Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
She looked pained. “None of those things should be selling points, especially the spiders.”
“Your place is too much room for one person and—”
“Never mind, let’s not go round and round again. Just, tomorrow you’ll call the booker and we’ll figure out our lives.”
There was nothing to do but agree.
Now, as I sat across from the talent booking agent, Evelyn Ewing, wondering if her parents had specifically searched for an E name to go with Ewing, I had the strangest feeling this was the wrong move. And that made no sense. It was clearly the right thing to do. Just because I’d never done it this way before didn’t mean it was wrong. Sometimes you had to jump even if you weren’t sure. But then I noticed Simone.
Her head was tipped slightly, her eyes narrowed. All the contracts were in front of her, spread out because she was supposed to be looking them over and then passing them to me to sign. Our lawyer, Charlie Meredith, had checked them earlier in the day, reported back that they were quite standard, and given us the go-ahead. So basically, we were good to go, except that Simone had neither slid the paperwork over to me nor passed me the pen.
“Explain to me again who decides what groups will play our venue,” Simone asked after a lull.
“Certainly,” agreed Evie—she’d told us to call her that.
The payments, how the money was handled, Simone was clear on all that, but I already knew she was having flashbacks of the gospel group as she spoke to Evie.
“My understanding was that we would decide who plays here,” Simone said gently, though her tone held a trace of warning. Those of us who knew her would have taken several steps back already. The whole angled head and slitty eyes said she was trying to figure out the best way to filet you.
I scooted my chair a bit away from the table to be on the safe side.
“As I explained before,” Evie began, she too sounding somewhat strained, “there are different acts that come through New Orleans and—”
There was some noise behind us like someone had come into the club, and for whatever reason, more than one server seemed to be greeting them. And we were a bit slow at the moment, so that might have happened, but Simone was a stickler for guests not ever feeling overwhelmed by overly solicitous service. There had to be a balance in all things.
Because of the noise—my people were excited by someone or something—Evie glanced over to see what was happening. Simone and I were both facing her, and neither of us wanted to be rude by turning around.
Evie’s breath caught.
“And?” Simone pressed her, trying to get her back on track.
“And we… Oh my God,” she nearly moaned.
There was no other choice—we had to see what the big deal was. Both Simone and I turned at the same time.
“Oh. My. God.” Simone barely got the words out, her tone quite different from Evie’s. Hers was more like finding out that the new house you just bought had termites that had eaten the frame down to dust.
It was the craziest thing. I was both elated and terrified. Because of course, the moment I was sure I was never going to see the man again was when he walked back through the door of my club.
“Oh,” I said hoarsely, “look at you.”
Even though my words were low and rough, our new guest must have heard me since I was the one he was staring at, and his rakish grin, coupled with the sparkle in his deep-blue eyes, was enough to make me want to both run away and run to him. The see-saw I was on, up one moment, down the next, was hard to find balance on.
“What is Dawson West doing in your club?” Evie asked breathlessly, excitedly.
A damn good question. Because after two years of no calls, texts, emails, letters, or any kind of correspondence at all, you could have knocked me over with a feather.
THREE
Unlike our last band, which was not destined for greatness, Dawson West and the Dregs had been, and still were, huge.
Dawson had left the club with his band, with my complete support, to pursue his dreams of success. Wild West, as his fans called him, had gone on the road, touring, playing any venue that would have him, working nonstop, and had made his way to Nashville, where he hit it big. He was signed to a label almost immediately and then went right back out on the road, opening for some of the biggest names in country music. In between the touring, he returned to Nashville and recorded his first album, titled simply The Road, which ended up, no surprise to me, skewing a bit more rock than country.