The bartender, who doesn’t look old enough to drink or legally obtain the tattoos all over his body without his mommy signing for him, motions for her to order.
“Koltiska Liqueur on ice.”
“Strike one.” He holds up a finger.
“Balcones Whiskey on ice.”
A second finger goes up. “Strike two. Will you swing for the fences or play it safe?”
“Jack.”
He claps. “And she’s on base. Sorry we don’t carry the others.”
“I’ll believe you if you pour a double.”
He shrugs as he pours, and keeps pouring. “Not my bar.”
Maggie downs her double Jack like it’s sweet tea.
“Thirsty?” Burrows asks, eyebrows up.
“Did I mention my week sucked?” She holds up a finger and nods to the bartender.
He slides one to her then throws his hands up when she catches it. “Through the uprights.”
She rewards him with a smile, and he winks. To Burrows she shouts, “Ladies room.”
Burrows gives her a thumbs-up. She returns to find a third drink waiting for her and hears her name blaring over the speakers.
“Next up is Maggie, with ‘Buckle Bunny.’”
Maggie slits her eyes at Burrows. “Not cool.” She remembers standing in the Occidental Saloon in Buffalo, Wyoming, a few days before, telling a psycho fan that she wouldn’t perform in public when he demanded she sing a song she’d dissed him on years ago. She would have traded a yes then for Burrows’s ambush now, in a heartbeat.
Burrows puts a palm on his chest. “I put you on the list before you came. Just in case. It fills up fast. Don’t do it if you don’t want to.”
The DJ is watching the crowd, looking for his tardy performer. “Is that her, John?” The DJ points their way.
John nods.
“Hey y’all, it looks like Maggie has stage fright. Let’s give her a little encouragement.”
The crowd cheers. Maggie wonders if it counts as assault on an officer if she punches Burrows. She’d rather turn back to the bar and let the bartender show her his tattoos than sing here. But with everyone looking at her, Maggie is afraid she’ll be recognized. One picture to TMZ and she’s labeled a snotty bitch too good to party with the locals. Out they’ll trot all her failures again, for her mother to obsess over with her church friends.
The drunken crowd chants at the DJ’s urging, mob-like. MAG-GIE, MAG-GIE, MAG-GIE.
She holds up a finger to the DJ and downs her drink. Warmth flushes her face and her body buzzes. By the time she finishes the song, her drunk will have caught up with her and she’ll be on her way to fast forgetting. She glares at Burrows one more time. His return smile sticks in her craw. She balls her fists, and stalks to the stage.
“Here she is, folks. Maggie, doing ‘Buckle Bunny.’”
Conversation noise continues unabated in the bar. Inspiration strikes. She’s performed the wrong songs for the wrong crowds too many times to risk her own beloved material here. She stops at his monitor. “How about ‘Bombshell’ instead? The Ava Butler song.”
“No problem.” He presses a few buttons. “Make that . . . Here’s Maggie, doing ‘Bombshell.’”
The crowd whoops. Apparently “Bombshell” is more popular than “Buckle Bunny.” Louise has better musical taste than these rubes.
Maggie’s never sung Ava’s hit other than in the privacy of her own truck, and then with a healthy dose of sarcasm. But she knows she has more talent in her left pinky than Ava has in her whole body. She’s going to give herself the gift of blowing Ava’s version out of the water, even if the only witness will be the few Pumpjack’s patrons sober enough to listen.
She launches herself into it. No warm-up. No run-throughs or blocking. Nothing like the old days. Just her instincts and what Rolling Stone once called the voice of a wayward angel on a three-day bender. By the time she reaches the end of the song, the crowd has gone from surprised to shocked to raucous. Burrows is doing a Magic Mike impression while people around him jump up and down and sing along to the chorus. When Maggie finishes, she lifts a fist and drops her head. The crowd raises the roof.
Okay, so sue me. I have a voice and I ain’t afraid to use it.
Two
“Holy shit, what-what-what?” the DJ shouts into his microphone. “I think we have a ringer. Okay, Pumpjackers. I’m willing to break the rules if y’all want to hear some more of that. What do you say—Maggie again?”
The crowd chants and claps, more mosh pit than mob now. “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.”
