Nashville 2 - Hammer and a Song (11 page)

I hear the frustration in her voice. “What happened tonight, CeCe?” I ask.

“A jealous girl. That’s all that happened.”

“She drugged you. That’s all that happened?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “I just want to go to bed.”

“CeCe. We need to talk.”

“No. We don’t. We really don’t. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“But I want to explain something.”

She bites her lip and looks at me with eyes on the verge of tears.

“He’s not a guy you should be hanging out with, CeCe.”

Her eyes go wide, and she laughs abruptly. “And you are? You have a girlfriend, Holden. A serious girlfriend. One who drove all the way from Atlanta to be here with you. A girlfriend who seems to want to move here to be with you. What in that equation allows anything at all for you and me?”

I want to tell her that none of that is true. Only it is. “CeCe.”

“What?” she asks. “Can you deny any of that?”

“No,” I say.

“Then why are you not in there with her where you belong?”

I look at her for several long drawn out moments. I think about all the things I could say. All the things I should say. But I don’t want to say any of them. I just want to say the truth. “Because I want to be in here with you.”

She presses her lips together, and again, I see how close she is to tears. “You don’t have that right,” she says.

I want to deny it, to argue with her, to bring up all the ifs, and the buts, and the maybes, but she’s right. All I can say that is absolutely true is that I want her.

“Holden, I’m wet. I’m cold. I’m tired. Please.”

I try to stop myself from asking this question, but I can’t. The words come rolling out. “Did you go with him tonight because of me?”

Her eyes widen a little, and I can see her considering the answer. “Do you mean did I go to make you jealous?”

I shrug. I somehow know what she’s going to say. And how arrogant is it of me anyway to think that would be the reason she went.

She folds her arms across her chest and sets her gaze somewhere just to the right of mine. “No,” she says. “He’s a nice guy. I went because I wanted to go.”

Her words slam into me like baseballs being hurled from a major league pitcher. I guess I didn’t want to believe that was true, but how stupid could I be? He’s Beck Phillips. His father’s a major country music star. What girl wouldn’t want to go out with him? “Okay,” I say, backing out of the room. “Goodnight, CeCe.”

“Goodnight,” she says.

And I don’t let myself look back. Only a fool would look back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CeCe

I’ve never been a good liar.

But my lie is the first thing I think about when I wake up at just after ten. That and the look on Holden’s face.

Considering how I’ve had to watch him with Sarah and act as if it doesn’t bother me a single iota - the way she holds onto him, the way she looks at him as if there’s no question that he is hers.

But then doesn’t she have that right?

Hank snuggles up against me, and I know I need to get up and take him out. My head throbs dully. I feel like I haven’t had a glass of water in two years.

Did I go with Beck last night to make Holden jealous? The question pops up like a red flag.

Not entirely.

But somewhat?

Maybe.

I throw on some running clothes, grab Hank’s leash and slip out of the apartment without seeing anyone.

I know Thomas had to work this morning, but the last thing I want to think about is whether Holden and Sarah are sleeping in and what they might be doing if they are.

Since I’m already in my running clothes, I decide to pound some of last night’s toxins out of me and take off at a good pace. Hank Junior is always up for a run of any kind and needs no encouragement.

We go out about two miles and I turn back. A half-mile or so from the apartment, we walk. A car pulls up alongside us, beeping its horn. I glance over and spot Beck in a convertible BMW, an uncertain look on his face.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say.

“You’re doing pretty well to already have a run under your belt.”

“Figured my body could use it,” I say.

“Yeah, about that—”

“Let’s not,” I say. “Better to leave it alone.”

“Buy you a coffee.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“What if I said I want to?”

“I’ve got Hank.”

“He’ll fit nicely in the back seat.”

“He’s not used to rides this nice.”

“It’s a car. Four wheels. Come on.”

“I could use the coffee. That much is true,” I say.

He reaches over to open the passenger door for me. Hank hops over the seat and into the back, sitting straight as if he’s prepared to enjoy the view.

Starbucks is packed with Vanderbilt students, sitting at the outside tables with laptops poised in front of them.

“Drive through okay?” Beck asks.

“Sure.”

He asks me what I’d like, and I tell him a tall Veranda with one sugar. He goes for a black Pikes Peak. The girl at the drive-through window smiles big at him and asks if it’s okay if Hank has a treat. I nod, and she hands Beck a cookie.

He holds it back for Hank to take, and he sits munching in happiness.

We sip our coffee in silence as we pull away from the Starbucks. We’re a few blocks from the apartment when he says, “I didn’t sleep last night, thinking about what could have happened.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Actually, I should have known better than to leave you with her.”

“You didn’t. Look, everything worked out all right. I won’t be buying her latest single though.”

Beck laughs. “Me, either. You could press charges against her or something if you wanted to.”

“I don’t want to. I just want to forget it. Maybe take it as a lesson learned about being a naïve, gullible—”

“Hey,” he says. “You’re not gullible. She’s just bad.”

We pull into the parking lot of the apartment building. Beck cuts the engine. He angles toward me in his seat and says, “I’d really like to make it up to you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Please. Let me.”

I sigh, reach back to rub Hank Junior under his chin. “So what do you have in mind?”

“Dad’s writing with Bobby Jenkins later this afternoon. He’s one of the top writers in town.”

“I know who he is. That’s great.”

“I’m going with him. I thought maybe you’d like to come, too.”

“Sit in on a session with Bobby Jenkins?”

“Yeah. He’s a cool guy. He writes amazing songs.”

“Wow. You don’t have to do this.”

“I know. I want to.”

“I’m supposed to work tonight.”

“Maybe you could get someone to take your shift.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I’ll try. Give me your number, and I’ll call you in a bit to let you know if I can get off.”

He tells me the number, and I punch it into my phone. “Send me yours?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks for the coffee.” I get out of the car, motion for Hank Junior to follow me and then shut the door, stepping onto the curb.

Footsteps sound on the stairway behind us. I glance over my shoulder to spot Holden and Sarah walking toward us. Sarah has her hand tucked inside his arm. He spots us, and maybe it’s only me who notices the way his eyes go a deeper blue.

“Hey,” Beck says.

“Y’all are out early,” Sarah says.

“Figured I owed her a coffee at the very least,” Beck says.

“Yeah, I’ve yet to hear the real story of what happened last night,” she says, looking at me with raised eyebrows. “That must have been some party.”

“A little more than we bargained for,” Beck replies.

“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.