By the week of our move, Mama couldn’t even handle the disappointment anymore. I was in charge, to oversee each and every transaction, to get as much money as I could out of them. Since I didn’t have her emotional attachment, it seemed the most logical choice.
But it still hurt. Every time I saw a piece of our furniture hoisted onto the flatbed of some picker’s truck, I saw a bit more of my childhood sold to the lowest bidder.
I couldn’t afford to be emotional, however. I summoned Jackson Riley with every handshake hello, determined to be as pragmatic as my father was.
By the time we were reduced to the bare minimum of what we were taking with us, I wondered what good it had done him in the end.
I kept their old brass bed for Mama and Leah to share once we settled in the city. I sold the old pine armoire in my sister’s room, but kept the rocking chair. I sold our appliances, since those were already provided in our new apartment. Mama couldn’t watch as they carried away her grandmother’s antique stove, with its enamel finish she had restored so lovingly, to replicate her memories of cooking in her Granny’s kitchen.
Ironically, it fetched a better price than many of our other pieces, which carried as much sentiment as they did history.
What we didn’t sell we ended up donating to the First Baptist Church and to Goodwill. It was our last ditch effort to keep our load light as we bid our farewell to country life.
Mama asked for me to sing at church our last Sunday in attendance, but I politely declined. That honor went to Courtney, which made the goodbye to our congregation even more strained. Instead I sang to Mama and to Leah by the river cutting through our land. Despite all we had lost, and were leaving behind, I sang It’s a Wonderful World. At first my Louie Armstrong impersonation made them laugh. But the longer they sat together, holding each other, looking out over the pasture in the quiet light of day, the song took on a whole new meaning. By the end, they were in tears.
Hell, even I got a little misty.
We packed up in the pickup truck, pointed our car south towards Austin. The radio played, but none of us spoke. Mile after mile slipped away beneath us, as did rural living. Pretty soon the traffic got heavier, the buildings got bigger and by that evening, we were turning off the freeway overpass toward our new apartment.
The bland, standard two-bedroom apartment with white walls and beige carpeting was even smaller with our stuff than it had been without it. I unpacked what I could while Mama kept herself busy putting things away and hanging homey touches on the wall. We ordered pizza to be delivered, because now we could do that, and worked all the way through till nearly midnight to settle in. I had a separate room, with my double bed, one nightstand and a dresser, but it still felt like I was packed tight like a sardine.
I glanced over at my phone, which had a text alert. It was from Courtney. “Good luck in Austin, Jonah. I hope you finally find what you are looking for.”
I texted back, “Thanks. You too.”
I had barely sent it when she responded. “I already did. And I’ll always be waiting if you ever change your mind. Love, C.”
I sighed as I put the phone back on the nightstand and turned out the light.
I was up by dawn, dressed and ready to meet with my Mama’s boss to get an entry-level position at the factory where she was going to work. It turned out to be a formality. Mr. Bivens hired me on the strength of my mother’s reputation as a former employee, which put extra pressure on me not to let either of them down. For the next week I was up early and went to bed late, sometimes falling onto the mattress fully clothed, every muscle aching from overuse. Mama was hard at work in the office, whereas I was on the factory floor, learning each station to find the right fit for my particular skillset.
It wasn’t as though I couldn’t do the work; it was that I found it tedious. I performed the same task again and again, whether it was lifting product off and on trucks, moving plastic and metal parts along the assembly line or simply opening up the gate for workers and visitors. It seemed wherever they put me, the more I hated it. For a guy to come from the great outdoors, who breathed deep fresh country air while doing diverse tasks, doing one thing over and over again in some tiny little box was excruciating.
By the time my first Friday rolled around, I was ready to clock out and enjoy Austin a little on my first real weekend as an official resident.
Since Austin was the nearest metropolitan area, I had visited the “big city” quite a bit. It was where my parents took me on my twenty-first birthday, to show me their world before they settled down and moved to the country. After that, I made the trip almost every single month.
