Chapter 11
Though Dylan liked the spunky, take-no-shit version of Charley, he liked the quiet, lean into him version, too. He’d half expected her to smack him for the knee touch, but as she often did, the feisty DJ with the killer legs surprised him with an affectionate touch of her own. The unpredictability was nearly as enticing as the glossy lips and honeysuckle scent.
“Here we are,” he said, pulling into the lot behind the old stone building.
Leaning forward, she glanced up at the looming gray structure. “You brought me to a church?”
“Not exactly.”
Exiting the truck, Dylan hustled around to open her door. “You got it?” he asked as she refused his hand to climb out on her own.
“I should have put on jeans,” Charley muttered, skirt riding dangerously high by the time she scooted to the ground.
Dylan didn’t mind the free show, but the woman was too damn stubborn for her own good. “I’m about to introduce you to some friends of mine. Think you can pretend that you aren’t here against your will?”
A huff accompanied the violent tug on the skirt hem. “I told you I don’t like surprises. They make me cranky.”
“You know what? We don’t have to do this.”
Charley locked eyes with his. “Are you freaking kidding me? I’m here now. You can’t leave me hanging.”
He stood his ground. “Are you going to behave?”
Brown eyes narrowed, and he could almost see the steam exiting her ears. “Yes, Mr. Monroe. I’ll be a good little girl and play nice with your friends.”
If he hadn’t been one hundred percent certain that she might faint with excitement once inside, Dylan would have called the cab for her.
“Come on, then.”
Leading her to the glass doors, he let Charley enter first, urging her down the three steps inside to reach the studio lounge.
“What is this place?” she whispered. “It looks like 1994 threw up in here.”
She had a point. The artwork and furnishings were dated, along with the giant rear-projection television, but the kitchen in the back left corner had been updated since he’d last been there, and the giant pool table had been replaced only last year.
“Around here, money is spent in other areas.” Like state-of-the-art consoles and the latest in recording technology. Dylan had been fortunate to record his album here.
Before Charley could comment on the worn green carpet beneath their feet, a familiar face entered from the other side of the room.
“Hey there, buddy. What’s shaking?” Aiden D’Angelo grasped Dylan’s hand and offered a quick hug. “I heard you on the Eagle the other day, man. ’Bout time those radio shits took notice.”
Dylan cringed. “Aiden, I want you to meet Charley Layton, midday personality on Eagle 101.5.”
The engineer engulfed Charley’s hand in his smooth black ones and held it to his chest. “Present company excluded from my prior statement, of course.”
Seemingly cured of her crankiness, she met Aiden’s beaming smile with one of her own. “Of course. You aren’t a shit until you have your own office. Sadly, I’m still only a lowly radio turd.”
Dimples deepening, he said, “I like you already.”
Aiden possessed a legendary way with women, and based on the enamored look on Charley’s face, she was not immune to his charms.
“Well then,” he cut in, sliding an arm across her shoulders. “Are we ready for the surprise?”
“Yes, sir. Come right this way.” Aiden released Charley’s hand with a wink before leading them into the long hall toward the main recording space. The narrow passage forced them to progress single file.
At the second door on the right, Aiden turned the knob and stepped through, but Charley halted as soon as the music hit her ears. Spinning, she stared wide-eyed at Dylan.
“Is that . . . ,” she mouthed.
He nodded. “It sure is.”
Charley smacked him in the chest. “Get out.”
“No,” he corrected. “Get in. We need to close this door.”
She hustled inside to stare in shock through the window before the large console to see Jack Austin singing into a microphone. Her expression matched that of a four-year-old meeting Mickey Mouse for the first time.
Aiden motioned toward two high stools off to the side. Dylan had to help Charley find her seat, since she never took her eyes off the glass. The vocals continued for another minute before the music faded out.
“Sound good, boys?” asked Austin into his microphone.
Paul Story, a producer Dylan would give his left nut to work with, gave a thumbs-up. “I think we got it, Jack. Come in and listen.”
The award-winning artist locked his headphones over the music stand and headed out of the tracking booth.
“Oh my God,” Charley hissed, digging her nails into Dylan’s arm. “He’s coming over here. What should we do?”
“We shouldn’t do anything,” he replied.
“But what if he asks what we’re doing here? Are we allowed to be here? This feels wrong. We shouldn’t be intruding like this.”
