Oh my gosh, she’ll love that.” Sharlene hugged the phone to her chest. “I’ll let y’all get back to your night. Thanks again for being so sweet.”
As her biggest fan walked away, Charley slowly lowered into her chair, looking as if she’d been sideswiped.
“A faceless voice coming out of their speakers,” Dylan mocked.
“Did that really just happen?” she asked, reaching for her ice cream.
He failed to keep the grin from his face. “Yes, ma’am, it did. What were you saying about being famous?”
Bewildered brown eyes met his. “Did you put her up to that?”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “I found a total stranger, told her we would be here, and recruited her to cut in at the exact moment you said you would never be famous. You’re onto me.”
For a second, he thought she might throw her napkin at him. “I doubt that’ll happen again.”
“I don’t know,” he said, scooping up another bite. “I’m going to have to think twice about being your boyfriend after learning I’ll have to share you with your fans.”
A crooked smile lit her face. “Shut up, Monroe.”
Dylan would not let it go.
“The look on your face was priceless,” he proclaimed. “Flipping priceless.”
“Ha ha,” she countered. “So one person happened to recognize me.”
Dylan tapped on the steering wheel. “Don’t forget Brenda. She’d recognize you, too.”
The man turned out to be right about one thing and acted as if he’d rescued baby kittens while solving the meaning of life.
“A couple nice ladies who listen to the radio is not the same as having a crowd of screaming girls pressed against a barrier hoping you’ll make their dreams come true by sweating in their general direction.”
“That’s gross,” he said, shooting Charley an appalled look as he pulled the truck into a parking lot. “I don’t want to sweat on anyone.”
Once again being a pain in the ass, Dylan refused to share their destination upon leaving the ice cream parlor. She was surprised to see a familiar landmark looming in front of her.
“The Parthenon?” Charley asked as a flood of memories filled her mind.
“Saturday night you said you hadn’t gotten to explore the area. So we’re exploring.”
This was one attraction she could have skipped. “I wish you’d have told me we were coming here,” she said as Dylan exited the truck to cross around the front. When he opened her door, Charley was still buckled in.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t want to see it?”
Charley sighed. “I’ve seen it before.” Her heart hitched into her throat as her chest tightened.
He stepped back as if to close her door. “I guess I should have asked. We can go someplace else.”
“No,” she said with a hand on his arm. “We can stay.”
Since moving to town, she’d avoided this place, assuming the grief would be too much. But Charley found herself longing to walk the paths again. To tread the ground where she and Mama had shared a cherished afternoon. As they approached the imposing edifice, she was grateful for his silent strength beside her. They walked in silence as her mind drifted back in time. Back to the days before she lost the most important person in her life.
As they climbed the stairs to reach the giant columns, she brushed her hand over the stone surface, still warm from the summer sun. “Strange how some things change while others stay the same.” Charley caught the scent of wildflowers on the wind and couldn’t help but look around for a familiar face.
Dylan glanced around, too. “What are you looking for?”
With a faint shake of her head, she replied, “Nothing.”
They strolled down the narrow corridor between the columns and the main structure, and she could practically hear her mother’s laughter. Picture the smile, so much like her own, that she’d give anything to see again.
“You want to tell me where you are?” he asked, snapping her back to the present.
Despite her vow not to get personal, she shared the story. “Mama and I came here when I was thirteen. It was our last vacation together before she got sick. The doctor had given her the cancer diagnosis the week before, but we’d had the trip planned for months, and she refused to cancel. The day we spent at this park was one of the happiest days of my life.” With a sad shrug, she added, “At the end, when repeated chemo treatments had done their damage, she said she was going to get better and we’d come back.”
Charley didn’t notice the tear rolling down her cheek until Dylan brushed it away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice somber. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
“I’m glad you did.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I haven’t felt Mama around me this much in a long time. I should have known that this is where I would find her.”
Dylan leaned against a column and pulled her close. “I lost my grandmother to cancer. She always loved to hear me sing. I’d give anything if she could see me now.”