If you loved live music, you found your way to Austin. The annual music festival, SXSW, became almost a religious pilgrimage every year. That all came to a halt a few years ago, when Daddy needed my help at home, and there wasn’t any real money to make the trips.
If I was forced to live in Austin, by God, I was going to get something out of it.
I cashed my first paycheck and headed to Sixth Street.
Though I was dog-tired, the lively crowd around me energized me. I walked in the first club I came to, ordered a beer and scoped out the dance floor. There were dozens of pretty girls, some even dancing with each other. It wasn’t unheard of in my not-so-distant glory days that I would sidle up to them, hit on both and take them back to my motel for a night of fun. From the way some of the girls were staring at me, I knew I could easily pick up a companion for the evening. But where would we go? I could hardly justify the cost of a motel, especially when I was taking enough chances paying for high-dollar bar tabs and cover charges as it was.
I gave the girls a mock salute before I moseyed on to the next club. I didn’t stop till I found a place that played live music. An older woman with teased, jet-black hair greeted me at the entrance. “You’re just in time, sugar,” she said with a grin. “We have some new talent taking the stage tonight. You don’t want to miss it.”
I nodded my head her direction. “Thank you, Ma’am,” I said.
“Ma’am,” she howled. “The name is Gaynell. Gaynell Hollis.” She reached out a hand. Finally I took it.
“Jonah Riley,” I greeted.
She pulled my hand closer so she could stamp it with a Texas star. “Enjoy the show, Jonah Riley,” she winked. When I pulled my hand back, I saw that she had given me back the money I had paid for the cover. I looked up at her but she had already turned her attention to the next person in line, so I headed inside the well-known club that was twice the size as the other dives I usually frequented.
Southern Nights was typically dark, with neon signs on the wall for various brands of beer, with preference toward Texas-based labels. The crowd milled on the wooden dance floor that took up the majority of the space. Seating was sparse around the edges, and two bars lined either wall on opposite sides, leading to the stage in the back.
It was a stage where both amateurs and professionals played. I’d seen some big acts at Southern Nights in the past, as it had been a fixture in Austin nightlife for over twenty years. I was excited to see what new talent they had to spotlight. I stopped for a longneck, surveying the crowd while I waited. The music was harder edged, good ol’ Southern rock, and the writhing bodies of a rowdy crowd filled the place. I had to squeeze my way toward the front to see the stage for the opening act, maneuvering through wiggling bodies of drunk women who tried to cop a feel as I went by.
“Hey, sugar.”
“Wanna take me home tonight, baby?”
“Hey, cowboy. Need a ride?”
Finally I made it to the front, where musicians were already on stage tuning their instruments. Something backstage caught my attention as I took a sip of my beer. It was the briefest flash of color, which seemed to stand out in the dark surroundings. I peered into the shadows but couldn’t make anything out. Within minutes the lights dimmed. I heard Gaynell’s voice from the loud speaker, announcing the first act. “Welcome to Southern Nights! Are y’all
ready to party?” The crowd around me answered in a resounding roar. “I don’t think they heard you in Louisiana. Are you ready to party?” The sound was deafening. “My name is Gaynell and I am your hostess. Tonight we welcome a new act to the stage. Everyone give a warm Southern Nights welcome to Lacy Abernathy!”
The lights went down before the very first notes of “Undo It” exploded from the speakers. Even though I was right at the stage, I had to peer into the darkness to make out any shapes. A blue spotlight found the guitarist, whose face was mostly concealed by a long curtain of curly hair. A red spotlight hit the drummer, who had no hair at all except around the frame of his mouth. A white light spotlighted a female violinist on the right side of the stage. The blonde wore tight jeans and a halter top, which made all the boys down in front hoot and holler their approval.
She offered a smile and a wink.