“Relax,” he said, taking her hand. “Aiden cleared the visit. Just smile and get ready to say hello.”
“I can’t talk to Jack Austin,” she growled, her voice increasing from a harsh whisper to a loud outburst.
“Sure you can, darling,” said the man himself. “I don’t bite.”
For half a second, Dylan feared she might actually pass out as the color drained from her face. And if he ever questioned the sturdiness of his own ego, this encounter allayed his fears, because seeing the raw joy in her eyes made his night.
“I . . . Um . . . Hello,” she mumbled without blinking. “I’m Charley.”
“Layton, right?” Austin asked. “I’ve been listening to you on the radio. You’re good.”
Pale cheeks turned hot pink. “Really? You listen to me?”
Jack shared a crooked grin. “You’re on the biggest station in town for five hours a day. Would be hard to miss you.”
Charley’s nervous laugh devolved into a snort. “Sure. Right. Of course.”
“Hey, Monroe,” he said, offering a hand. “How are you, kid?”
They’d never met, so the instant recognition took Dylan by surprise. “Good, sir. Real good.”
“I like what you’re doing so far.” The shake was firm and friendly. “Keep it up. We need some young talent in this town willing to shoot for more than the drunken college crowds.”
Feeling as if he’d been blessed by the pope, he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Pointing to the partition window, Austin asked Charley, “Did you like what you heard?”
After a quick fish impersonation, she found her voice. “I . . . I loved it. I mean, I only heard the last bit, but that part was great.”
“Paul, let’s hear the whole thing.”
Pulling over another stool, he settled on the other side of Charley, who was doing her best to act natural. Dylan doubted she even realized her hand still rested in his, her thumbnail driving into his flesh.
“Relax,” he said again, loosening her grip to reveal a deep divot. “Remember to breathe, baby. You’re turning a little blue.”
As the music began, she took a deep breath, shoulders lifting and falling before she leaned his way.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “You were right. This is a dream come true.”
Talk about an out-of-body experience. The only thing that would make this crazy moment even better was if Grandpa were here with her. This would be the highlight of the year for him.
Charley had feared she was only dreaming, but after pinching herself twice already, Jack Austin remained on the stool beside her. As the song faded out, he turned her way.
“Still like it?”
“Yes,” she replied. “That opening verse sucks you right in.”
Tapping his chin, Jack narrowed his eyes. “The intro needs something.”
The older man Jack had called Paul said, “I don’t agree. The riff is great the way it is.”
“No,” the singer argued, shaking his head. “There’s an element missing. Play it from the top.”
The other guy sighed but did as asked, stopping the playback at the first line of the lyrics.
“Banjo,” Charley blurted, stunned she’d spoken aloud.
“What?” the two men asked in stereo.
She cut her eyes to Dylan, desperate for a save.
“I agree,” he said. “Banjo would make the song stand out and add an unexpected edge to your sound.”
Jack left his stool to pace the small room. “She might be onto something.”
Paul didn’t appear as receptive to her input. “It’s been done.”
“Everything’s been done,” the singer countered.
Great. She’d started a fight. Why the heck had she opened her mouth?
“I like the banjo idea,” Aiden chimed. “Tater Beaumont is working over at Starstruck today. I bet he’d come by and cut something. Couldn’t hurt to ask.”
Thanks to her early days of running the Bluegrass hour back in Kentucky every Sunday, Charley recognized the name as a virtual icon in mountain music. A banjo legend.
“Call him,” Jack ordered over Paul’s protests. To Charley he said, “If this turns out as good as I think it will, you just might get a production credit.”
“What the fuck, Austin?” snarled the man Charley now assumed to be the producer.
The artist ignored his outburst. “Would you be willing to listen to the rest of the tracks before we lock them down? I could use a fresh take from someone sitting in the trenches all day.”
Full-on angry now, the man at the console stood fast enough to tip his chair backward. “This is bullshit. I’m the producer here.”
“You’ve been producing for twenty-five years,” Jack announced. “Your ideas are outdated, and your standards are subpar. In case you haven’t noticed, the average age of artists on the charts right now is twenty-eight fucking years old. I’ll be forty-two this year. This ancient shit isn’t going to compete anymore, Paul. Get on board or get out of the way.”
