For most of the awkward, uncomfortable dinner, she’d avoided looking at him. But when she did, the anxiety floating in her eyes was undeniable, making him feel like a total jerk for even considering the offer.
But.
He wanted to do this. He’d walked into that studio this morning with a chip on his shoulder. He was there to prove something. But then, even with Amy-Lynn sitting across from him, he’d started to enjoy himself. And by the end of the show, he realized he was pretty good at the whole radio thing.
But.
It was clear she didn’t want him there.
Thus, the Bat-Signal.
“Nice of you guys to wait for me,” he said to Nick and Blake, pointing at the half-empty pitcher on the table.
“You never send out distress signals,” Blake said. “We figured we better get a head start.”
Matt snorted. “Wow, you can rationalize anything, can’t you?”
Blake nodded. “One of my superpowers. Lay another one on me. Challenge me. I can reframe or rationalize anything.”
Matt would prefer to wait for the other guys to get here, but maybe a smaller audience would make this easier. “Okay, how about this? I had that radio gig this morning, right? Well, they asked me to co-host until we leave on tour.”
Blake furrowed his brow. “I don’t get it. That’s not something I need to reframe, Mattie. That sounds like a no-brainer. Have Brad and your agent review the legal stuff, and if it checks out and you want to do it, do it.”
If only it were that easy.
“Wait, just a second,” Nick said, ever the cautious voice of reason. “Just like that? They want you to keep doing it after a single show?” Nick topped off his beer, slowly pouring from the side, trying to minimize the head.
Blake pushed a finger underneath the pitcher. “Not everything has to be perfect. Just pour the beer, mate.” He looked up at Matt, pointing a finger at him. “Though Mr. Slow Pour makes a point. It does seem quick.”
What did they mean by that? Did they think he couldn’t do it? Did they think he would screw up given another chance?
“No one likes a guy who comes fast and peaks early,” rumbled a deep voice from behind him. They all turned to see Andrew sliding onto an empty stool.
“Never my problem, old man.” Matt scanned the bar. “Where’s Joe?”
“Joe and I are not attached at the hip,” Andrew said, signaling the server for a glass and a second pitcher.
“Yeah, he has a woman for that now.” Blake drained his pint and smirked. “Did Joe take the break-up hard?”
“Poor Julia. If the bromance is truly over, think about how much more Joe will be at home.” Nick let out a low whistle and laughed at his own joke.
“You guys are hilarious,” Andrew said. “And if you want to feel sorry for Julia, you should’ve started years ago. Like the day she said, ‘I do.’”
Matt impatiently tapped the table next to Andrew’s hand. “Is Joe coming or not?”
Andrew eyed Matt with suspicion. “Does he need to be here? Your text indicated this was a personal matter. Is it about the band?”
Matt fisted his fingers in his hair. “No. It’s personal. It’d just be easier to tell this story once.”
“That sounds ominous,” Andrew said, pouring a beer from the recently delivered pitcher.
“Ominous? You learn that fancy word from your new fiancé?” Nick said.
Matt leaned back on his stool and sighed. “You jokers about done?”
Three sets of eyes turned to look at him. Eyes widening at his sharp tone. It was totally out of character, and he couldn’t care less. It had been a crazy-long day. And he was flat out of Matt Taylor charm.
Andrew’s smile faltered. “Joe is having dinner with the in-laws. You didn’t give us much notice.”
“I don’t have much time,” Matt said, tapping his Apple watch awake. “I need to make a decision in the next few hours.”
“Okay,” Andrew said. “Catch me up. Did I overhear that the radio station wants you to be on the show again?”
Matt nodded and topped off his beer. “Not just again. Apparently, the response to today’s show was so good that she—the station manager—wants me to co-host for the next few weeks.”
“That sounds cool. What’s the issue?” Andrew said.
Blake snapped his fingers. “Oh, I get it. It’s radio. No one will see your pretty face. You’re worried without that you’ll flop.”