Rubbing her thumb along his jaw, Charley smiled through her sadness. “She can see you, Dylan. And I’m sure she’s as proud as can be.”
“I hope so.” He tucked her head against his chest, and his heart beat out a steady rhythm against Charley’s cheek.
They stood there, consoling each other, until the last sliver of sunlight had faded behind the trees.
“Enough,” she said, stepping from his embrace. “The only thing Mama ever asked was that I smile every time I think of her. She’d give me a good scolding if she found me here crying over a happy memory.”
“Grand would smack me in the back of the head and tell me to toughen up,” Dylan said with a laugh. “She used to say that death was part of life, and if a person couldn’t handle the first, they sure as heck couldn’t handle the second.”
A practicality and strength that Charley admired. “I’d have liked her.”
“And she’d have liked you,” he offered. Dusty-blue eyes held hers as his lips lowered for a kiss.
“We should see the lake,” she said, stepping away. The moment had grown too intimate, and Charley recognized the dangerous precipice she could so easily, and willingly, step off.
This was supposed to be her last date with Dylan Monroe. At least, that’s what she’d been telling herself for two days. But this didn’t feel anything like an ending. This had beginning written all over it.
“Are you turning skittish on me, Miss Layton?” he teased.
She preferred the joking Dylan over the vulnerable, heart-aching one any day.
“You promised no funny business, remember?”
The devilish grin returned. “I said I’d get you home by midnight and in bed alone. I didn’t promise not to enjoy the time we had before then.”
The promise in his words turned her knees to butter. Charley cleared her throat. “We’re exploring landmarks, not each other.”
“No reason we can’t do both.”
This man would be the death of her.
“Are you going to take me for a stroll around that lake or not?”
Dylan raised his hands in surrender. “By all means, let’s go see the lake.” Taking her hand, he led them halfway down the narrow corridor before adding, “It’s darker over there anyway.”
Heaven help her.
Chapter 12
The glow from the Parthenon sent trails of white light skimming across the water. The occasional duck could be heard in the distance as they walked side by side along the water’s edge. She’d dropped his hand before they’d reached the water, withdrawing more and more as they walked.
“I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me,” he s
aid, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
Chestnut hair floated on the warm breeze. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, eyes focused somewhere in the distance.
Dylan kicked a small pebble with his boot. “Have I done something wrong?”
She cut her eyes his way. “You’ve done everything right. That’s the problem.”
“How is that a problem?” he asked, not following. “I thought we were having a nice time.”
Charley veered off the path to sit on a short stone wall. Dylan followed, taking the spot beside her.
After a heavy sigh, she said, “Tonight has to be our last date.”
He leaned forward to see her face. “Why?”
“Because you’re the exact kind of guy I’ve vowed to avoid.”
“Not all musicians are assholes, Charley.”
“Being a musician isn’t the problem.”
“Then what?” Dylan asked, rising off the wall. “What kind of a guy am I?”
Toying with the hem of her skirt, she kept her face downcast. “You’re kind and smart and protective without making me feel weak. You’re the kind of guy a girl could give her heart to and never look back.”
None of which sounded like a bad thing. “Not sure I’ve earned all of that praise, but if I have, I’m not seeing the problem here.”
“No, I’m sure you aren’t.”
“Come on, Charley.” Dylan returned to his seat and took her hand. “Help me out here. You’re talking in circles.”
She entwined her fingers with his. “Since I was nine years old, I’ve wanted to be part of this country music world. By twelve, I was creating pretend radio shows in my bedroom, spinning Grandpa’s old albums on an ancient turntable and talking into a hairbrush. Now that I’m here, I don’t want to give it up.”
Dylan tried piecing that one together and wound up more confused than before. “I love that you’re making your dreams come true. Who’s asking you to give them up?”
“You wouldn’t have to ask. I’d just do it.”
He’d gone from being a prize among men to a crusher of dreams in a matter of seconds.
“Charley, would you ever ask me to give up playing music?”
