Table of Contents
Lady Sings the Blues
Soft tears she cryin’,
Lady Sings the Blues
Elise
Mark
Elise
Mark
Elise
Mark
Elise
Mark
Elise
Mark/Beau
Elise
Beau
Elise
Beau
Elise
Elise
Beau
Elise
Beau
Elise
Beau
Beau
Elise
Elise
Beau
Elise
Elise
Beau
Elise
Beau
Elise
Elise
Beau
Beau
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Love Adult Romance?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lady Sings the Blues
Brimstone Lords MC
Book One
Sarah Zolton Arthur
Soft tears she cryin’,
From a soul that’s dyin’,
The lady sings the blues.
You left her high and dry,
Without a reason to try,
The lady sings the blues.
And now you want her heart,
Like you never were apart,
But I’ll repeat, you left her high and dry
Then by the by,
If that’s the case,
You’ve got a world of hurt to erase,
And that my friend, comes down to why,
The lady sings the blues.
-The Lady Sings the Blues
Lady Sings the Blues
Copyright © 2017 by Sarah Zolton Arthur
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: October 2017
Irving House Press
P.O. Box 5738
Saginaw, MI. 48603
Formatting: Heather Young-Nichols
ISBN-13: 978-1546840442
ISBN-10: 1546840443
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
1.
Elise
Lady Sings The Blues.
I read the glowing pink neon sign above the door a few more times, standing one foot both inside the rundown juke joint and one foot out letting the cold air escape. We’re not cooling off the outdoors, I hear my mother’s words in my head sounding, as she normally sounded, pissed at me. Not needing anyone else pissed at me, especially not here, I move to plant both feet securely inside as the heavy glass door swings shut behind me.
Once the door catches, the space is plunged into darkness. The only natural light should have come from the panes in door. But the glass has been covered over by thick butcher paper, leaving only about an inch margin of light showing through both the upper and lower sections of window, as if whomever put it there underestimated how much paper would be used. That or they just didn’t know how to measure.
Measure twice. Cut once.
This was something my dad taught me. A much happier memory if I let myself consider just the memory itself and not the fact that the man who helped make it no longer exists. Not just in my life, but at all. Period.
The few customers hunched over tables dispersed randomly around the dark space look up for a moment with squinting eyes before turning back to their beers or bourbons. It’s early to be in a place like this. Too early. Pretty much me and the drunks. Me and the drunks and the low, throaty, anguished melodies softly humming through the jukebox speakers.
“A duck walks into a bar,” I hear, realizing someone is speaking to me.
“Excuse me?” I ask, moving closer in the direction of the voice which speaks to me in the thick country twang of this area. Accents always get to me. Probably because I grew up in Michigan where we lack any sort of accent at all. His sounds smooth and sexy, and a hundred percent Kentucky.
He repeats, “A duck walks into a bar. He says to the barkeep, ‘You got any duck food?’ The barkeep answers, ‘No, we don’t got food. Especially not duck food. Now get gone and don’t come back’.”
“Okay,” I rasp, but he’s not finished. And instead of leaving, which I probably should do, I move in even closer to the man as he continues.
“The next day the duck walks into the bar and asks, ‘Got any duck food?’ To which the barkeep yells, ‘No we don’t got any food, especially not any duck food. Now get gone!’ The duck leaves. On the third day, the duck walks into the bar and ask, ‘You got any duck food?’ Losing all patience, the barkeep yells, ‘No we ain’t got any food, especially not duck food! Come back tomorrow, and I’ll nail your bill closed.’ So the duck leaves.
“The next day the duck walks into the bar and asks, ‘You got any nails?’ ‘No!’ the barkeep yells. ‘I ain’t got no nails.’ ‘Good,’ the duck says. ‘Got any duck food?’”
I blink once then burst out a laugh so loud, he takes a step back and so strong, I double over. It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed with this much careless abandon, tears filling my eyes.
Once I’ve come down from the laugh enough to right myself, after swiping away the tears, I notice him smiling. Not many people smile at me around here anymore. And his smile, well, that’s a smile worth a double take. One that would be hidden behind a full beard, if not for the obvious trim job, allowing me to get the full effect of the crooked, yet genuine smile filled with mostly straight, not quite bright white teeth.
There’s something familiar about his smile. Nothing I can pinpoint. Especially since I’ve blocked certain images from the last few months of when I used to live here. My therapist has been trying to help me reach that magical breakthrough moment when they all come flooding back. It hasn’t happened yet.
When I realize I’ve been staring, I avert my eyes, then slowly glance up into his. Wow, how he looks at me now makes my cheeks heat from his obvious perusal. It’s not really a look I can decipher because it says so much all jumbled together. I just know I haven’t been on the receiving end of that look in a very long time.
His eyes speak to me too. That same familiarity as his smile. But the total package encompasses a person I cannot place.
