Southern Rocker Boy (Southern Rockers Book 1) (3 page)

We heard Leah coughing down the hall. Both of us knew that her even having a future depended on the kind of care we could provide.

She picked up another envelope. “This is a job offer from Austin. I took a chance with an old boss of mine, someone I worked with a few years before Leah was born, and it turns out he has a position open. It’s not a lot of money, but the benefits are good.”

I stood and walked away from the desk. What she was proposing was unthinkable. “Mama,” I said with a shake of my head.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Jonah. It’s either this or we apply for welfare. You know full well that your daddy would turn over in his grave.” Her voice lowered.

I sent her a stern glance. “You think it is any better with you working at some factory?” It made Courtney’s offer a little more inviting. I’d never let my mom do hard labor to take care of us. Ever.

She stood, rounded the desk and approached me. “There’s nothing wrong with an honest day’s work, Jonah. Your daddy knew that. Mr. Bivens said there might even be an opening for you. It’s the best chance we’ve got.”

I shook my head. “We can’t lose this land, Mama. Daddy worked too hard.”

I had been there, watching him break his back from the time I was ten. I was out in the fields by the time I was twelve. This was our land. It was in our blood. I’d marry every girl in the whole damned county if I had to.

She wiped away another tear. It broke my heart to see her cry. “I know. But he would want us to do whatever we could for Leah. In the end this is just dirt and wood and cement. What’s really important is the three of us staying together, and staying healthy and well. If your daddy had realized that, maybe he would be with us right now.”

I turned away. My words were soft, because I didn’t want to add to her burden. But it needed to be said. “If this land meant nothing, then Daddy’s death meant nothing. He was working as hard as he was so we could have it all.”

Her hands clasped mine. “And we already do,” she said just as softly as me. “Tell me you see that, Jonah.”

Again, we heard Leah coughing. “I’ve got it,” I said before lumbering down the darkened hallway to my sister’s sunny yellow room. It had been painted to replicate the outside world she had loved so much. Since she had been sick so much in her childhood, she wasn’t able to enjoy the outdoors as much as she wanted. So Daddy brought a little bit of sunshine indoors for her, hoping it would boost her spirits and keep her well. I rushed to her side as she hacked and sputtered. “I’m here,” I said softly and her bloodshot eyes met mine. She couldn’t say a word, but conveyed her gratitude with the squeeze of my hand.

“Sing to me,” she croaked, and of course I complied. How could I not? Her eyes were as clear as a blue summer day, and her long brown hair tangled in two pigtails, resting on her sweaty nightgown stained with sputum. She was like a stained glass window, scratched and cracked, but beautiful and priceless. Wordlessly I reached under her bed and fetched my guitar. It was the most logical place to keep it, considering I never sang or played anywhere else.

Leah was my audience of one.

I picked one of her favorites.
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
had been a sentimental favorite for my little sister from the first time she watched
The Wizard of Oz
. She was three when she first became enchanted with wizards and cowardly lions and flying monkeys, and I had sung that song to her every week since.

She leaned against her propped pillows as I sang softly. I knew she wanted to join in so badly, but she could barely breathe, much less whisper. She mouthed the words as I lent her my voice. After the last note faded, her hand touched mine.

“Love you,” her voice strangled to say before trailing off. Instead she made a heart with her hands, resting it on her heaving chest as she gave me a brave smile. The littlest Riley, the strongest fighter of us all.

And just like that, all the tears I had withheld all day threatened to crash down my cheeks in some unyielding tsunami of grief. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before I escaped down the hall. I barely made it inside my room before the sorrow knocked me to my knees.

I knelt there on that hardwood floor, rocking back and forth like a child, as I wept for my family and my home.

I didn’t know where we would go from there, and suddenly I was frightened. I felt untethered, like a kite that had slipped from the strong fingers keeping it anchored and secure, swept away on a breeze heading to places unknown. Where was I going to go? What was I going to do? How could I leave the only real home I had ever known?

How could I change the only code I had ever lived by? Was that worth a marriage to someone I wasn’t sure was ‘the one’? Did I really have to compromise my heart for my honor?

I needed my Daddy more than I had ever needed him in my life, yet his wise voice had been silenced.

