Nashville - Boxed Set Series - Part One, Two, Three and Four (A New Adult Contemporary Romance)

by Inglath Cooper

  “Had to have been fun if you two are already at it again,” Sarah adds.

  Holden is yet to speak, and the response on the tip of my tongue isn’t one that would make Sarah and me friends. “Thanks again, Beck,” I say.

  “See you later this afternoon.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You better,” he adds.

  Hank and I cross the parking lot and make for the stairwell. I can feel Holden’s eyes on us, but I just keep walking.

  ♪

  AS IT TURNS OUT, I am able to switch shifts with Ainsley, one of the other waitresses at the restaurant. She’s glad to do it, she says, since I offer to take her shift tomorrow night and there was something she wanted to do anyway.

  I text Beck and let him know.

  I feed Hank Junior early and leave Holden a note that I’ve fed Patsy, too.

  My clothes selection isn’t vast, so it doesn’t take me long to decide on a simple pink sundress and flat sandals.

  Beck is driving the BMW again, top down, and it feels good sliding down the Nashville streets with music from his iPhone blasting through the car’s speakers.

  “You look great,” he says, glancing over at me, smiling his confident smile, one hand on the steering wheel.

  “Thank you,” I say, and feel myself blush a little.

  Being with Beck feels different from being with Holden. With Holden, I always feel on the edge of something about to happen. Something I very much want but am also very much afraid of.

  Not that I couldn’t be intimidated by Beck. He’s lived a life I know very little about. A life I have dreamed about but don’t know in reality.

  And he’s gorgeous. Who wouldn’t be intimidated by that? But he’s also young. My age. And that makes him easier to talk to. Easier to be with in some ways. And then again, there’s that small difference of him not having a girlfriend looming in between us.

  “So the studio where we’re going,” Beck says, “is really cool. Bobby can pretty much write with whoever he wants considering his track record. And it’s deserved. At least that’s what my dad says.”

  “I think I know every song he’s ever written,” I say. “Are you sure it’s okay if I’m here?”

  “Positive. I checked with my dad.”

  It takes us twenty minutes or so to get there, the house not as far outside the city as Beck’s house. When we pull into the driveway, I spot the Ferrari, indicating that Case must already be here.

  Beck pulls up beside it, gets out and comes around to open my door.

  “Thanks,” I say, sliding out and trying to subdue the sudden flutter of butterflies in my stomach. “I’m nervous.”

  “Don’t be. Everything’s really laid back here.”

  The house isn’t nearly as grand as Case’s, but impressive all the same. It’s a classic brick style with an antiqued wood front door and a mammoth knocker shaped like a guitar.

  Beck knocks and a few seconds later, a pretty woman somewhere in her forties answers the door. Her smile is welcoming and we follow her through the house to a studio set up very much like the one at Beck’s house. It’s not as big though, and the equipment seems a little less fancy, more like the workhorse version.

  Case and the man I instantly recognize as Bobby Jenkins are sitting together at a round table. I saw him once in an interview on the country music channel. Both men have guitars on their laps. Beck introduces me.

  “It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Jenkins.” He’s older than I expect, maybe late fifties.

  “So glad you could be here.”

  “Thank you so much. Really.”

  Case told him about the recording session yesterday and how I’m part of a group called Barefoot Outlook. It sounds strange hearing it as if it’s really happening, and while I’d like to believe it’s true, it feels more like something made of toothpicks than beams.

  “Well, good luck to you,” he says.

  “You got anything you want to start with, Case?” he asks, picking up the guitar.

  “Just a phrase,” Case says. “Don’t have too much attached to it yet.”

  “What is it?”

  “Wishing time away.”

  Bobby nods. “Hmm. Yeah. See what we can do with that.” He throws out some angles, some kind of obvious, some not so much.

  I listen to the rally between them, mesmerized at the process and can’t help but think how much Holden would love this. The two of them are like miners, digging, sifting, rinsing, until they find the lines of gold nuggets that begin to form a verse, a chorus, a bridge. The pieces put together with such expertise that I can’t really imagine ever reaching this level of capability.

  The music they create fits the words perfectly, like a glove to a fine-boned hand.

  Three hours have passed when they push back their chairs and smile at each other.

  “Yeah,” Case says. “I like it.”

  “Me, too,” Bobby agrees.

  Beck and I glance at each other and smile. Neither of us has said a word since the start of the session, and I wonder how many times he has seen this done.

  They call it a wrap. We stand, and Case throws an arm around Beck’s shoulders, giving him a hug.

  Beck shakes hands with Bobby who looks at me and says, “Really glad you could be here.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “So much. It was a priceless experience.”

  He smiles at me and nods. When he doesn’t poo poo my extravagant praise, I wonder if someone had once done the same for him, someone who was really great at writing the same as he was.

  We’re in the car on the way back into town when I say, “That was really incredible, Beck. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I think I owed you one,” he says. “It was cool for me, too. I haven’t gotten over being amazed by the whole process yet. It’s kind of like magic or something.”