Matt stiffened. He knew Blake was kidding, but it hit a little too close to home. “Hey, I have more going for me than just my looks.”
They all laughed. “Sure,” Blake said. “Sure, you do.”
“To be fair,” Andrew started.
“Thank you.” Matt clapped his hand on his bandmate’s shoulder.
“He can sing a little too—when the rest of us aren’t carrying his sorry ass.”
Matt forced out a laugh. “Funny.” Not. He knew the guys were just yanking his chain. They’d have no way of knowing how deep those jabs cut. He’d certainly never told them. He learned a long time ago that when you looked like he did, people assumed you couldn’t possibly understand pain and difficulty—like good looks were some sort of magical shield.
“Mattie, what’s wrong?”
Matt turned toward the decidedly unmasculine voice to find Grace standing next to him.
Blake groaned. “I thought this was guy’s night. Andrew, I do not need to see your sickening bliss again tonight. Let us single guys have our peace.”
Grace chuckled and kissed her fiancé on the cheek. “Don’t worry, I’m meeting some friends over there. We’re doing a little preliminary wedding planning before Bridget leaves town.” She pointed to a group of women huddled in the corner. “But, if you tamp down the testosterone a notch, you’ll see that something is really bothering Mattie. It’s written all over his pretty face.”
Matt sighed. There it was again.
“Grace,” Bridget called, waving. “Over here.”
Grace turned to her friends and raised a ‘one-minute’ finger. “I can’t very well keep my future sister-in-law waiting,” Grace said, squeezing Andrew’s shoulder. “But seriously, one of you needs to help erase that terrible expression from Matt’s face.”
“When did Bridget get into town?” Blake asked. “She’s a little far from home, isn’t she?”
Andrew wrenched his gaze away from his fiancé, and his forehead wrinkled. “She’s as far away from home as you are.”
Blake shrugged and traced a drop of condensation down his glass. “Yeah. But I was here to perform.”
“I got her tickets for the concert. She insisted on being here for the proposal.” Andrew turned in his chair to face Blake. “Wait. Why do you care?”
“I don’t. Just curious.” Blake’s alabaster skin flushed pink around the edges, matching his auburn hair.
“That better be all,” Andrew said, raising his eyebrows at Blake. “My sister is off-limits, Casanova.”
Blake raised his hands in surrender. “Sue me for being interested in your family.”
Matt rapped his knuckles on the table. “Guys, I have a real problem here.”
Andrew stared at Blake for a beat longer before spinning toward Matt. “Okay, Grace’s intuition is always spot on, so I’m guessing this is more than run-of-the mill nerves?”
“That’s probably why he sent the Bat-Signal,” Nick said, rolling his eyes.
“Are there parts of the gig you’re not comfortable with?” Andrew said, probing deeper.
Matt wiped the condensation off his glass and rubbed his hands down his pants. “Yes, but it’s not the job duties.”
“Yeah, cause god knows how much you like to talk into a microphone,” Blake teased. They broke into laughter again, but sobered when Matt didn’t join in.
“Okay, now you’re freaking me out. What’s the deal?” Nick said, setting his glass on the tabletop.
Matt traced the outline of the beer coaster resting in front o
f him. “Any of you know Avery Lind? The show’s host?”
“I’ve seen some pictures of her,” Blake answered. “Hot. Hair like a red-velvet cupcake. A big deal in the Nashville radio scene.”
His stomach turned over at Blake’s description. He did not get to call Amy-Lynn ‘hot.’
Was he jealous?
Really? After all these years?
He pushed the thought away. “Soon to be a big deal nationally—after this morning.”
“You’re nervous because it’s a national show? Because, dude, Storyhill could really use that kind of exposure.” Andrew brought his beer to his lips and held it there, waiting for Matt’s answer.
Matt nodded and bumped his fist against the table. “I know. That’s why I’m leaning toward saying yes, but . . .”
Andrew set his glass back on the table. “But?”
Matt cringed. “But Avery and me . . . we have a history.”