It seemed like just another painful injustice so I allowed a brief pity party of one in the darkened shadow of my childhood room. I didn’t rise to my feet until the grief was spent, purged like a toxin.

I staggered to my bed, landing with bounce on the springy mattress before rolling onto my back. I stared out my bedroom window at the tall mesquite tree that stood like a sentry just outside.

My heart ached and my stomach tied itself into a knot.

No, I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know what I would do, especially since leaving my only home seemed inevitable.

But I was a Riley, born and bred. I would have to find a way to be there for my family, to stay strong for my mother and determined for my sister.

I would make my Daddy’s life count for something, even if we didn’t own a scrap of the land he had nurtured. This house. That tree. Even the fucking roof he’d died trying to repair.

As long as I drew breath, my Daddy lived on in me. I was cut from the same cloth. It was my duty to live the life of greatness he had been denied.

I was barely twenty-four, but suddenly I knew that I became a man the day I buried my father.

The time for hijinks was over. No more romancing all the pretty girls or getting rowdy with my beer buddies. No more following the path that someone else set.

My family’s future was on me now. And I had twenty-four years of learning from my father to know what he would have wanted me to do in his stead.

So I would do as Jackson Riley had done. I’d give anything to protect the women I loved, the two I knew, beyond all doubt, I couldn’t live one day without.

I swore then and there the devil himself couldn’t stand in my way.

It took six weeks for us to tie up loose ends and bid a final farewell to our homestead. The day I stood on our land for the last time was just as painful a goodbye as leaving Daddy behind in the cemetery. I knew it was true for Mama and Leah as well. They both clung to each other as they cried. A moving van had already been jam-packed with all the belongings we had left in the world, which wasn’t much after the auction.

It turned out that the sale of our property wouldn’t cover what we still owed, so we had to piecemeal everything over a scant few weeks. We sold the farm equipment first, because we wouldn’t need it in a two-bedroom apartment in the city. We sold the livestock, but at about half the cost of what it was worth. The neighboring farms benefited from our losses. Courtney didn’t accompany her folks to our auction who, to their credit, energized the bidding so we could get a little more bang for our buck.

But things had been tough all over. The Adams still had two kids in college and Old Mr. McCready was raising his daughter’s kids and barely had enough to pay his own ranch-hands. As much as everyone wanted to give us a fair asking price, they were simply unable.

Then we sold the furniture we couldn’t take with us. It seemed pointless to put it in storage. So all the pieces handed down throughout the years were sold at the bare minimum, including my Grandma’s piano. By the end, we had enough to pay off our mortgages, but the creditors for everything else were still circling above like the vultures they were.

By the week of our move, Mama couldn’t even handle the disappointment anymore. I was in charge, to oversee each and every transaction, to get as much money as I could out of them. Since I didn’t have her emotional attachment, it seemed the most logical choice.

But it still hurt. Every time I saw a piece of our furniture hoisted onto the flatbed of some picker’s truck, I saw a bit more of my childhood sold to the lowest bidder.

I couldn’t afford to be emotional, however. I summoned Jackson Riley with every handshake hello, determined to be as pragmatic as my father was.

By the time we were reduced to the bare minimum of what we were taking with us, I wondered what good it had done him in the end.

I kept their old brass bed for Mama and Leah to share once we settled in the city. I sold the old pine armoire in my sister’s room, but kept the rocking chair. I sold our appliances, since those were already provided in our new apartment. Mama couldn’t watch as they carried away her grandmother’s antique stove, with its enamel finish she had restored so lovingly, to replicate her memories of cooking in her Granny’s kitchen.

Ironically, it fetched a better price than many of our other pieces, which carried as much sentiment as they did history.

What we didn’t sell we ended up donating to the First Baptist Church and to Goodwill. It was our last ditch effort to keep our load light as we bid our farewell to country life.

Mama asked for me to sing at church our last Sunday in attendance, but I politely declined. That honor went to Courtney, which made the goodbye to our congregation even more strained. Instead I sang to Mama and to Leah by the river cutting through our land. Despite all we had lost, and were leaving behind, I sang
It’s a Wonderful World
. At first my Louie Armstrong impersonation made them laugh. But the longer they sat together, holding each other, looking out over the pasture in the quiet light of day, the song took on a whole new meaning. By the end, they were in tears.

