“What is it about fresh air that makes us cough so much.” ~ Johnny Outlaw
Dalton and I leave LA under the scrutiny of the paparazzi. Arriving in Austin is more peaceful. The media was tipped off, but this city has fewer soldiers on the ground so we only have to deal with a handful when we land. Dalton holds my hand as if I’ll slip away from him if he doesn’t. His head is lowered and his body becomes a barrier between them and us.
The usual rude comments fly from their mouths, saying the baby is Sebastian’s and asking Dalton why he stays with me. From how tight he holds my hand, I can feel how tense Dalton is. I feel guilty he has to listen to this garbage.
A loud exhale releases from him as soon as the taxi pulls away. A minute later, he says, “I hope you like the place we rented.”
“I’m excited to see what you picked out.”
Forty-five minutes later, we arrive. The gate opens and there are two cars waiting in the driveway. The house is ranch style and rustic, and nothing like I was expecting. The cab leaves and when the gate closes, he says, “I know it doesn’t look great from the outside—”
It’s so quiet here. I can hear nature surrounding us. “It’s perfect.”
“This is nothing. Let’s go in.” He carries the luggage inside as I walk to the panoramic window at the back of the house.
The view is stunning and private and I can’t see another house no matter how hard I try. “This is amazing.”
“I’m glad the view lives up to the photos.”
Turning around, I say, “I’m surprised you didn’t rent a condo downtown so you could be in the heart of the action.”
“I don’t want to be in the chaos. I want to be with you and this,” he says, turning back to the view. “I want to write music and perform the songs I’ve written without worrying about neighbors.” I go to him and lean my back against his chest. His arms come around me and we look out together. “The doctor’s right. You’ve popped out a lot more in the last few weeks.”
While he rubs his hands over my stomach lovingly, I say, “I know. Even my yoga pants don’t fit anymore.”
His breath tickles my ear when he whispers, “You’re so beautiful. You amaze me every day.”
He beats the view any day. I turn in his arms and wrap mine around his neck. Lifting up, I kiss his chin. “Show me the bedroom.”
I’m taken by the hand and we explore the house until we come to the master bedroom. Spun around, my back is pressed to the wall and he bends down to kiss my neck. His eyes are the shade of desire, a craving that only I can satisfy. I weaken under his touch, giving into the yearning that’s built, and igniting it on fire.
His kisses—dedicated and hungry—become frenzied as do our bodies. I tug his shirt and he lifts it up, then tosses it. My shirt is pulled gently over my head and my skirt lowered. I remove my undergarments as I move to the bed. He stands there, watching me with an intensity, and I say, “C’mere.”
His jeans and boxers come off before he joins me on the bed. “Take your hair down.”
I pull the elastic out and throw it onto the nightstand. “Me on top?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He lies back.
I climb over him. Bending down, I kiss his chest while running my hands over his shoulders. I kiss the tattoos and then run my tongue over the tiger. He reacts by pressing himself between my legs. My heavy breath comes out like a moan and I say, “I want to christen this home.”
“I want to christen you several times over.”
And he does—in the bedroom, the kitchen, and one last time just before dawn in the shower.
Life is beautiful.
He’s beautiful.
Just a few days in the Texas hill country and I can feel the change in him, and see it. His shoulders have lost the tension he was carrying around. His face even looks more relaxed, defying his age and appearing younger. He’s been sleeping better and longer.
“Holliday, come out here,” he calls from the balcony that seems to overlook forever.
Walking out, I drag my fingers across his sexy butt and get comfortable on a bench against the railing, propping my arm up.
He says, “I want to play a song for you.”
Surprised by the offer, I sit up and ask, “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d love to hear it.” It’s been a while since he’s completed a song and most of them he wants me to wait to hear live at the show.
My excitement must show because he’s prefaces it with, “It’s not perfect, but it’s getting there.”
His fingers strum twice across the acoustic guitar before he kicks into the song.
Four minutes.
For four minutes I sit across from him in complete awe. Not the beauty of the blue skies, nor the grace of the rolling hills capture the emotion I feel while he sings. My hands grip the railing, holding me in place, grounding me when his music makes me want to soar. The affection he sings of, the care of the melody as he plays, all of it speaks to the love he feels.
With the last note still lingering in the air, he asks, “What do you think?”