Blake snorted. “Is that it? Don’t you have a ‘history’”—he made air quotes— “with half the ladies in Nashville? Tennessee? Oklahoma . . .”
He didn’t. But that wasn’t the image he’d cultivated. Or rather, the image others had cultivated for him. Through the years, people talked—and he’d never corrected them. Seemed ‘ladies’ man’ was an ideal fit with the rest of his manufactured brand.
The corner of Nick’s mouth kicked up and his head tipped. “And you didn’t put two and two together when Brad offered you the gig?”
Matt’s chin dropped to his chest. “No,” he breathed out.
“How is that possible?” Nick said.
“Because to me she’s Amy-Lynn McWilliams, not Avery Lind.”
“This is the exact reason I don’t believe in stage names,” Nick added.
“You would if you had women showing up at your house all the time,” Blake said, shaking his head.
Andrew scoffed. “Yeah, you hate that.”
“Seriously, you guys are like a bunch of babies being offered candy tonight. Can you focus? For, like, ten minutes? I’d like to get a little sleep tonight.”
“Right, right,” Andrew said, turning his attention back to Matt. “So, this Amy-Lynn was—”
“The One,” Matt said, finally ripping off the band-aid.
They all looked up from their beers and stared at him, unblinking.
“Whoa,” Blake said, his glass floating in mid-air. “Matt Taylor had a serious girlfriend. I feel like my world has been shaken from its axis. I’m gonna need another beer. And some additional information.”
“It’s pretty much your standard boy meets girl story.” Matt twisted his hands in his lap and shrugged. “We met in high school. She moved to Marla with her mom and sister right after her father died in the Iraq war. She was sad and lost, so I invited her to a party and that was it.”
“Was what?”
Matt paused at Nick’s question. He’d told these guys most everything about his life, but not this. He’d kept all his memories of Amy-Lynn to himself. Kept them sacred. “She was it for me. That party was the last time I was single until we graduated from OU.”
“What happened?” Nick said.
Matt scrubbed his hand down his face. “That’s the thing, I don’t know. I’ve been over it a million times in my head, and I can’t figure it out. One day it was good—so good—and the next day I got down on one knee . . . and she bolted.”
Blake pushed his chair back from the table, his mouth hanging open. “Seriously, folks. First a serious girlfriend and now a marriage proposal? Skip the glass, the next pitcher is mine.”
“Don’t listen to him.” Andrew put an elbow into Blake’s ribs. “This is the first time you’ve seen her in nine years?”
“Yep. She texted me a few days after the proposal, saying she was sorry, but she couldn’t be with someone who planned on traveling all the time. It would be too much of a reminder of her father’s deployments.”
“A text sucks, but what she said makes sense, I guess.” It was the first time Blake had said anything serious since Matt sat down.
“It would, except we’d talked about it—a lot. I didn’t ask her to marry me on a whim, we’d been discussing it, seriously, for over a year.” Matt tapped his fist against the table. “I know it was nine years ago, but taking the job . . . honestly, it feels a little weird.”
“How’d she act toward you?” Nick asked.
Matt raised a single shoulder. “Somewhere between totally irritated and coolly professional?”
Blake chuckled. “I’d have paid big money to meet the one woman who’s immune to the Matt Taylor charm.”
That wasn’t always the case.
Nick ignored Blake’s ribbing, and as always, got to the heart of the matter. “How much do you want to do it?”
So much, a little voice whispered, before he’d even had time to consider the question. It’s my chance to prove to people that I’m more than the way I look.
And I might finally get the answers I’ve craved for almost a decade.
A tremor pulsed up his spine. That hadn’t even crossed his mind until this very moment. Was he considering this gig for reasons that had nothing to do with proving himself?
“Mattie?” Andrew said.
“I’d be crazy to pass up this much free promo for Storyhill.”
“That’s not a real answer,” Nick countered. “This isn’t about Storyhill.” Nick held up a hand when Andrew’s mouth dropped open. “It’s about what you want.”