Silence loomed like a fart in church. Charley held her breath as Dylan tensed beside her, and a quick glance to Aiden revealed a satisfied smile on the man’s full lips. Apparently, this little blowup had been coming for a while, and Charley’s slip of the tongue had lit the fuse.
Without another word, Paul stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
“About fucking time,” Aiden drawled, high-fiving Jack.
“I’m so sorry,” Charley said. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
Jack waved her words away. “I should have done that months ago. Once we lay down the banjo part, I’ll have Aiden burn you a CD.”
“You’re serious about that?”
“Hell yes. I don’t doubt we have the right songs, but like I told Paul, the sound isn’t there. Any input would be appreciated.”
Now she really was dreaming. “I’ll do my best,” Charley promised.
“Appreciate it. Now, how’s your pool game, Monroe?”
“Rusty,” Dylan answered.
“Let’s dust it off, then, while Aiden gets Tater over here.”
Leaping off his stool, her escort rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Yes, sir.”
Never in a million years could Dylan have predicted how this night would turn out. At least now his left nut was safe, since he’d never be working with Paul Story. Best-case scenario had been Charley getting an autograph, a picture with her favorite artist, and a story she could someday tell her kids. Never had he imagined she’d get all that and a production credit on a future Hall-of-Famer’s new album.
“Surreal,” she repeated for the fourth time. “That’s the only way to describe what just happened. Sur. Real.”
Dylan scooped a chunk of fudge out of his banana ice cream. “I’ll never again hear the word banjo and not think of you.”
“I don’t even know where that came from,” Charley squealed before shoving a spoonful of cherry ice cream into her mouth.
“Years of listening has given you more musical insight than you knew. It’s a genius idea.” One he wished he’d thought of. “Down Here Down Home” would be killer with a banjo behind it. “And that song is going to be better for it.”
“If I’d known that was Paul Story,” she said, “I never would have opened my mouth. He’s worked with everyone from Willie to Reba. Who am I to be voicing an opinion in his presence?”
“Someone with a fresher ear,” Dylan replied, repeating Jack Austin’s words. “How’s your ice cream?”
“Awesome,” Charley mumbled around a piece of cherry. “How long did it take you to make your album?”
“Six months,” he answered. “We spent the first couple months finding the right songs and the next four recording the album.”
Brown eyes narrowed over her waffle cone. “I bet my best boots that you have enough songs to make several albums, Dylan. Why spend a month looking for others?”
“Having the songs doesn’t mean they’re good enough to go on an album.”
“But they’re your voice. That’s what listeners want.”
Dylan wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Like I said in the interview on Monday, the songs on the album are all tunes I can relate to. They’re my life and my history.”
“Not the same,” she countered. “I know that lots of artists have successful careers without writing their own songs, but you have the talent to do both. Why not use it?”
“Charley, you’ve heard one song. And not even a completed song. For all you know, every other thing I’ve written could be total crap.”
With a knowing smile, she said, “But they aren’t, are they?”
He didn’t think so, but he’d been wrong before.
“The album is done, so it’s a moot point anyway.” Biting a corner off his cone, he turned his attention to the pedestrians passing by outside.
Taking the hint, Charley changed the subject. Somewhat. “Have you always wanted to be famous?”
This was a common misconception that drove Dylan a little nuts. “I’ve never wanted to be famous. I want to sing for a living. I love performing and feeding off a crowd. The fame is only part of the package, not the draw.”
Charley nodded. “I see we’ve hit a nerve,” she muttered, loading her spoon. “For me, it would be a deal-breaker.”
“You don’t want your fifteen minutes?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not at all.”
Dylan pointed out what seemed obvious to him. “As a disc jockey on one of the most listened-to country stations in a country music town, you’re asking for a bit of fame, aren’t you?”
After a quick bite, she licked a drop of ice cream from the corner of her mouth, and the blood flowing to his brain immediately changed direction. “People might know my name, but that isn’t the same thing.”
Pressing the cold cone to his forehead, he said, “That’s what fame is, darling. People knowing your name.”
“But they won’t know my face,” she insisted. “In your line of work, once a person makes it big, he can’t go anywhere without getting mobbed by fans. I’m a little radio DJ. A faceless voice coming out of their speakers, killing time between the music people like you make.”
“You’re seriously underestimating yourself. Fans are going to know who you are. Jack did.”
“That’s because you told them I was coming.”