From the right, a tall blonde woman touches Maggie’s hand. “Maggie? As in Michele’s friend Maggie?”
Maggie whoops and jumps off the low stage to embrace the woman. “Emilyyyy. I forgot you live in Amarillo.”
Maggie had met Emily the previous spring at Michele’s, when Emily was visiting with Laura, her partner in an equine therapy camp business. Hank’s sister Laura. Hank and Gene had been with them. Sparks had flown between Maggie and Hank—not the good kind. At least not then. The next week, they’d generated a lot of heat, first between the sheets, then during Hank’s implosion when Maggie sent him back to Wyoming without her. Maggie pushes the memory away. Thinking about Hank hurts.
“What are you doing in the feedlot capital of the world?”
Maggie laughs. “Singing karaoke.”
The DJ interrupts. “So do you want to do ‘Buckle Bunny’ now, Maggie?”
“Hell no. More Ava Butler. Your pick.”
Burrows presses another drink into Maggie’s hand. “You are freaking incredible.” He and Emily hug.
Friends, obviously. Maggie drinks like a camel that’s just crossed the Sahara.
The DJ nods. “More Ava Butler. Got it.”
“Why are you singing Ava’s songs?” Emily asks.
The way Emily says Ava’s name is almost like she knows her. But Maggie doesn’t have time to ask Emily about that or answer her question, because the music starts. Burrows and Emily step aside, heads together, deep in conversation, until Maggie begins crushing “Fire on the Mountain.” Then they join the crowd in a fist-pumping sing-along with Maggie.
When it’s over, the DJ holds his hand up. “Whoa there, Maggie.” He rolls back from his monitor and stands. “Okay, y’all, I got the scoop. This here is not a humble karaoke amateur. This is Maggie Killian. Maggie frickin’ Killian. I thought I heard an alt-rock vibe to her “Bombshell.” She’s retired from the biz, but she was a huge star. And apparently a big fan of Ava Butler.”
Maggie doesn’t correct him about Ava. People cheer and rubberneck around each other at her. Some snap selfies of their big faces in front of her on the stage. She imagines one hundred simultaneous Facebook posts going up. She’d figured she’d be identified, but it’s time to step out of the limelight, even a dim one. She bows at the waist, waves, and joins Burrows and Emily, who have joined a larger group.
Burrows hands her another drink. Maggie is thirsty. She gulps it down.
Emily hooks her arm through Maggie’s. “Oh my God. I just realized I’ve seen you perform before. When I met you at Michele’s, I had no idea that you’re famous.”
“Famously infamous. Or I used to be.”
“You’re amazing.”
“Thanks.” Maggie is about to ask her about Ava, and about where Emily saw Maggie perform, but Emily’s already speaking again.
“Jack, Wallace, Ethan, this is Maggie. She’s Michele’s best friend.” Emily smiles at a tall, slim man with dark skin and hair and arresting amber eyes. “Maggie, this is my husband, Jack—”
“Hot husband.” Maggie shakes his hand, then purrs. “Nice to meet you, hot husband Jack.”
Jack turns red and mumbles something unintelligible.
Emily stands on tiptoe to kiss Jack’s cheek. “Jack’s not much of a talker.” She touches the elbow of another man. “This is Wallace. He triathloned with Michele back in Houston. He’s one of my best friends.”
&n
bsp; The man who sticks out his hand has floppy hair with blond highlights and a body type Maggie recognizes from Michele’s endurance events.
“So you’re a psycho like Michele?” Maggie asks.
He raises his hand. “Guilty.”
With one word, Maggie identifies him as Houston. West side. Maybe Katy.
Emily bumps Wallace with her hip then turns to the last man in the party. “And this is his husband, Ethan.”
A thin, very well-dressed black man with eyelashes like a mascara ad kisses Maggie’s hand. “My pleasure.”
Dallas. Oak Lawn area. “Which makes it mine.” Maggie nods at Emily. “I like this one.”
“Excuse me.” A group of middle-aged women are standing near them. Their spokesperson says, “Could we get your autograph, Maggie?”
“No problem.” Maggie signs her name a handful of times. She poses for pictures and allows herself to be hugged. When the women leave, she says, “Damn. I’m drunk.”