  I know what he means. It is like that, watching something amazing being conjured out of thin air, the pieces coming together to form something beautiful and possibly able to resonate with so many people.

  “It’s early. You wanna go somewhere and hang out a while? There’s a good band over at Lauren’s place.”

  “Can we have an honest moment?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “I like you, Beck. I really like you. Who wouldn’t? But my head is kind of somewhere else right now.”

  “Holden,” he says.

  “It’s not something I won’t get past. I really don’t have a choice. So maybe if you could just give me a little time?”

  “That’s more than cool,” he says. “Let’s just hang out. No expectations. No demands. How’s that sound?”

  “I don’t know. Like maybe you’re too good to be true?”

  He laughs. “Or maybe I just know a good thing when I see it, and I don’t want to blow it.” He reaches out and brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. “Let’s just go have some fun, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. And that sounds like a great idea to me.

  ♪

  THE RESTAURANT IS CRAZY busy. There’s a line flowing out the main door and down the sidewalk several storefronts long.

  Beck knows the guy behind the rope and gets waved in, towing me along behind him.

  “I feel really funny about that,” I say as we slip inside the low-lit interior.

  “Funny enough to go stand at the end of that line?”

  “Um. Maybe not?”

  The band playing on stage is country with a thumping beat, and you can’t help but instantly feel it in your bones and want to move to it.

  Holden isn’t supposed to be working tonight, so I start at the sight of him behind the bar, filling glasses with ice. As if he feels my gaze on him, he looks up and suddenly we’re staring straight at one another, my heart kicking up instantly.

  In that moment of blank honesty, I see the flash of hurt in his eyes.

  There’s no justification for it. He has no say over who I’m here with, but at the same time, I
know that feeling. It’s the same one I get when I see him with Sarah, and I realize that it gives me no pleasure to make him feel that.

  He turns his back and smiles at a woman at the bar. I watch its effect on her, the way she leans in and stares up at him. I turn away abruptly as my stomach does a somersault of hurt, unreasonable as it is.

  As it turns out, Beck knows a couple of the band members, and we snag a table up close. During the first set, I sit as if anchored to my seat, focusing on absorbing every note of every song. The lead singer is incredible. She’s got a voice that flows from her like warm honey and a range that makes me instantly envious. She also has the kind of looks that make listening to her nearly secondary to watching her.

  They take a break after the first set and the singer comes over to our table.

  “Hey, Beck,” she says. “Glad y’all could come out.”

  “Hey, Tania. You’re rockin’ it tonight.”

  “Thanks,” she says with an appreciative smile.

  “Tania, this is CeCe MacKenzie.”

  “Y’all are great,” I say. “I love your sound.”

  “Thanks,” she says, turning her smile to me. “We’ve been working hard at it.”

  “No doubt,” Beck says. “Y’all are really getting the polish on it.”

  “Thank you.” She looks at Beck, her eyes suddenly teasing. “Is she why you never called me back?”

  Most guys would have been embarrassed by that kind of direct arrow, but Beck shrugs and says, “Nooo. But she could be.”

  Tania laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m on to greener pastures.”

  And for some reason, what’s between them doesn’t feel like anything other than good-natured ribbing. No daggers like there had been with Macey last night.

  The rest of the show is great, and Beck seems to know half the people in the place, but I’m relieved when the band plays its last encore, and we head out into the night.

  I manage to leave without meeting eyes with Holden again. “That was awesome,” I say as we get in the car. “Thank you for asking me.”

  “Yeah, they’re pretty cool.” Beck cranks the music, and we speed down the highway. We both seem content not to talk, and when we get back to the apartment, he cuts the engine, insisting on walking me to the door.

  “That was really fun,” I say, sticking my key in the lock and turning to look up at him.

  “Thanks for going with me.”

  “Thanks for asking.”

  “So we’re stuck on that friends thing, huh?” he says, a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

  “For now?”

  “For now. I think you’re worth it,” he says. “The wait, I mean.”

  Footsteps sound on the stairwell, and I look over Beck’s shoulder to see Holden come to an abrupt stop at the sight of us.

  “Sorry,” he says, and I can see he’s caught off guard. “Excuse me.” He cuts around us, pulling my key out of the lock and handing it to me. He inserts his own and opens the door. He goes inside without saying another word.

  The awkwardness left in his wake is thick and undeniable.

  “A little time?” I say.

  “A little time,” he agrees. “Goodnight, CeCe. Sleep well, okay?”

  “You, too.” And with that, I watch him walk away.

  ♪

  25

  Holden

  I absolutely HATE this feeling.

  Jealous guys suck. I mean, what is jealousy anyway?

  Awareness that there’s something you can’t have. Or that someone is better at something than you are. Or has someone you can’t have.

  There it is. Large and looming. The truth. Ugly as it is.

  Someone I can’t have.

  I grab a beer from the refrigerator, pull out a drawer for the opener, pop it off and take a long drink. I head for the shower then just because I don’t want to be standing here when CeCe comes in.

