“I can’t. Brutal and I have another row to check.”
“Then you’d better get yourself in a better mood, mister. Pull that weed,” she directs, pointing at a big one I missed with my distracted mind elsewhere.
I yank on it hard, taking out my frustrations on the weed that’s grown where it shouldn’t be. A lot like me. I’ve grown tall and hardy here in Great Falls, and it’s a great . . . garden. But what if I’m meant for another, bigger garden of my own? Like Nashville.
The weed gives way suddenly, and I go sprawling on my ass in the dirt. Knees bent, I rest my arms on them and let my head fall.
“They offered me the record deal,” I whisper. I shouldn’t confess to this. It’ll ruin everything, but I can’t stop it from affecting me and that’s ruining me too.
Mama Louise doesn’t so much as slow down with her weed pulling. “Of course they did. The question is . . . why did you say they didn’t?”
I blink in confusion. “Wait, you knew I got an offer?”
She stops, her eyes boring into me. She’s always had kind eyes, blue and fringed with dark blonde lashes, but now, those eyes are looking at me as if I’m dumber than the tomato plants.
“Of course they’d want you. Your songs are amazing, poetry like nothing I’ve ever heard. You’ve got the voice of an angel” —I snort in disbelief, but she steamrolls over me— “mixed with the grit of the devil. It’s beautiful, Bobby. A gift.”
I let her compliments sink in. Most folks, I simply brush their praise off. But not hers. Mama Louise’s means something to me.
“Thanks.” That’s as far as I get for a long while as I search for the words to explain what happened. Mama Louise doesn’t rush me, as if she knows this is difficult for me.
Finally, the story comes.
I tell her how intimidating the office was, with a whole room full of people judging me. I tell her about the crowd at the Bar and how I won them over, which felt amazing. She smiles at that, nodding like ‘I told you so.’ I tell her about working with Miller and Rory, deeper stories than I told at the dinner table.
“Miller made me feel like I could really do something. I mean, I know I can sing. And I write all the time. But it was like with the tiniest push, it was all on a higher level. One I didn’t know I was capable of. What if there’s more that I’m capable of?” I wonder aloud, not meaning to say that last part.
“I’m sure there is. You can discover it yourself, though. Or book some time with this Miller fellow yourself if you want to. I’m sure he does private appointments. Everyone does for the right price. It only matters if it’s worth it to you.”
I mull that over for a second.
“They had conditions for the contract offer,” I tell Mama Louise.
She frowns. “What sort of conditions?”
This is the harder part, the confession about what I’ve done.
“Jeremy said I needed a band, and that was fine by me. Then he started talking about my image. They wanted to turn me into some sort of bad boy manwhore.”
“Man-what?” Mama Louise repeats, just shy of a shriek.
I nod, not willing to repeat the word in front of her. She might’ve not corrected my language once, but she’ll damn well do it if I say whore again. “Exactly what you’re thinking. They wanted me to be single . . . to break up with Willow.”
“And you said no.” Her voice is flat, not belying what she thinks about that, good or bad.
“I tried. Jeremy told me to think real hard before I answered either way. I told him no on Wednesday. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Well, I’ll say that I don’t know a thing about music, other than what I like to listen to on the radio. But I reckon those people do, so they might be right about the way to make the most of your voice. The question is . . . do you care what they say? Right or wrong, contract or not, what do you want, Bobby?”
I can’t answer that. I should be able to. It should be the easiest answer in the world—the contract that so many people, me included, dream of for so long. But on the other hand, I’ve never known love like this, and I’ve been searching my whole life. Some people search even longer than I have. And I won’t give that up lightly.
“You’re choosing Willow over the deal.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.
“Yeah.” I am. She’s everything, way more important than this deal. And I’ll still have music, just not the big stadiums and bright lights. I can sing at Hank’s, and it’ll be enough. It always has been.
“You sure?” Mama Louise is giving me an out, telling me it’s okay to choose either way, but my decision has already been made. Now, it’s just time to live my happily ever after with it.
“I am.”
“Good,” she says with a smile. She seems . . . pleased? But that can’t be right. “You deserve to get what you want, Bobby. Lord knows, you kids have been through enough, and you deserve to have something go your way for a change. I really and truly thought it was going to be this deal, but . . .” She sighs, looking up toward the sky for a moment as if there are answers to be found in the cloudless sky. “If your dream changes, if it looks different than it did when you were eighteen and didn’t have a clue about how hard life can be and what’s really important, that’s okay. And getting what you want now over what you wanted then is still a good thing. I’m happy for you.”
I’m looking down, letting her words wash over me and soothe the hurt, all of them—losing Mom, losing my innocence, losing Dad, not when he died but before that when he truly checked out on us, and even losing this opportunity.
I feel her grubby finger on my chin, forcing me to lift up and meet her eyes. “I’m proud of you, Bobby.”
Fuck. I didn’t know I needed to hear that, especially about this. Choosing Willow was easy, automatic, and I know she’s what I truly want. But that doesn’t mean not choosing the deal doesn’t hurt like a motherfucker.
“Thank you,” I grit out.