Hell, even I got a little misty.

We packed up in the pickup truck, pointed our car south towards Austin. The radio played, but none of us spoke. Mile after mile slipped away beneath us, as did rural living. Pretty soon the traffic got heavier, the buildings got bigger and by that evening, we were turning off the freeway overpass toward our new apartment.

The bland, standard two-bedroom apartment with white walls and beige carpeting was even smaller with our stuff than it had been without it. I unpacked what I could while Mama kept herself busy putting things away and hanging homey touches on the wall. We ordered pizza to be delivered, because now we could do that, and worked all the way through till nearly midnight to settle in. I had a separate room, with my double bed, one nightstand and a dresser, but it still felt like I was packed tight like a sardine.

I glanced over at my phone, which had a text alert. It was from Courtney. “
Good luck in Austin, Jonah.
I hope you finally find what you are looking for
.”

I texted back, “
Thanks. You too
.”

I had barely sent it when she responded. “
I already did. And I’ll always be waiting if you ever change your mind. Love, C
.”

I sighed as I put the phone back on the nightstand and turned out the light.

I was up by dawn, dressed and ready to meet with my Mama’s boss to get an entry-level position at the factory where she was going to work. It turned out to be a formality. Mr. Bivens hired me on the strength of my mother’s reputation as a former employee, which put extra pressure on me not to let either of them down. For the next week I was up early and went to bed late, sometimes falling onto the mattress fully clothed, every muscle aching from overuse. Mama was hard at work in the office, whereas I was on the factory floor, learning each station to find the right fit for my particular skillset.

It wasn’t as though I couldn’t do the work; it was that I found it tedious. I performed the same task again and again, whether it was lifting product off and on trucks, moving plastic and metal parts along the assembly line or simply opening up the gate for workers and visitors. It seemed wherever they put me, the more I hated it. For a guy to come from the great outdoors, who breathed deep fresh country air while doing diverse tasks, doing one thing over and over again in some tiny little box was excruciating.

By the time my first Friday rolled around, I was ready to clock out and enjoy Austin a little on my first real weekend as an official resident.

Since Austin was the nearest metropolitan area, I had visited the “big city” quite a bit. It was where my parents took me on my twenty-first birthday, to show me their world before they settled down and moved to the country. After that, I made the trip almost every single month.

If you loved live music, you found your way to Austin. The annual music festival, SXSW, became almost a religious pilgrimage every year. That all came to a halt a few years ago, when Daddy needed my help at home, and there wasn’t any real money to make the trips.

If I was forced to live in Austin, by God, I was going to get something out of it.

I cashed my first paycheck and headed to Sixth Street.

Though I was dog-tired, the lively crowd around me energized me. I walked in the first club I came to, ordered a beer and scoped out the dance floor. There were dozens of pretty girls, some even dancing with each other. It wasn’t unheard of in my not-so-distant glory days that I would sidle up to them, hit on both and take them back to my motel for a night of fun. From the way some of the girls were staring at me, I knew I could easily pick up a companion for the evening. But where would we go? I could hardly justify the cost of a motel, especially when I was taking enough chances paying for high-dollar bar tabs and cover charges as it was.

I gave the girls a mock salute before I moseyed on to the next club. I didn’t stop till I found a place that played live music. An older woman with teased, jet-black hair greeted me at the entrance. “You’re just in time, sugar,” she said with a grin. “We have some new talent taking the stage tonight. You don’t want to miss it.”

I nodded my head her direction. “Thank you, Ma’am,” I said.

“Ma’am,” she howled. “The name is Gaynell. Gaynell Hollis.” She reached out a hand. Finally I took it.

“Jonah Riley,” I greeted.

She pulled my hand closer so she could stamp it with a Texas star. “Enjoy the show, Jonah Riley,” she winked. When I pulled my hand back, I saw that she had given me back the money I had paid for the cover.  I looked up at her but she had already turned her attention to the next person in line, so I headed inside the well-known club that was twice the size as the other dives I usually frequented.

Southern Nights was typically dark, with neon signs on the wall for various brands of beer, with preference toward Texas-based labels. The crowd milled on the wooden dance floor that took up the majority of the space. Seating was sparse around the edges, and two bars lined either wall on opposite sides, leading to the stage in the back.