“Nope,” he corrected. “I told Aiden I wanted to bring a friend by. I never gave them your name.”
Blinking, she said, “Then how did he know it was me?”
Dylan pointed out the obvious. “He’s a fan, just like he said.” Her modesty was cute, if naive.
The comment earned him a scoffing wave. “You aren’t listening. I don’t have fans. You have fans.” Eyes cutting to his left, she added, “In fact, I’m guessing there’s one a few tables down.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, spinning to scan the crowd behind him.
“Don’t turn around,” she snapped. “The lady in the Johnny Cash T-shirt has been watching our table since she sat down with her ice cream. I’m guessing you’ve played around town a lot?”
“I’ve done my share of working the bars, but we haven’t played a show in Nashville since January, and that was after being on the road for the better part of 2016.”
“Oh,” Charley drawled. “Then I bet she’s a tourist excited to see the hot singer who stole her heart and melted her panties.”
Dylan had never been accused of that one. “You’re giving me more credit than I deserve.”
The white plastic spoon twirled in the air. “Granted, I’ve never seen you live, but I’d lay odds I’m right. Admit it. The women love you. Which is why being your girlfriend would suck.”
He’d officially lost control of this conversation. “You don’t think that when you intro some band at a big show that every guy in the audience isn’t wondering how he can get your number?”
“Not remotely.” Ducking her head, Charley whispered, “Don’t look now, but she’s coming this way.”
“She’s probably headed to the bathroom.”
“We’re in a corner, goober. She’s coming to talk to you.”
Before Dylan could argue further, a woman appeared beside their table, only she wasn’t looking at Dylan.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I hate to bother you, but aren’t you Charley Layton?”
His non-famous friend was too busy gaping in shock to respond.
“She is,” Dylan replied for her. “How do you know her?”
“Oh, I listen to her every day. You’re so much better than that awful man who was there before you. That Hugh person? He never played my requests and was even rude on the phone when I’d call. But you’re so nice. I’m Sharlene,” the woman offered, holding out her hand. “We talk at least once a week, so I feel like we’re old friends. Would it be weird if I asked for a picture?”
Dylan used every ounce of control not to burst out laughing. Charley still couldn’t speak, but she nodded and rose from her chair as Sharlene handed him her cell phone.
“Oh.” Sharlene paused, staring at his face. “You’re pretty. Charley, honey, you’re a lucky woman.”
“That’s what I keep trying to tell her,” he quipped, standing to take the picture.
Once he’d captured the image, Dylan passed the phone back to its owner, who turned once again to her favorite radio personality.
“Thank you so much. My friend Brenda is never going to believe that I met you, so I had to have a picture as proof.”
Charley finally found her voice. “Tell her I said hi.”
“Oh my gosh, she’ll love that.” Sharlene hugged the phone to her chest. “I’ll let y’all get back to your night. Thanks again for being so sweet.”
As her biggest fan walked away, Charley slowly lowered into her chair, looking as if she’d been sideswiped.
“A faceless voice coming out of their speakers,” Dylan mocked.
“Did that really just happen?” she asked, reaching for her ice cream.
He failed to keep the grin from his face. “Yes, ma’am, it did. What were you saying about being famous?”
Bewildered brown eyes met his. “Did you put her up to that?”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “I found a total stranger, told her we would be here, and recruited her to cut in at the exact moment you said you would never be famous. You’re onto me.”
For a second, he thought she might throw her napkin at him. “I doubt that’ll happen again.”
“I don’t know,” he said, scooping up another bite. “I’m going to have to think twice about being your boyfriend after learning I’ll have to share you with your fans.”
A crooked smile lit her face. “Shut up, Monroe.”
Dylan would not let it go.
“The look on your face was priceless,” he proclaimed. “Flipping priceless.”
“Ha ha,” she countered. “So one person happened to recognize me.”
Dylan tapped on the steering wheel. “Don’t forget Brenda. She’d recognize you, too.”
The man turned out to be right about one thing and acted as if he’d rescued baby kittens while solving the meaning of life.
“A couple nice ladies who listen to the radio is not the same as having a crowd of screaming girls pressed against a barrier hoping you’ll make their dreams come true by sweating in their general direction.”
“That’s gross,” he said, shooting Charley an appalled look as he pulled the truck into a parking lot. “I don’t want to sweat on anyone.”