“Tried that joke several times, never gotten that reaction before.”
He’s talking to me again. Yet all I can seem to concentrate on is how much I’d like to run my fingers through that hair, hair the color of peanut butter I might add, which he keeps pulled back in one of those super sexy man buns. Peanut butter hair? Maybe I need lunch instead of a drink. No matter. The beard. The bun. It’s been too long since I’ve talked with a man this beautiful. Then I notice he’s no longer talking. He’s no longer talking, and I should probably answer.
“I guess I just didn’t expect it?” Why do I ask it in the form of a question, as if this stranger could answer for me?
“Fair enough.” He wipes down the counter with a damp rag. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Hard cider?”
“Why you end everythin’ in a question?” Get out of my head, hot bartender guy.
“Nervous habit?” I do it again.
The man snickers as he spins around to a cooler, pulling a bottl
e of cider from a shelf. He spins back my way, twisting off the cap, and slides it over to me in one smooth motion.
“You got a name?” he asks, filling a couple glasses with bourbon on the rocks for an elderly man who walked up next to me. The man didn’t even have to order. The bartender just knew. And judging by the shakes in the old man’s hands when he reaches out for the glasses, I assume both are for him.
“Elise.” Then I give the air a little punch for not asking it. “You?”
“Mark.”
“Mark, huh?” I ponder over his name along with those eyes and that smile. Unfortunately, I’m sure I don’t know any Marks.
“Yep,” he cuts into my thoughts. “My mother named me after her dog.”
“She did?”
He nods his head. “He had a hair lip. Mark, mark, mark.”
“Ooo—” I tease, taking a step back from the bar with my drink in hand. “You were doing so well.”
“I was?”
“You were. Emphasis on were.”
He folds his arms on the bar in front of him and leans in. “What if I said the drink’s on me?”
“Might get you back closer.”
“Might?” Mark stands up straighter again. “Wow. Tough crowd.”
And I realize within this exchange, I not only stepped back up to the bar but had slid myself onto a barstool in front of where the bottle of cider had initially come to rest. Lifting it to my lips, I salute him first before taking a long pull.
He opens his mouth, looking about to speak again. Which, I could listen to his stupid jokes for the rest of the day, when the door swings open hard, glass rattling as it hits the limits of the hinge. A woman steps inside, a horrible woman these eyes haven’t looked on in years, and when she does, all the good humor sweeps out of the room as the door swings back closed behind her.
Not near ready enough to deal with the attitude she’ll sling at me, for coming back to town again or still breathing, I slink down on the stool, using my hair to hide my face.
The bartender sees this. He sees, shooting me another one of his indecipherable looks. Wish I did, but in this moment I have nothing to shoot back.
Then he moves from behind the bar, approaching her in a familiar, yet unwelcoming manner, speaking in low tones for only the two of them to hear.
As uncomfortable as she makes it now, I suck down the rest of my drink fast, slap a couple dollars tip on the counter and scurry out of the bar while he keeps her distracted enough to do so. Too bad. He seemed nice.
But really, what do I need for nice? I’m here for one purpose, and one purpose only. Once that’s done, I never plan to step foot in this god forsaken state again. And they’ve all let me know how much they appreciate my plan, in no uncertain terms.
Can’t remember why I even ventured to step inside that bar again anyway. Except some really great times were had inside those walls. Too many memories in this town in general. Most of them good, until I remember the few bad outweigh the good by a million pounds or more.
The rumble of pipes thunders in the background, and I look up to see a motorcade of bikes traveling the road which runs along the parking lot, heading toward town. How many motorcades have I seen over the years? Once the warm weather hits in spring until the first frosts of winter fall, bikers use this route traveling from up north down to all parts south.
As my eyes follow the band of bikers, they land on one sitting alone kitty-corner from my car staring hard at me. His black, leather boots and faded denim-clad legs straddle a massive black and chrome machine. Dark shades and a black bandana with the bottom half of a skull printed on it, tied around his face from the nose down, conceal his features.
It’s as if he’s challenging me to turn away first. I feel a panic attack coming on from his intensity. It suffuses the entire parking lot. Though, I refuse to give in to the fear and attempt to swallow back the hard ball formed in my throat. When I don’t turn away, he quirks an eyebrow, nods his head, and rumbles out of the parking lot.
What was the point of the encounter?
Bikers creep me out in general. Ever since I was a little girl. Men showed at our house one night, one bleeding profusely. My mother freaked, but my father helped them. I don’t know why he helped, maybe his Hippocratic Oath come back to bite him in the ass. But I remember a giant man, all leather and chains, staring down at me with his black beady eyes outside our kitchen, where my father helped the wounded man. He ran the blade of a hunting knife up and down his calloused thumb. Every-so-often pointing the tip in my direction. No words. Intent clear. First and last time I kept the company of a biker. I shudder at the memory.