She nods, like that’s that. “Get that one too, will you?” She points to another weed.
And this time, when I pull at it and it refuses to come loose, I wonder if maybe, instead of my being stuck in Great Falls, this weed could be Willow putting down roots here with me?
The weed gives way, but there’s another one right next to it so I keep going, clearing Mama Louise’s garden long after she goes inside and leaves me to my thoughts.
Root into me, stay by my side. We’ll grow together, two as one.
Chapter 21
Willow
“You okay?” I ask Unc during the lull between lunch and what is going to be a crazy Saturday night.
His complexion is looking a bit pasty, his eyes a bit sunken and purple. And that’s after he took a break to ‘check the books’ earlier.
“Have you eaten anything today? Ilene would be happy to make you some eggs and toast.” The suggestion makes him turn an altogether unattractive shade of green and shake his head.
“Nah. Just feel like a bug that got zapped by one of those contraptions you put on the back porch. Zzzzzt.” He vibrates like a jolt of electricity is going through him. His smile at his own joke is weak, lasting for only a brief flash.
“Take off tonight then. Olivia and I can handle things, especially since you did the same for us last weekend.” I’m hoping the reminder of his kindness will let him accept mine.
No such luck.
He lifts one white brow. “I’m fine. Gonna be a busy one tonight, and I won’t leave you girls that way.”
We could do it without him. It’d be tough, because he’s right about the crowd we’re expecting since it’s Bobby’s first show since the Nashville trip. But I’m going to spend most of the night with my eyes on Unc, making sure he’s okay.
“Okay.” I might as well give in because I’m not going to win against his pride. But I’ll do what I can. “What do you need, then? I’ll do the prep stuff, but can I at least get you a beer?”
Even when his stomach is tu
rning circles on him, he can always manage to get a beer down. I don’t wait for his answer, grabbing one of his favorite craft beers, popping the top, and setting it in front of him.
“Oh, Doc Jones called a bit ago. Said to holler at him when you get a minute. You might want to do that now before we get slammed.”
He sighs as if that’s a big job, but he climbs from his stool and heads back to his office. Quickly, I text Doc.
Me: Talk to Unc for a bit about something. He needs to rest in the office and is being stubborn.
Doc: On it. Good girl.
While I have a minute, I ask Ilene for a biscuit with a honey drizzle. “For Hank? He need something else to eat with it? I can make him a burger, or a bowl of soup? Or he’s taken a liking to my scrambled eggs lately.” Her generosity is innate, her willingness to mother Unc straight out of her experience as a mother and grandmother herself. And she doesn’t even know about the cancer. She just takes care of people.
Overcome, I hug her quickly. Without hesitation, she hugs me back. “You’re the best, Ilene. I think just the biscuit for now.”
“Sure thing, sweetie. If you think you can get him to eat something else, let me know. He’s getting too skinny for my taste.” I’m pretty sure everyone is too skinny for her taste. She shows her love with food, every bite made with her heart and soul.
I smile, quietly stepping into the office and setting the biscuit on the desk in front of Unc. He glares at me, but he’s got the phone pressed to his ear, listening to who I presume is Doc. Hopefully, he’ll mindlessly take a few bites and get something good in his belly.
Back behind the bar, I do all my normal prep. I’m all set. Looking across the floor, Olivia seems ready too.
And just in time. The dinner rush begins and we’re flooded with customers.
I pull tickets one after another, filling drink orders for Oliva. Unc is still in his office, hopefully dozing on the booth bench after finishing the biscuit.
“Hey,” a deep voice says behind me as arms wrap around my waist. I feel a hot kiss press to my neck.
“You’re a brave man. The last guy who laid hands on me without permission got his nose broken by my big, strong, sexy boyfriend. He’s a little possessive.” I can hear the smile in my voice.
“I don’t need permission. You’re already mine, sweetheart,” he growls against my ear.
“I am.” The agreement is easy because it’s true. I also give him the words he loves to hear in answer to his possessive claims over me, “And you’re mine. Though your fans are getting a bit rabid waiting for you to hit the stage tonight.”
I spin in his arms, needing to see him.
He’s been off the last few days. He’s still come in for dinner and gone home with me. But the urgency in his touch, the way he murmurs my name, and the punishing way he’s made love to me, as though he can’t get deep enough inside my body, are different. It feels like he’s marking me again and again, holding me tighter and tighter, which would be amazing if I didn’t feel a sense of sadness beneath the layers of his smiles.
He’s grieving the loss of the contract. He probably will for days and weeks to come. On some level, tonight might feel like a step backward even though people are clamoring for him to sing, already creating a buzzing energy in the bar.
“I only care about one fan, and she’s in my arms,” he murmurs into the breath of space between us.
“I love you,” I reply. He’s wanted to hear it again and again, the chorus to our moments together.
One of his hands moves to cup my cheek, the other gripping my ass tightly. He kisses me like he can’t get enough of me, and I let him take what he needs, anything he wants to stay steady and strong.
“I love you too,” he whispers against my lips. I take his breath into my lungs, wanting him to be only mine for a second longer.
It’s not meant to be, though.