“Dalton,” I start, knowing words will fail the emotions I feel. “That was amazing, just wow. I didn’t expect that. I mean, I know how talented you are, but that’s so different from your other stuff.”
“I know. That’s what worries me.”
“Don’t be worried. It’s beautiful.” With my hand over my heart, I say, “I’m blown away—the words, the melody, your voice—it’s perfect. I wouldn’t change anything.”
“Really?” he asks, skeptically.
“I mean it. It’s perfect. The line about a bird waiting for its song to return… so beautiful.”
His eyes seem to light under the compliment as I walk to him. His guitar gets propped beside him, making room for me. I sit on his lap and look deeply into his eyes. “I think it may be your best song yet.”
“I wrote it for you.”
He’s written other songs for me, but this one is different. This one was his heart singing to mine, a gospel of dedication and promises of an uninterrupted ever after. “Thank you.”
His forehead touches down on my shoulder and he says, “Thank you.” It’s softly spoken, but I hear it how it’s intended, personal and sweet, and full of meaning.
“What?” I ask, turning toward him, confused.
“I know you worry about me. But you don’t have to anymore. I’m okay.”
I study his features, the assurance of his words found by the serenity in his expression.
He says, “Cory was too good for this world.” I try to hide my surprise, his statement knocking me off guard. I wait for him to say more, hoping he will. He does. “He’s found peace. I think I have too.” His blink lengthens and he takes a deep breath.
“How?”
“I finally realized that he didn’t make the music. The music made us. It can recreate too, turning us into something new.” He kicks the deck lightly, and he says, “I think he’d like the new songs.”
I smile. “I think he would too.” I bump up against him, leaving my body pressed to his and watch the sunset. My mind wanders back to what started this conversation. “If he was too good for this world, what does that make us, the ones who are still here?”
“Necessary.”
Pondering his response, I start to understand what he means. “I need you.”
His gaze meets mine and he says, “I need you too.”
Necessary.
Nerves fill the car as we drive into downtown Austin. Dalton’s usually really good about putting on fronts. He’s had many years of practice, but tonight is different, new. At a stoplight, I peek over at him in the passenger seat. “Hi,” I say, hoping to evoke a smile.
It works and I’m rewarded with one that’s genuine. “Hi.”
“You doing okay over there?”
“Just running through my set list.”
“You’re gonna be great.” He nods, turning his attention back out the window in front of him. I learned years ago that musicians need their space before a performance, so I let him have his thoughts and focus on getting us there.
Tommy greets us in the alley. “Do you want your mic out of the trunk?” he asks.
“Yeah, my mic, guitar, and amp. That’s all.”
“Got it.” The trunk door is slammed closed
I say, “I’ll park around the corner and be back.”
Dalton nods but doesn’t say anything, his nerves showing more than I’ve ever seen before.
When I pull up to the end of the alley, I look in the rearview mirror. The guys haven’t gone in yet. The conversation between Dalton and Tommy is tense by the body language. It makes me curious what they’re talking about before the show. I want to know, but I need to park so I don’t miss the opening.
I pull around the corner, but can’t find any spots nearby. Three streets down and two over, I park. Hurrying back to the bar as quickly as I can, I get impatient. I don’t want to miss his opening. I walk in the front door to a fairly empty bar. There are a few locals at the long wood top and a few small groups at the tail end of a happy hour. The place is small enough for him to be recognized, but deep down, for him, I hope he’s not.
The bartender jumps the bar and hops up on the small stage. “We’ve got some live music for you this evening. A singer-songwriter some of you may know. Let’s give it up for Jack Dalton.”
The crowd could care less. They’re here for the drink specials, not the music. It’s perfect, just the way Dalton wanted. He’s wearing a baseball cap that I know has been through years of touring. He called it lucky when he tossed it in the car. And for him, I hope it is.
He starts playing and I order a Sprite before looking over and seeing Tommy sitting at a table in the back. When I sit, he leans in and whispers, “He sounds good.”
“I’m nervous.”
“Me too.”
Tommy goes through a beer, his own nerves showing as he watches one of his best friends expose himself to the world in a whole new way. I keep wondering if I’m partial. Maybe I am, but I think he sounds strong, steady, and so good.
As soon as the first half of the set ends, we both meet him in the hallway that leads out back to the alley. There is no dressing room, so I follow them outside. His brow is cinched and Dalton says, “What the fuck was I thinking?”