Once again being a pain in the ass, Dylan refused to share their destination upon leaving the ice cream parlor. She was surprised to see a familiar landmark looming in front of her.
“The Parthenon?” Charley asked as a flood of memories filled her mind.
“Saturday night you said you hadn’t gotten to explore the area. So we’re exploring.”
This was one attraction she could have skipped. “I wish you’d have told me we were coming here,” she said as Dylan exited the truck to cross around the front. When he opened her door, Charley was still buckled in.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t want to see it?”
Charley sighed. “I’ve seen it before.” Her heart hitched into her throat as her chest tightened.
He stepped back as if to close her door. “I guess I should have asked. We can go someplace else.”
“No,” she said with a hand on his arm. “We can stay.”
Since moving to town, she’d avoided this place, assuming the grief would be too much. But Charley found herself longing to walk the paths again. To tread the ground where she and Mama had shared a cherished afternoon. As they approached the imposing edifice, she was grateful for his silent strength beside her. They walked in silence as her mind drifted back in time. Back to the days before she lost the most important person in her life.
As they climbed the stairs to reach the giant columns, she brushed her hand over the stone surface, still warm from the summer sun. “Strange how some things change while others stay the same.” Charley caught the scent of wildflowers on the wind and couldn’t help but look around for a familiar face.
Dylan glanced around, too. “What are you looking for?”
With a faint shake of her head, she replied, “Nothing.”
They strolled down the narrow corridor between the columns and the main structure, and she could practically hear her mother’s laughter. Picture the smile, so much like her own, that she’d give anything to see again.
“You want to tell me where you are?” he asked, snapping her back to the present.
Despite her vow not to get personal, she shared the story. “Mama and I came here when I was thirteen. It was our last vacation together before she got sick. The doctor had given her the cancer diagnosis the week before, but we’d had the trip planned for months, and she refused to cancel. The day we spent at this park was one of the happiest days of my life.” With a sad shrug, she added, “At the end, when repeated chemo treatments had done their damage, she said she was going to get better and we’d come back.”
Charley didn’t notice the tear rolling down her cheek until Dylan brushed it away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice somber. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
“I’m glad you did.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I haven’t felt Mama around me this much in a long time. I should have known that this is where I would find her.”
Dylan leaned against a column and pulled her close. “I lost my grandmother to cancer. She always loved to hear me sing. I’d give anything if she could see me now.”
Rubbing her thumb along his jaw, Charley smiled through her sadness. “She can see you, Dylan. And I’m sure she’s as proud as can be.”
“I hope so.” He tucked her head against his chest, and his heart beat out a steady rhythm against Charley’s cheek.
They stood there, consoling each other, until the last sliver of sunlight had faded behind the trees.
“Enough,” she said, stepping from his embrace. “The only thing Mama ever asked was that I smile every time I think of her. She’d give me a good scolding if she found me here crying over a happy memory.”
“Grand would smack me in the back of the head and tell me to toughen up,” Dylan said with a laugh. “She used to say that death was part of life, and if a person couldn’t handle the first, they sure as heck couldn’t handle the second.”
A practicality and strength that Charley admired. “I’d have liked her.”
“And she’d have liked you,” he offered. Dusty-blue eyes held hers as his lips lowered for a kiss.
“We should see the lake,” she said, stepping away. The moment had grown too intimate, and Charley recognized the dangerous precipice she could so easily, and willingly, step off.
This was supposed to be her last date with Dylan Monroe. At least, that’s what she’d been telling herself for two days. But this didn’t feel anything like an ending. This had beginning written all over it.
“Are you turning skittish on me, Miss Layton?” he teased.
She preferred the joking Dylan over the vulnerable, heart-aching one any day.
“You promised no funny business, remember?”
The devilish grin returned. “I said I’d get you home by midnight and in bed alone. I didn’t promise not to enjoy the time we had before then.”
The promise in his words turned her knees to butter. Charley cleared her throat. “We’re exploring landmarks, not each other.”
“No reason we can’t do both.”
This man would be the death of her.
“Are you going to take me for a stroll around that lake or not?”
Dylan raised his hands in surrender. “By all means, let’s go see the lake.” Taking her hand, he led them halfway down the narrow corridor before adding, “It’s darker over there anyway.”
Heaven help her.