Songbird (3 page)

“Average.” Nicholas stuck another forkful of
cake into his mouth. “I can do better.”

“I’m too poor to afford tickets to shows on
the norm so this is probably the only time I’ll get to see a live
show.” I leaned back against the wall and didn’t take my eyes from
the stage. “Since you’re on strike, I’ll have to settle for
average.”

I politely clapped when the band finished
their three songs and an up-and-coming pop idol took the stage. I
felt Nicholas’s eyes but didn’t look at him and stayed focused on
the stage. If I prodded anymore he would likely not perform to be
stubborn.

“Guys.” Nicholas stood when the pop star
finished her songs. “Go set up.”

Surprisingly his stage band didn’t seem all
that surprised with his swift change of mind and filed out without
comment. I received a curious glance but no one spoke as they
walked out.

Nicholas took my arm lightly and steered me
to the chair closest to the balcony rail. “Sit here, Songbird.”

I blinked at him confused. “Songbird?”

He held up the notebook he still clutched in
his other hand. “New music thanks to you. So, yeah. Songbird.”

“Oh, well. Congrats on new music?”

He laughed and traced a finger lightly down
my face on the uninjured side. “Watch a real show.” And then he
stepped out.

If I had assumed that country musicians
couldn’t showboat on stage the way rock stars did I would have been
totally wrong. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what to expect
from the country boy. I liked the genre—I liked all music
really—but I had no idea how they made a performance of it.

There were screams of “I love you” when
Nicholas stepped onto the stage. He looked formidable in his black
ensemble and I stood to lean against the rail for better
viewing.

“Thank you everyone for your patience,” he
spoke into the microphone with a smile that surprisingly didn’t
show the dimple. I knew there were varying degrees of smiles and
wondered if the dimple only showed when he was outrageously happy
or something. I was too far away to see any if there were other
lines in his face that would shout any other emotion preventing a
full smile.

“Songbird helped me write some new music.” He
continued, “Thanks for letting me have the time to get it down on
paper. Maybe if you’re good tonight, I’ll sing one for you.”

He performed in a completely comfortable
manner. Sometimes he played the guitar over his shoulder, sometimes
he didn’t. Nothing of his temper or discomfort showed in any of the
songs.

At the end of the third song he looked up at
me and flashed me his smile with his dimple. Had he been faking his
smile before? For his grin to light up so easily and make that
wonderful accent appear just as quickly he almost had to have been
faking, but why?

I nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. His smile
widened. Boys had to impress. That I understood at least.

“Is everyone having a good night?” he asked
and received shouts and whistles. “So that new music I was talking
about? This is ‘Broken Glass’.”

He played his guitar and I realized it was an
acoustic performance. Only he was playing. His band was breaking
down quietly as he played.

He sang about life being hard, about being
deliberately knocked down by hard times, about shattered illusions
and the cuts of broken dreams. More importantly he sang about
getting back up, about standing in the wreckage of broken glass and
still being strong enough to clean up the mess and start over.

Tears streamed down my face by the end of the
song. I had a feeling I wasn’t the only one either by the sound in
the hall.

When he finished he looked right up at me.
“For you, Songbird.” Then he stepped back, waved to the crowd and
disappeared backstage.

My job here was done. Backstage manager,
Vincent, would have a buffet table set up and there would be a
short interview session to be edited in to the podcast before
publishing. I left the box and went back to the dining room to
finish clean up and close out. If luck continued to bless me, I
might actually get home before three am.

I made it home by two. I was accustomed to
working on four hours of sleep or less—thank you nightmares—but
that didn’t mean I would be Sally Sunshine the next morning. There
were no bad dreams when I worked until my exhausted mind could do
nothing other than shut up, so there was a perk to working an
eighteen hour day with little sleep.

Though I loved my actual job, I hated that I
had to be on site at seven in the morning. When the alarm went off
I didn’t curse, or moan into my pillows. I was mature enough that I
didn’t even sigh. I sat up, slammed my fist on the annoying trill
of bells, and climbed out of bed to start the day.

The sidewalk vendors in the courtyard commons
of the entertainment hall satisfied some of the craving to be
needed. As their liaison for Bluejay, I was often running around
checking them in, checking them out, maintaining the rules and
decorum, changing money when required and generally keeping
everything running smoothly. While far from my dream job, the
craving desire to help maintained and kept—mostly—a roof over my
head and food in my belly. The position also offered the greatest
amount of hours—not quite full time but close enough to be worth
it—as for some reason the other employee’s hated being outside. The
sun and I were besties and I reveled in the heat and light.

“Good morning, Miss Sheridan.”

I smiled and nodded to Bailey. He never
actually needed my assistance and was more a gossip than anything
else but he always said hello. His Hats and Caps Salon as he called
it did brisk business. I wore one of the hats myself with my
braided hair tucked up in it against the early morning light. I
loved this hat and was glad the older man had insisted I accept the
gift.

Though the weatherman had called for low
seventies as the high today, I had compromised on my wardrobe.
Usually seventies of any kind had me in shorts, but since there had
been a warning of early morning frost I went with jean to tuck into
my Americana boots. I didn’t like any kind of cold.

Mornings were usually brisk and by the time
the courtyard was open for business my grouchiness at being awake
had all but faded. I would need to nap between shifts since I had
to work the entertainment crowd again tonight.