It was a stage where both amateurs and professionals played. I’d seen some big acts at Southern Nights in the past, as it had been a fixture in Austin nightlife for over twenty years. I was excited to see what new talent they had to spotlight. I stopped for a longneck, surveying the crowd while I waited. The music was harder edged, good ol’ Southern rock, and the writhing bodies of a rowdy crowd filled the place. I had to squeeze my way toward the front to see the stage for the opening act, maneuvering through wiggling bodies of drunk women who tried to cop a feel as I went by.

“Hey, sugar.”

“Wanna take me home tonight, baby?”

“Hey, cowboy. Need a ride?”

Finally I made it to the front, where musicians were already on stage tuning their instruments. Something backstage caught my attention as I took a sip of my beer. It was the briefest flash of color, which seemed to stand out in the dark surroundings. I peered into the shadows but couldn’t make anything out. Within minutes the lights dimmed. I heard Gaynell’s voice from the loud speaker, announcing the first act. “Welcome to Southern Nights! Are y’all ready to party?” The crowd around me answered in a resounding roar. “I don’t think they heard you in Louisiana. Are you ready to party?” The sound was deafening. “My name is Gaynell and I am your hostess. Tonight we welcome a new act to the stage. Everyone give a warm Southern Nights welcome to Lacy Abernathy!”

The lights went down before the very first notes of “
Undo It
” exploded from the speakers. Even though I was right at the stage, I had to peer into the darkness to make out any shapes. A blue spotlight found the guitarist, whose face was mostly concealed by a long curtain of curly hair. A red spotlight hit the drummer, who had no hair at all except around the frame of his mouth. A white light spotlighted a female violinist on the right side of the stage. The blonde wore tight jeans and a halter top, which made all the boys down in front hoot and holler their approval.

She offered a smile and a wink. 

Then the spotlight hit the lead singer a second before she opened her mouth to sing. Her long hair was two-toned, brown and bright red, the color of a stop sign. She was fairly petite, not standing more than five-foot, four-inches tall. Two inches of that came from the leather biker boots she wore.

Her lithe figure was contained in studded leather pants and a strapless top that revealed a host of tattoos across her chest and down her arms. Her ears were gauged and her lip was pierced, and her big brown eyes were heavily lined in black eyeliner.

But it was her smoky, raspy voice that reached right out and seemed to grab me right by the balls. It was like that first sip of finely aged whiskey, and it sent a chill straight down my legs as she delivered a powerful rock anthem for the brokenhearted.

Guys howled in appreciation as she stalked to the edge of the stage, letting every guy in the front row play the part of the man who had done her wrong. When she got to me, I felt her anger and her pain. I believed her song wholeheartedly. She was a small package of dynamite ready to tear apart any man who dared do her wrong.

When she hit the chorus, her voice opened up so full I didn’t even think she needed the microphone for the people in back to hear her. It drove the pumped crowd even crazier, especially the men, who thought she was a hot little piece of ass.

Seemed like that only fueled her anger.

She sang a Heart classic next, which spurred on her admirers. I watched as they tried to grab her if she got a little close to the stage, screaming out “Take it off!” before dissolving into inebriated laughter at her expense.

Frankly, it was ticking me off, too. This girl had serious talent and these assholes could barely hear it over their pathetic catcalls, which seemed to get louder the more she ignored them. If she dared glare at them, they took it as sign of encouragement. After a Pink song, she finally escaped backstage, away from all the drunks leering at her.

I used the break between acts to head back to the bar. Instead of one beer, I ordered two. I figured she was going to need one. I leaned toward the bartender. “Hey, man. I bought this beer for that first singer. Where can I find her?”

The bartender laughed. “You and about ten other guys, buddy. The line starts over there,” he said as he pointed toward a darkened corner, with a small door that led backstage. The bartender wasn’t wrong; there were already a handful of guys waiting there with beers in each hand to offer the songstress in appreciation for her performance.

Or just appreciation for her.

I looked down at the saucy blonde next to me at the bar. “Here you go, darlin’,” I drawled as I gave her the extra beer.

She leaned into me with a grateful, if inebriated, smile. “Thanks, hon. Care to dance?”