Wallace raises a glass to her. “Delightfully so.”
And in that moment, everything in the last week, especially the last two days, crashes over Maggie in a wave. Like a balloon with a pinhole leak, Maggie deflates. Her legs are rubber. Her lids are heavy. She’s tired like she’s been pulling a sled of bricks all the way from Wyoming, and she can’t make it another step. Not a single one.
“I should jet. It’s been fun, but I’m bushed.”
“Don’t go,” Ethan says. “You haven’t seen Wallace do ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ yet. I promise, it’s life-changing.”
Maggie feels it coming and tries to turn away, but she’s not fast enough. She doesn’t do tired well, and this is more than tired. It’s tired, hurt, sad, and drunk. A tear leaks out and runs down her cheek. She swipes at it angrily, then laughs at herself. “I’m sorry. That sounds badass, Wallace. But I have to go.”
Emily stops her with an embrace. In Maggie’s ear, she whispers, “What’s the matter?”
Never mind that they’re not close, that Emily’s friends can hear them, or that Maggie is by nature a closed diary with a padlock and key, Maggie spills her story on Emily’s shoulder. All of her story. All the way back to meeting Hank in Cheyenne fifteen years before. It comes out in a boozy rush, and she doesn’t stop even when Emily has released her and the group is clustered around Maggie, nodding her on.
“It all started when Hank, this bull rider, was taking money to lose, which I didn’t know at the time. I told him I wouldn’t go out with him unless he won. So he did. I broke up with my band so I could stay there with him. They were really, really pissed. Davo, Brent, Celinda, Chris. Oh my God. I can’t believe I remember their names. They tried to kidnap me and make me stick to the tour with them. But I didn’t. Which is a good thing because I’d be dead if I had—they crashed the van. Very sad. Anyway, these South American gangsters chased Hank and me all over Wyoming that night. The next morning, when Hank went to get us breakfast, my agent called, and instead of firing me, he bought me a plane ticket to Nashville to write an album with Patty Griffin. He did fire me, later, but I was already famous by then, and that’s not part of this story. So I left Hank a note to call me and went to catch the flight.”
Emily’s eyes widen as she puts two and two together. “Are you talking about Laura’s brother, Hank? The one you were fighting with at Michele’s?”
“Laura didn’t tell you?”
“No. She knew?”
Maggie’s shoulders lift and fall. “Knew. Knows.”
“She’s in big trouble. But go on. You left for Nashville, and then what?”
“He never called. He broke my heart.”
“You mean you hadn’t talked to him in all that time until you saw him at Michele’s?”
Maggie holds up two fingers in the sign of scout’s honor. “Not once in fifteen years.”
“Okay, wow. That’s awful. But how does that get us to tonight?”
“I’ve just been to Wyoming to see Hank.”
The group, hanging on her every word now, says “Ooooh” in unison.
“In Texas last spring, he wanted to get back together. I didn’t hate him, but I was still mad. I said no. Then I changed my mind. When I got to Wyoming, he already had somebody else.” Tears trace a path down her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry.” Emily pats Maggie’s back.
Maggie nods. “Me, too. But it doesn’t make any difference. And now he’s engaged to Sheila and they’re going to teach Sunday school together and make babies. I might as well get back with Gary.” She lifts her empty glass. “Fuck ’em, right?”
Emily, Wallace, and Ethan make eyes at each other. Burrows stares into his beer. Jack looks like he wants to be anywhere but there.
Wallace leans in. “Gary?”
“Yeah. Gary Fuller.” Too late, Maggie remembers she doesn’t ever tell anyone about Gary. He’s been a secret since the beginning. What is wrong with her, blurting out stuff like that?
“The country music star, Gary Fuller? The one whose little sister Kelly has the number one single on the iTunes country charts and just kicked off a nationwide tour?”
Maggie snorts. “Gary’s manager spoon-fed Kelly the song, and she doesn’t have an album to back it up.” The modern-day equivalent of Tiffany’s mall tour circa 1987 for “I Think We’re Alone Now.” Kelly’s big break was singing backup for Gary earlier that year. She wonders what he thinks of her solo efforts.
