ryder
“Well, all right then, Nashville!”I yell into the mic, looking out over the sea of screaming women. “Let’s do the damn thing.”
I give them my most smoldering grin — the one that makes their eyes flash with lust, their chests perk up so I can see their tits better. They don’t give a shit what my name is, where I come from, or whether I even like this fucking song I’m singing. All they see is the guitar in my hands, the smirk on my face, the body they’d like to run their hands over after the show, just so they can say they hooked up with someone in a band.
Screw you, Lacey.
I wouldn’t be up here singing about fried fucking chicken if she’d bothered to show up for our set. My hand curls a bit more tightly around the neck of my guitar as anger floods my system. It takes every bit of self control to keep my rage contained, to keep smiling and singing like I actually give a shit about any of this.
A few more songs, I think, winking at a girl in the front row.Then enough whiskey to forget I had to do this. Again.
I nod to Lincoln as we segue into another shitty Top 100 hit that makes the audience go crazy. These people wouldn’t know good music if it smacked them upside the head. I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. After all, they came to hearLaceyperform.
The girl is hot as hell — her body’s got more curves than a goddamned rollercoaster. Unfortunately, she’s also a certifiable a mess on wheels. A train wreck in cheap perfume and cut-off jean shorts she fills out so well, it should be illegal to wear them out of the house without incurring a public indecency charge. If she couldn’t sing, she’d probably be wrapped around a stripper pole in some dim, dirty club as far from the neon lights of Broadway as you can get without crossing state lines, dancing for dollar bills from fat, middle-aged men fingering their belly buttons in the dark.
As it is, for reasons unknown, she was gifted with a voice that almost makes up for her long list of not so attractive qualities.
Almost.
Nights like tonight, when she doesn’t bother to show up for a gig, leaving me to strut around the stage like some prime cut of steak at a meat market singing cover songs I can’t stand, it’s easy to forget how hot she looks in those little jean shorts, or her unparalleled lung capacity that, it must be said, comes in handy for skills better suited to a bedroom than a stage.
Save the lecture.
I know I shouldn’t have fucked her. I blame the half bottle of Jack I’d slugged down before she slithered between my legs, clawing at my zipper like a cat in heat, and sucked me off with such enthusiasm you’d think she was auditioning for a career in porn. A bit over-the-top, for my taste… but, frankly, a shitty blow job from a chick you can’t stand is still a blow job.
I never said I was a saint.
“We love you, Ryder!” A pair of twenty-something blondes at a high top table scream in tandem. “You’re so hot!”
I smirk at them as if it’s my sole reason for existence and watch them giggle in response like schoolgirls with a crush. Christ, I’m shooting fish in a barrel.
I was born for this shit.
I could do it in my sleep.
That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. If I had my way, I’d happily stay far from center-stage, playing my guitar and singing backup vocals. I don’t need to be famous; I just need to land myself a one-way ticket out of this town before I wind up stuck here forever — another has-been sitting in the corner of some sad honky tonk, reminiscing about how he almost got a record deal a million years ago, back before his dreams went the way of his metabolism and his sex drive.
That’s not going to be me. I’m leaving Nashville and I’m never looking back. Not for anyone or anything. I just need to hitch my wagon to whatever horse is heading out the gate fastest. Right now, that happens to be Lacey Briggs — crossover pop-country star in the making, poised on the threshold of becoming thenext big thing… assuming she can keep it together long enough to land a record deal.
That’s one hell of an assumption, seeing as this is the fourth time she’s failed to show up for a gig in the past month. I figured she’d at least make it to The Nightingale. This place is damn near impossible to get a slot at. Everyone in town with real musical aspirations is on the waitlist to play this stage. There’s a full house every night of the week. Plus, it’s almost a guarantee that at least one person in the audience has enough clout to make your wildest dreams come true. Reps from all the major labels make a habit of swinging by to scout new talent.
My eyes scan the swaying crowd, searching for a suit in disguise. They’re easy to spot once you know what to look for — usually sitting on their own at the edge of the crowd, watching a bit too intently with one hand permanently glued to their cellphone and an air of self-importance so thick you could bottle it. I’ve swept the whole left side of the room when my gaze snags on something by the bar.
Someone.
There’s a girl I’ve never seen before standing with Carly, wearing the typical trashy Nightingale uniform. It looks all wrong on her willowy frame, like putting a porcelain doll in pleather. Her waist-length hair is in a dark messy braid and she’s got the most delicate features I’ve ever seen — fine boned and fragile. As I watch, she glances up, straight at me, as though I’ve called her name. For the briefest of seconds, our eyes meet across the crowd.
Fuck.
My fingers stumble on the strings.
It’s an uncharacteristic mistake — so much so, Aiden shoots me a surprised look. Rattled, I force my attention away from the girl and back to the performance, doubling down on my guitar solo, throwing myself into the vocals with new gusto. Still, I can’t keep my eyes from wandering back to the bar in the brief pause between songs to see if she’s still there.
An unfamiliar bolt of anger flares inside me when I see Adam’s worked his way to her side, his eyes lingering on her like he’s already staked a claim. I suddenly want to leap off stage, stalk over there, and shove him away from her.
What the fuck?I shake myself, bewildered by my own response to a girl I’ve never met.You don’t give a shit about some random waitress. Get it together.
I tell myself my rage has nothing to do with her — it’s seeing that prick Adam getting close toanygirl that sets my blood boiling.