Then the spotlight hit the lead singer a second before she opened her mouth to sing. Her long hair was two-toned, brown and bright red, the color of a stop sign. She was fairly petite, not standing more than five-foot, four-inches tall. Two inches of that came from the leather biker boots she wore.
Her lithe figure was contained in studded leather pants and a strapless top that revealed a host of tattoos across her chest and down her arms. Her ears were gauged and her lip was pierced, and her big brown eyes were heavily lined in black eyeliner.
But it was her smoky, raspy voice that reached right out and seemed to grab me right by the balls. It was like that first sip of finely aged whiskey, and it sent a chill straight down my legs as she delivered a powerful rock anthem for the brokenhearted.
Guys howled in appreciation as she stalked to the edge of the stage, letting every guy in the front row play the part of the man who had done her wrong. When she got to me, I felt her anger and her pain. I believed her song wholeheartedly. She was a small package of dynamite ready to tear apart any man who dared do her wrong.
When she hit the chorus, her voice opened up so full I didn’t even think she needed the microphone for the people in back to hear her. It drove the pumped crowd even crazier, especially the men, who thought she was a hot little piece of ass.
Seemed like that only fueled her anger.
She sang a Heart classic next, which spurred on her admirers. I watched as they tried to grab her if she got a little close to the stage, screaming out “Take it off!” before dissolving into inebriated laughter at her expense.
Frankly, it was ticking me off, too. This girl had serious talent and these assholes could barely hear it over their pathetic catcalls, which seemed to get louder the more she ignored them. If she dared glare at them, they took it as sign of encouragement. After a Pink song, she finally escaped backstage, away from all the drunks leering at her.
I used the break between acts to head back to the bar. Instead of one beer, I ordered two. I figured she was going to need one. I leaned toward the bartender. “Hey, man. I bought this beer for that first singer. Where can I find her?”
The bartender laughed. “You and about ten other guys, buddy. The line starts over there,” he said as he pointed toward a darkened corner, with a small door that led backstage. The bartender wasn’t wrong; there were already a handful of guys waiting there with beers in each hand to offer the songstress in appreciation for her performance.
Or just appreciation for her.
I looked down at the saucy blonde next to me at the bar. “Here you go, darlin’,” I drawled as I gave her the extra beer.
She leaned into me with a grateful, if inebriated, smile. “Thanks, hon. Care to dance?”
I looked back at the corner. Finally I shrugged. “What the hell?”
She led me toward the dance floor for an upbeat number, though she managed to keep in the circle of my arms as she gyrated to the beat. I spared her a smile, but I wasn’t planning to take it anywhere. Where could I take it? Back to my dinky little bedroom in a tiny apartment I shared with my mom and my sister? Yeah, that wasn’t happening.
A dance was all I could offer no matter how many times she may have cupped my ass in our provocative dance. I gave myself to it as much as I could, though my eye kept returning to that darkened corner, waiting to see that flash of red hair in my peripheral vision.
The door opened to a flurry of activity as the diminutive beauty emerged to a throng of admirers. I heard them before I saw her. She had changed out of her performance clothes, covering herself head to toe, wearing ripped blue jeans and a hoodie with a heavy metal logo on the front. She had covered her hair and hunched her shoulders to get through the fray, but her new fans wanted some of the special recognition they thought they were owed.
That several were already drunk helped nothing. One started pushing another, and she ended up knocked right into the crowd that she was so obviously trying to avoid. I abandoned my dance and my lovely dance partner without a second thought, darting over to the group of people who were dangerously close to forming a dog pile on top of her.
“Let her go!” I said as I pushed my way through.
“Fuck you, man,” one slurred before he attempted to swing at me. I caught his fist easily, turning it around his back before slamming him down onto a nearby table. Another asshole grabbed me from behind in a neck-hold. I jabbed him right in the ribs with my elbow as I used my foot to knock away another guy coming at me with a beer bottle. I sent him flying back into the antique jukebox, which crashed against the wall.
