“Please put your hands together and give a great, big Nashville welcome to…” Carly’s voice crescendoes. “Miss Lacey Briggs!”
The crowd cheers so loud, the window panes rattle in their frames. I find myself unable to look away as a curvy, peroxide blonde girl struts out on stage. She’s in the shortest pair of jean cut-off shorts I’ve ever laid eyes on, plus a sparkly pink halter top that leaves her midriff completely exposed and her rather large assets on display. There are rhinestones running up the seams of her pink cowboy boots, glittering each time she takes a step beneath the stage lights. She’s like a disco ball in human form — it’s almost too much to take in without experiencing sensory overload. I’m so fixated by her appearance, I almost don’t notice Ryder stepping onstage along with the rest of the band.
Almost.
It would take something truly spectacular to keep me from noticing him, even tucked away in the shadows on the left side of the stage. I drink in the sight of his faded blue shirt and tight fitted jeans like the first sip of water after a ten mile run. He’s even more gorgeous than I remember.
I find my hands shaking as I reach for my drink tray. Maybe that cup of coffee was a bad idea. I’m jittery enough already.
Lacey doesn’t greet the crowd — she just starts singing.
“Met a boy last night said he’d break my heart. I told him no chance honey it’s been broke from the start…” Her hips swivel suggestively in time to the beat as she belts out the opening verse. Lincoln is at the drums, pounding out a driving tempo. Aiden is playing like a devil. But it’s Ryder I can’t tear my eyes away from. How his fingers move so fast over the strings they seem to blur, how his rich baritone fills out the somewhat superficial sound of Lacey’s thin soprano.
Looking around, I have to say I’m the only one who finds fault with her performance. The audience is going crazy for Lacey. They watch wide-eyed and enraptured, pagans worshipping at her altar. By the time she reaches the chorus, she’s got them eating out of the palm of her hand.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, warn ya, warn ya…” Lacey grins sultrily and extends her mic out to the front row of swaying fans. They know the words by heart, and echo back eagerly.
Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, warn ya, warn ya…
It’s not my type of music, but even I can’t deny it’s catchy as hell. I wonder if Lacey wrote the lyrics. If so, she’s more talented than I gave her credit for. This kind of tune was made for radio.
I watch the rest of their set with a mixture of reverence and resentment, delivering drinks with one eye fixed on the stage. Lacey Briggs may’ve been an unreliable waitress… but she was born to be famous. That kind of stage presence can’t be taught.