Business was brisk; it almost always was on
the weekend. A fight between vendors about the proper way to wear a
hat broke out and was the highlight of excitement for my morning.
By afternoon, I dragged and dreamed of my bed.

However, before my nap there were errands to
see to and I mentally ran down my list of chores. By the time it
was time for Lance to take over, I had cut the list in half in
favor of just going home and dropping until this evening. Chores
didn’t go anywhere. They would be there later to do.

“Ms. Sheridan?”

A blond man in a black suit and reflective
sunglasses smiled at me. Men in suits meant cops to me. Worse—FBI
or CIA agents. And those meant the men that I was forced to call
family had been up to some shit again.

I felt cold chills run down my spine in an
instant. My hands shook and my stomach clenched to the point of
nausea. I hadn’t done anything wrong, I reminded myself; I had
never
done anything wrong.

Then why did you run?
A little voice
asked. I mercilessly squashed it.

I forced a smile that I hoped looked
convincing. “Yes, that’s me.” My voice wavered and there was no
hiding the nervousness.

He raised a brow and held out a hand, “Ezra
Carter, President of Eclipse Arts Management, ma’am. I manage
several of the top musicians in Nashville.”

Relief turned my knees to jelly as I shook
his hand. Not a cop. A manager.

What the hell would a manager want with
me?
I buried my past so deep no one should be able to dig it
out without my help. There couldn’t be any reason for him to be
here for me.

Ezra. Wasn’t that the name Nicholas had used
last night? Did he manage the country boy?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, but I’m not a
musician of any kind. Well, unless singing in the shower counts.” I
gave a nervous laugh and ordered myself to shut up. The briefest
flash of a dream came and went leaving a bittersweet squeeze in my
heart. I ignored it.

He studied me a moment, “I’d like to discuss
a job with you if you have a moment.”

“I have a job,” I waved automatically to
encompass the courtyard.

“That you are technically overqualified for,
Ms. Sheridan.” His lips curled in an almost derisive fashion.
“Maggie Mae was kind enough to show me your resume when I asked.
Business Science with a concentration in Management. Isn’t that a
terrible waste here?”

My hands fisted so tight I knew there would
be blood from my nails. Maggie Mae was generally harmless, and
sadly as blonde as they came. My records were supposed to be
private, I thought.

I lifted my chin but didn’t trust my voice to
speak. Using my degree connected to my old life—the one I wanted to
leave behind. Checking into my qualifications could lead to
questions. And if they asked enough, they would eventually discover
the disaster in New York. The two weeks in the hospital—at my own
father’s hand, no less—wasn’t something I wanted to think about,
let alone explain to a potential employer.

Ezra pulled off his glasses and I watched his
sapphire eyes scan over my face. He stopped on my speckled eye, and
then continued to study the slight bend in my nose. I had my lips
pressed together to keep them from trembling but that didn’t hide
the scar from the injury that required stitches to close the flesh
back up on my lower lip—courtesy of my old man.

“I know what happened in New York.” Even
though his tone was low, I looked around frantically to make sure
no one was listening. The world still moved around us, and we stood
in a tiny piece of stopped time.

“How?” I whispered finally. New York had
been—I thought—conscientiously buried. No one should be able to
find my history so easily or quickly. The fact this man could made
keeping the vomit down even harder.

Ezra’s smile was quick and friendly. “It’s my
job to know people. Especially people I’d like to hire.”

“If you know everything then there’s no
reason you’d want to hire me.” I gulped and forced the rising bile
down.

“We can’t pick our family, Ms. Sheridan.
However, I believe you did the right thing and the only thing you
could have. Your strength is admirable.” Ezra tapped his glasses
against his hand. “You get off in a few minutes don’t you? Let me
take you to lunch and explain the predicament I’m in. Free food,
Ms. Sheridan and all you have to do is listen.” He offered his arm.
“There’s a restaurant down the street and it sure is a pretty day
for a walk.”

I studied him as I bit the inside of my
cheek. Smart men were dangerous. Since he was obviously aware that
any opportunity to brush him off would be taken, he was leaving
very little room to politely decline.

“I enjoy my job very much and I’m not in the
market for a new one. Thank you, but no thanks.” I had every
intention of walking away and was forced to a stop by his hand on
my arm.

My free hand dipped to my concealed weapon. I
didn’t like being touched without permission and while I wouldn’t
pull the gun unless I did truly feel threatened, I wanted it within
easy access.

After New York my guns were as every day as
my shoes. If I went out, hell, even at home, I always had at least
one of them. The habit was so ingrained now I didn’t think about
them unless I needed to draw one.

“No one in my experience has ever kicked a
gift horse in the mouth. I’m offering a real job, in your studied
field. You’ll have extremely good pay, benefits, and bonuses if you
accept. All I’m asking right now, is you come to lunch and
listen.”

I brushed off his fingers and felt my
shoulders relax when his large hand fell away without protest. “I
have to grab my purse and clock out.” I could avoid his lurking
about and dash for my car without being seen.

His smile never faltered. “I’m more than
happy to walk with you.” He stepped forward. “I don’t believe I’ve
ever visited this place from an audience’s perspective.”

Trapped, I sighed and turned. “All
right.”