Matt nodded slowly. “I want it,” he said. “But what do you guys think?”
A cacophony of opinions rose, drowning out any decipherable words.
“One at a time, babies,” Matt said. He pointed at Andrew. “You first.”
Andrew knocked his knuckles together. “A national radio show with an expiration date? If it won’t fuck with your head too much, I’d do it. It has the potential to help Storyhill and who knows what doors it could open for you personally.”
It was like Andrew read his mind. One vote in the yes column.
“Nick?” Matt said, turning to the most cautious member of the group.
Nick drew in a breath and tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. “I’d do it.”
“Really?” If anyone would caution him not to do it, he figured it would be Nick.
“Yeah,” Nick nodded. “I second all the stuff Andrew said. Especially the part about the expiration date. It’s not like this is a forever thing. Plus,” he said, gazing off into the distance as if the thought he was chasing was out there, just out of reach. “You might figure out why she bolted.”
Matt’s eyes widened. Maybe he’d been underestimating these idiots. Maybe they understood him better than he thought.
“Okay,” Matt said, turning to the final member present. “Blake?”
“I don’t think I’d be comfortable working with an ex. My vote is a ‘thanks, but no thanks.’”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to him, Mattie. He’s only saying that because his relationships always end badly.”
Blake scoffed. “Dismiss me, if you will, but I have two words for you—Restraining Order.”
Matt laughed. He loved these guys. They were the best brothers he could ask for. “I will keep that in mind, Blake.” He tipped back the remains of his beer. “What do you think Joe would say if he was here?”
All eyes turned to Andrew.
“You’re probably glad he’s not here,” Andrew said, pulling a face.
“Because?” Matt asked.
“That dude is a hopeless romantic. He’d likely to tell you to take the gig and woo back the lady while you’re at it. And while I’m the last person to warn you away from mixing business and pleasure, following that advice has the very real possibility of blowing up in your face,” Andrew said.
“When do you have to let the station manager know?” Blake asked.
“By tomorrow morning.”
“Sleep on it. It’ll likely be clearer in the morning.”
Nick clapped Matt on the shoulder. “Now, sorry to advise and run, but I gotta get Henry from my mom’s before it gets any later.”
“And I need to extract Grace from that booth before Bridget convinces her to plan some larger-than-life New York City wedding-shenanigan,” Andrew said, rising from his barstool.
“And I have to extract Bridget—”
Andrew whirled on Blake, thrusting a finger into his chest. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Blake laughed and put his hands up in surrender. Again.
“Blake. Andrew. Opposite sides of the crib,” Matt said, chuckling. “And, guys, thanks for coming.”
“I hope we helped,” Nick said.
Matt nodded. “You did.”
“Walk out together?” Blake said, dropping a few bills on the table.
Matt followed Blake and Nick, weaving through the sparsely populated tables, and stepped out into the humid night air. He thanked them again and slipped into his car. The contract laid on the passenger seat, illuminated in a flickering beam of yellow light from the parking lot lamp post.
Should he sign it?
He wanted Andrew to be right. He wanted this to be something that opened doors for him.
He wanted Nick to be right. He wanted answers.
He couldn’t have either if he didn’t at least try.
And when was the last time he really tried?
Without further thought, he grabbed the contract and scrawled his signature on the black line. And before he could second guess himself, he snapped a picture of it and texted the pic to Celeste.
Chapter Six
Avery slipped a hand from under the sheet and turned off her alarm. It hadn’t rung. It never did. She didn’t need it anymore. Five days a week, for the last five years, her schedule was the same. Get up at 4:00 a.m. Shower. Get dressed. Make her lunch. Set out Momma’s medications. Fill her insulated coffee mug. Lock the door. Check the lock. And arrive at the studio promptly at 5:30 a.m.
It wasn’t clear how her body knew the difference between Sunday and Monday, but she was certain of one thing, schedules meant stability.
Don't Let the Music Die (The Storyhill Musicians Book 2) Page 5