  The water is cold but does pretty much nothing to cool my misery. In my room, I wait until I hear her door click closed, and then I step out into the hall and knock.

  She doesn’t respond for several moments, which tells me she’s considering not answering. “CeCe?” I say.

  The door opens and she stands there looking at me with What? on her face.

  “Ainsley asked me to remind you about her shift tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay.” Awkward silence, and then I manage, “How was it?”

  “It was great. All of it. Great.” She’s quiet for a moment and then, “Where’s Sarah?”

  I glance away and then back at her. “She went back to Georgia. We kind of had a fight.”

  CeCe steps away, and I can see her blank her expression. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” I ask.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why?”

  She throws up her hands. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re obviously crazy about each other and–”

  “Are we?” It’s a question I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself.

  “Yes! You are!”

  “Don’t you want to know what we fought about?”

  “No, I don’t think I do.”

  “You,” he says. “We fought about you.”

  She blinks once. Hard. And then, “Why would you be fighting about me?”

  “Because she knows.”

  “There’s nothing to know.”

  “Knows it’s different. Since I got here. Since. . .since I met you.”

  “Holden. Don’t do this. Don’t hang this on me. I don’t want to be responsible for you breaking Sarah’s heart.”

  “I’m not hanging anything on you. I’m just telling you the truth.”

  “You love her.”

  “I did. Yes, I did. Now, I don’t know anymore.”

  “She loves you,” CeCe says.

  “She says she does. I’m not sure what that means based on the way we’ve been to each other since she got here. And I wonder now if we’ve just been trying to make each other fit what it is we both say we want. People change, don’t they? And when the change comes, how long do you deny it?”

  “Holden–”

  Her protest is weaker than before, and as if the words are pulled from me, I say, “I can’t stand seeing you with him.”

  “We’re friends, Holden.”

  “He doesn’t want to be friends with you, CeCe.”

  “I’ve told him that right now that’s all we can be.”

  “Why?”

  She drops her gaze. “Because I’m not ready.”

  “Because,” I interrupt. “You think about me the way I think about you. With every breath. Every thought.”

  “No, I don’t. I–”

  I reach out and loop my arm around her waist, splay my hand across the dip of her lower back. I reel her to me, slowly, steadily, as if the catch is inevitable. She bumps to a stop against my chest, tips her head back and looks up at me.

  “Holden, don’t. This is not where we should go.”

  “There’s nowhere else I want to go,” I say. “In fact, if we don’t go there, if we don’t go there now–” I swoop in then, finding her mouth with mine. The kiss is deep and so full of longing and want that I instantly feel inebriated by it. My head is buzzing, like I just took a shot of some fine tequila. But this buzz is better. So much better.

  I lift her to me, my hands at her waist. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back, fully, giving in, no longer protesting or coming up with reasons why I shouldn’t be here.

  We just kiss. And I feel like we could kiss like this all night long, and I wouldn’t be able to get enough of her.

  I pick her up, lifting and carrying her all at the same time to the bed. I both drop her and follow her down at the same time. The feel of her beneath me is like being found when I never knew I was lost.

  Hank Junior makes a sound that might be disapproval and heads to a corner of the room.

  CeCe and I roll to the middle, still kissing. I
t’s pretty clear that neither of us has any desire to stop.

  I feel something crumple under me and pull a piece of paper out from under my shoulder.

  I’m ready to toss it when CeCe grabs my hand and says, “Hank Junior! What have you gotten into now?”

  The edges of the paper have been chewed, the top right hand corner completely missing. CeCe glances at it, then pulls it in for a closer look.

  Her face goes completely still. She slides up on her knees, her face growing whiter as she reads.

  “What is it?” I raise up on my elbow. “What’s wrong?”

  She drops the paper, and it flutters back onto the blanket beneath us.

  The look on her face has me spooked, and I cautiously pick up the torn page and start to read.

  Patient Sarah Saxon

  Age: 22

  Female

  Recommended course of treatment:

  Radiation, chemotherapy. Initial course to be followed by reevaluation for surgical candidacy.

  I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, elbows on my knees, feeling suddenly and completely sick.

  I hold the paper under the lamplight and read it again, just to make sure I hadn’t imagined it.

  “Holden,” CeCe says, putting a hand on my back.

  “That’s why she came,” I say. “To tell me. She came here to tell me. I didn’t–”

  “You didn’t know. You didn’t know.”

  “I all but pushed her out the door. Oh, my God.” I really think I am going to be sick. I lean over and cross my arms over my stomach. I can feel the blood pounding in my temples.

  CeCe gets up, stands in front of me and drops to her knees, forcing me to look at her. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” she says. “You haven’t.”

  I look up at her, and it feels like I’m on one of those crazy amusement park rides that zooms you to a peak and then lets you plummet. This is the plummet part. “How can you say that?”

  “Because it’s true,” she says, her voice breaking in the middle of the statement. “She needs you.”

  I let myself look directly at her then, at the tears suddenly coursing down her face. I realize they are for Sarah. For us. For it all.