“Bobby!” a voice calls out from across the room. “Woohoo! Welcome back, man!”
“Your fans await,” I tell him. “And my customers are getting thirsty.”
There’s no way Unc could sleep, or even doze, through the noise of this crowd. The pool table balls crack, people cheer and talk, and the jukebox is playing nonstop.
He comes out, offers me a nod, and perches on his stool. He must’ve stopped by the kitchen on his way down the hall because Ilene comes out a few minutes later with a plate filled, and I do mean filled, with scrambled eggs and buttered toast.
He looks better, maybe not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but open-eyed and upright, at least. And eating.
I keep manning the bar, letting him finish as much of the breakfast-for-dinner meal as he can. When I step down to his end to get a few drafts, he pats my hand with his. That’s his version of saying thanks. I don’t need him to, but it feels good to know that he appreciates my help.
Since our talk, when we both came clean, he’s been better about accepting that I’m here for him. I won’t go so far as to say he’s happy about my doing things for him, but I think he’s letting me if that’s what it takes to keep me here.
In the long run, I think fixing what’s left of our family is important to us both.
He finishes, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, and sets the empty plate in the sink. At least I know he got that down, and as long as it stays that way, the protein will be good for him.
He washes his hands and tells me, “Okay, Willow-girl, I’ve got the beers. You’ve got the mixers.”
I nod and keep at it.
What seems like minutes later, I hear a few strummed chords vibrate through the room and look up, already smiling.
Bobby is onstage, his hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it. He slips a guitar pick between his teeth, the flash of white almost smile-like, but he scrubs his palm over his stubble without joy. Taking the pick out, he strums again.
“Hey, everyone. I’m Bobby Tannen,” he says, giving his usual bare-boned intro. After a moment, he adds, “Some of you know I went to Nashville last weekend. It was . . . big.” The crowd laughs, leaning forward to get any crumbs of information they can direct from the source. “Afraid you’re not getting rid of me that easily, though.”
That’s all he says about not getting the deal we all thought he would. It takes people a second to realize what he means, and I can see the surprise dawn on their faces. A murmur of disbelief goes through the crowd, but it’s covered by Bobby starting his first song.
I freeze, letting the grit and gravel of his voice wash over me. His pain threads through every note, adding a break to the end of a line he holds out too long. As his voice cries, my heart does too.
He’s amazing, truly gifted. I have no idea what NCR Records could be thinking or what more they could possibly want. Bobby is everything music should be about—heart, soul, rhythm, and connecting people through lyrics that stick in your mind and resonate in your spirit.
The crowd sways with the music, under his spell the same way I am.
He finishes with a vibrating chord, shaking Betty to pull more from her, and everyone goes wild, clapping and cheering, and even a loud whistle from Unc, fill the room.
“Screw them, Bobby!”
“They don’t know what they’re missing!”
“I love you!”
People call out encouragement, supporting him the only way they know how—loudly and vehemently. Bobby might feel like his family has a bad reputation, but when push comes to shove with outsiders, Great Falls has the Tannens’ backs. There’s no doubt about that.
“Thanks,” Bobby says, and I swear he looks surprised at the positive response. “This next one, I wrote it for someone special.”
His eyes lift from the crowd and meet mine across the room. For all the crowd, there might as well be only me and him here. I swear I can see the future in the way he looks at me. I smile, stopping what I’m doing to listen. I want to hear this, don’t want to miss a single note or word because I’ve seen how hard he works
to get them just right.
Chasing down my dream so I can give you yours.
The proof of a man is in his woman’s eyes.
Storm for me, shine for me, show your soul for me.
And I’ll dig down deep to get mine so you can have yours.
Before he’s made it through the first chorus, I’m crying. Happy tears and sad tears, or some combination of the two. He wrote this thinking he would get that deal and we’d start a new life together, not leave me behind. The proof of that is obvious in this song.
His heart is in every line, his dream in every chord.
And though it might not have ended up quite the way we thought that trip would, that future can still be ours. All I need is for us to be together. That’s enough. It’s more than enough.
He’s all I need.
I pull my phone out, taking a picture of him onstage, singing this song to me for the first time. Click.
Everyone else claps as the song ends, but Bobby’s heated look across the space is all for me. Click.
“All right, folks. Enough sappy shit,” Bobby says, flashing a cocky grin. “This is a honkytonk, not a Celine Dion concert. You know what time it is . . . get a drink, raise it up, and don’t forget to tip your waitress and bartenders.”
There’s a resounding rush for beers before Bobby rolls off into a few cover songs to get the crowd riled up. They sing along, the whole crowd swaying with their hands in the air, giving the bar a sense of community.
This is Bobby Tannen’s party. We’re just the lucky attendees to this shindig. And for a moment, he seems more like himself, the rough and tough cowboy with a golden heart who sets my whole body on fire when he says filthy things in my ear while filling me. That’s who’s onstage right now.
I sing along with him under my breath as I make drinks, keeping up with the tickets and checking on Unc as I make my way up and down the bar. It seems like he’s doing better now, pulling beers and talking to Richard, who showed up a bit ago.
Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3) Page 29