The door to Lady’s opens. The noise pulls my attention from where Mr. Scary Biker Man tore out of the lot back to where it should have been the whole time.
Her leg, the pencil thin leg of the one woman I not only don’t want to deal with now, but I don’t have it in me to deal with right now, hangs half out of a wide crack as if she stopped to talk again before leaving. Dressed for business in the obligatory thin, beige skirt suit, even though the woman hasn’t worked since college. And the only work she did then was to land her a rich husband. She’s probably inside, lecturing poor Mark, the bartender, warning him if he sees me to contact the mayor’s office right away. As the wife of the mayor, gossiping, manipulating, and strong-arming have become her fortes. She deals in them the way Mark the bartender deals in bourbon.
Better for us all she not see me.
I get back in my car.
Four missed texts. Two from the funeral home, two from people warning me not to linger in town any longer than I need to and that “they’ll be watching.” Great. Not that I don’t have enough on my plate this week. How could anyone down here possibly have my number? Right. They probably got it from Hadley.
Before I take off, I call the funeral home. They’ve put me on hold. While I’m on the phone, mayor’s wife Lenore leaves the bar. She only glances my way at my nondescript car, a sedan, a midnight blue Malibu, turning her nose up as she passes. Tinted windows keep her from seeing inside. Lenore drives a Lexus.
Hadley, my dad’s live-in girlfriend picked everything before I arrived here. His burial suit, the casket, the music, flower arrangements. Death is a racket, and she had no qualms about spending my money to ease her sadness. Apparently my one and only job is to fund this operation since my so blissfully in love father neglected to update his life insurance of which I’m the sole beneficiary. Just enough to cover taxes and the funeral. Which, after leaving me on hold for fifteen minutes, would be the reason given for why the funeral home had initially texted. They want their money.
Poor, poor Hadley. The sentiment repeated a good five times by the woman on the other end of the line in our short, one-minute conversation. That is, once she took me off hold. Hadley is loved. Hadley is hometown, and I’m outsider. Not just any outsider—traitor, bitch, whore, or any combination of the former. Traitor-bitch. Bitch-whore. Sometimes depending on how country they try to sound, someone will occasionally jumble the three together traitorbitchwhore in a rather unintelligible manner, which is supposed to offend or intimidate me. But honestly, it makes them sound drunk so stifling the giggle becomes hard. Like it makes me a saint not to giggle, hard.
As I make my way up Market Street, because every—and I do mean every—town in Kentucky has a Market, Commerce, or Main Street, my foot hits the break of its own will to stop in front of the scene of the crime. The place where I first met Logan Hollister. Or as he’s also known, the reason I’m a traitorbitchwhore.
God, he was beautiful. And that day, he had eyes only for me. He and his cousin Beau were hanging out. Those two were always hanging out back then. Crew cuts, clean shaven, expensive clothing. These guys were the epitome of the all-American boy-next-door jocks.
Beau was a grade ahead and already had his early admission to the University of Kentucky, or what everyone down here shortens to UK, for when he graduated. And he was beautiful, too. Good genes, the Ho
llister family. But as I said before, once Logan and I locked eyes that was it.
My dad had moved home after he and my mom divorced. It was undecided where I would live because my mom packed up and moved away from where we lived outside Kalamazoo to Denver. So either way I’d be leaving my school and friends behind. Little did I know the impact of being born up north, in Michigan, would have on my acceptance in the community. Enveloped between the love and warmth from my father and the Hollister boys, I never felt the impact. Up north, we don’t think it makes a difference where a person hales from. But in a small southern town, it makes a huge difference. Especially once I no longer had the Hollisters to protect me.
We met the summer before our junior year. And obviously that one day sealed my fate. I knew, just knew where I’d be living.
And his opening line was a doozie: “You’ve got kind lips,” he said. Big, bright smile full of perfectly straight, white teeth.
Flattered and completely taken aback that such a specimen of masculine beauty would even speak to me much less send off a compliment, I smiled back. “I do?”
Totally fell into that one.
“Yeah, the kind I’d like to see wrapped around my—” But he didn’t finish. Waggling his eyebrows at me suggestively instead. The line shouldn’t have worked. Come to think of it, I should have been mortified. It was the eyebrow waggle that did it.
And thus began the reign of Logan Hollister and Elise Manning.
Life would be so different now if I’d just used my head that day. Walked away. Moved with my mother to Denver.
It still hurts. To think of what he might have been now. What we might have been now. No use crying over spilt milk or dead boyfriends. Past should stay in the past.
Get in. Bury my father. Get out. Seems like the perfect game plan.
Time to get this over with and get gone.
I continue on to the funeral home, successfully ignoring the memories assaulting me from all directions now.
Lady Sings the Blues Page 1