Wallace’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “Ooh, and I hear he’s the frontrunner to take the country coach slot on The Singer now that their ratings are slipping. You-know-who is going to be F-I-R-E-D.”
“And you know all of this how?” Ethan asks.
Wallace shimmies his head. “What? Just because I’m gay I can’t listen to country music? Maggie is a Texas legend.”
Ethan smiles at the others. “More like he obsessively reads People. Since he was in training pants.”
Wallace holds up a hand to his husband. “Don’t listen to him, Maggie. You were saying, about Gary Fuller?”
Maggie sighs. “I broke up with him. He’s very, very mad at me.”
“Because of Hank?”
“No. But I haven’t taken him back because of Hank.”
Wallace grins. “Okay, not to be stalkerish, but I already knew all of this, except for the part about Gary. I read about it online today. I never dreamed I’d be meeting the real Maggie Killian tonight.” He leans forward, hand cupping one side of his mouth like he’s sharing a secret. “It’s such a relief when I don’t get suckered into fake news.”
“See?” Ethan shakes his head. “You read too much garbage online, babe.”
Maggie’s tear-streaked eyes are red but alert. “I don’t understand. Knew all of what?”
Wallace and Emily exchange another look. Emily slides a finger across her throat.
Wallace smiles at Maggie. “Hey, I have an idea. Did you eat? Why don’t we get you some food?”
“I need to walk my dog.”
Emily, Wallace, and Ethan laugh, but nervously, like Maggie’s lost her marbles. Even Jack smiles.
Burrows says, “I think she’s serious.”
“I am. My dog, Fucker, threw up in my truck, which is how I met Officer Burrows. Otherwise I’d be in Wichita Falls about now. That’s why I didn’t have time to eat.”
Wallace nods. “Makes perfect sense. Then let’s get food and go walk Fucker. Unless—” He waves between Maggie and Burrows.
Maggie shakes her head quickly. “Not a thing.”
Burrows looks crestfallen for a moment, but he rallies with a brave face. “I’ve got an early morning. Maggie, nice meeting you. See the rest of you soon.”
Maggie waves. “Thanks for getting me onstage and wasted.”
“Yeah, John.” Emily rolls her eyes. “Always a great idea with someone who has famously done rehab. Multiple times.”
Burrows winces. “Sorry. Didn’t think of that.”
Maggie wags a finger
at Emily. “That was for coke. I’m much better with liquor.”
After Burrows leaves, the group orders food from a bar menu. Maggie chugs waters while they chat and wait, suffering through karaoke performances that range from rutting goat to cat in heat. When the food comes, Wallace, Ethan, and Maggie bid farewell to Jack and Emily and walk back to the Sundowner, to-go bags in hand.
Maggie fetches Louise, who is elated when they rejoin the two men on a grassy area behind the hotel. They stand beside a picnic table, eating their burgers while Louise runs in circles.
Wallace finishes first. He wads up his burger paper and throws it in the trash can outside the hotel’s back door. “It’s been such a hoot meeting you, Maggie.”
Ethan holds a thumb up and nods. His mouth is full and he’s still got three-quarters of a burger to go.
Maggie swallows a too-big bite. “Come to my shop and buy some antiques. Hang out with Michele and me.”
Wallace smiles. “Text me the details, and color us there.”
The three swap phone numbers.
Maggie hugs her new friends. “Thanks for escorting me home. And making me eat. Good call.”
Wallace studies her face. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay tonight?”
Maggie flaps a hand at him. “I’m fine. That thing earlier—already over it. Never better.”
“All right, then. Are you ready, Ethan?”
He holds up his half a burger, but he nods, hand in front of his mouth.
Maggie waves, then they walk away arm in arm. Louise is still cavorting along the line of bushes edging the building, sniffing out trash. Maggie fears more vomit is in their future. When the two men are out of sight, she pulls her phone from her jeans pocket. For a hot second, she thinks about texting Hank. She’d like to give him a piece of her mind, something like “You sorry no-good son of a bitch, why don’t you love me like I love you?” But that would mean admitting to herself and him she does love him, not to mention caving in and calling him. Instead, she pulls her go-to move whenever she feels rejected: she calls Gary Fuller instead.
Maggie Box Set Page 29