Two burly bouncers found their way into the fray, lifting one body off of another like toy soldiers. Before they could get to me, I got sucker-punched by yet another drunk. I was wiping blood from my chin as I rose to my feet. I glanced around for Lacy, to make sure she was all right, but she had used the distraction to disappear.
Smart girl.
I came face to face with Gaynell, who had a wet washcloth in one hand and a beer in the other. “You sure know how to make an entrance, don’t you, Mr. Riley?”
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am,” I said. “I thought your singer was in trouble. I wanted to give her a hand.”
Gaynell nodded. “I saw how it all unfolded, don’t you worry. There’s not one thing that happens in this club I don’t know about.” She handed me the beer. “Come to my office. Let’s talk.”
I glanced around again for Lacy, but she was long gone. With a small shrug of my shoulders, I followed Gaynell through the darkened club, up the stairs toward the office with a wall of windows overlooking the stage. She rounded a massive, polished desk and took her seat in a cushy red chair. Behind the desk was yet another Texas star, bold and bronze, hanging proudly as the most prominent piece in the room.
The rest of the room had been filled with photos of headlining celebrities going back some twenty years. She stood side-by-side with them with a big smile on her face, with an older, more portly and balding man flanking them on the other side. There were even photos of presidents and politicians. It was clear this club, and this club-owner, had seen and done some impressive things. “Please,” she said. “Have a seat.”
I did as I was told, taking my hat off to hold in my lap as I waited.
“I liked how you handled yourself. Forceful but fair. You wouldn’t, by chance, be looking for work? I can always use a good bouncer.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know about that,” I said. “I just moved to Austin, honestly. Started a full-time job at TX Hill Country Plastic and Steel.”
“Factory work,” she said and I nodded. “Seems a waste of your talent, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She glared at me under one playfully arched eyebrow. “I thought I told you about that.”
I smiled. “Gaynell.”
She leaned back with a victorious smile of her own. “That’s better.” Her eyes swept over me with genuine appreciation. “God, if you could sing I’d put you on stage tomorrow.”
I chuckled. “No. I don’t sing.” Not in public anyway. Not outside a church. B
ut I didn’t tell her that. “Besides, you have a great singer now.”
She nodded as she glanced out of the window. “That’s just a temporary thing, to see how it all works out. I can’t have this kind of chaos in my club every week. You know how much that juke box costs?” She shook her head. “I have to make sure that the money coming in surpasses, by far, the money going out.” Her eyes scanned my lean, muscular frame. “That’s why I need good bouncers to protect my interests. That includes my talent,” she added with a slight gleam in her eye. She took immediate note of how that gave me pause. She grabbed a card from a sterling silver holder shaped like an armadillo.
It was like Texas had exploded all up in this joint.
“It doesn’t even have to be a full-time commitment,” she said as she scribbled something on her business card. “Fridays and Saturdays, about nine to close, giving you Sunday to recuperate. I’m flexible,” she added as she gave me the card with a flirty grin. “I’d certainly pay for the best. Fifteen an hour to start, at least.”
My eyes opened wide. That beat what I was getting paid at the factory. “I’ll certainly think about it,” I promised.
She rose from her desk. “Don’t think too long, Jonah. I need someone in place by next weekend. If you think tonight was crazy, imagine what it’s going to be like when we have sold-out crowds with some of the big-named acts that are coming through.”
I nodded as I listened to her tick them off one by one. I figured, like her, that her lineups could pull in the crowds, especially if someone like Lacy was the opening act.
I didn’t even bother sticking around to see anyone else. I headed out to my truck by ten-thirty. Before I could turn the key, I spotted someone across the parking lot kicking and screaming at a POS special with its hood up.
That someone was wearing ripped blue jeans and a hoodie.
I started the truck and drove slowly over to her section of the darkened, mostly abandoned parking lot. Most of the crowd, including those who were giving her the most grief, were all inside getting their buzz on, listening to the next act.
Southern Rocker Boy (Southern Rockers Book 1) Page 3