Tommy says, “You sounded good. Stop stressing.”
“I should have brought my electric guitar. They want Johnny Outlaw. They want The Resistance, not me.”
“No,” I say, “they haven’t connected you to the band yet. That’s what you wanted. This is your chance to win them over in a whole new way.”
Tommy says, “Outlaw is who you fall back on. He’s not real. Jack Dalton is right here and ready. You can do this.”
Dalton looks distressed as he scans the alley.
Tommy adds, “They didn’t know you were coming. Most of them are tanked. When doing something like this, wipe away your expectations and be open to what’s happening now.”
Dalton’s expression changes, confidence seeping into his psyche and softening the hard lines. “You’re right. I’ve got thirty minutes left to make a difference, to change their minds.”
Holding him by the shirt and making him listen to me, I whisper, “Don’t worry about them. Play for you.”
He says, “I don’t think anyone’s even noticed me up there.”
“Fuck ‘em,” I say. “If it helps, then play for me, babe.”
Tommy looks at his watch, then says, “Stick to the set list and make them regret they missed the first half of the show.” He steps up to open the door. “Time to make shit happen.”
Dalton repeats, “Make them regret it.”
“Break a leg,” Tommy says, patting him on the back as Dalton goes back inside.
Our table is free, but I choose to sit in the center of the room. I want him to see me if he needs me, to know I’m here for him, and to give him the support he deserves. There’s a moment of hesitation as he sits on the stool in front of the microphone. He says, “I’ve been playing music a long time, but I’m trying something new tonight.” He adjusts his guitar strap, leans in and says, “This is for my angel.”
Keeping his eyes on me, he sings, looking more youthful than his years. The vulnerability is stripping him of his onstage ego. This is the man I married. Sure, he was all bravado too, but this, this is Jack Dalton unplugged and he’s just as magnetic as Johnny Outlaw ever was, if not more so.
When he finishes the first song, he laughs, the nerves seem to have gone. The rest of the show he’s relaxed, such a natural talent. Thirty minutes fly by as I get to hear the results of all his hard work for the first time.
After his set, Tommy and I stand, clapping and the others who have wandered in join in. I hear some giggles from what appears to be college-aged girls, letting us know he’s been ‘found out.’ Tommy’s quick to the stage, grabbing the amp and mic while Dalton packs up his guitar. Dalton and I make it to the alley before the girls catch up with us. “You’re Johnny Outlaw, right?”
He smiles, the weight of the anticipation gone from his shoulders. “Yes.”
“Can we get a picture?”
“Sure,” he replies breezily. “I’ll be happy to take one of you.”
They laugh, his charm working on them. “With you, if you don’t mind,” one girl says.
“Yeah, okay,” he chuckles. He sets his guitar down next to me and they ask if I’ll take the photo.
“Sure.” They flank his sides and hold him tight around the waist. As soon as the camera on the phone focuses, I take the pic. “I think that looks good.”
“Thanks,” they say in unison.
Dalton says, “Thanks for coming to the show.”
“Are you going to be playing more?”
“Maybe,” he replies. Picking up the guitar he asks me, “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Tommy runs after us and talks as we walk. “You just earned a hundred bucks.” He laughs. “I bought the bar a round of drinks with it.”
“Damn,” Dalton jokes, “I had big plans for that money.”
Tommy says, “So the new stuff. Let’s talk about it.”
“Wanna come out to the house?” I ask.
“Or we can grab a bite to eat while we’re downtown,” Dalton suggests, surprising me. He almost never wants to go out in public. Maybe Austin really will be the reprieve he needs.
We end up at an Austin tradition, Hut’s Hamburgers. It’s kind of dark and there’s not much to look at, but the food is really good and the company even better. I lean on my hand, suddenly feeling depressed that I’m so big. “A year ago, I couldn’t have finished half that burger. Now I finished the burger and a basket of onion rings. By the way, your son likes chili and jalapenos.”
“My son’s a badass. That’s why.”
“You’re having a boy?” Tommy asks, sitting across from us in the booth.
“Yeah, we found out, but we don’t have a name yet.”
“Congrats. That’s great news. Oh and Tommy or Thomas is good,” he adds, straight faced.
I let Dalton handle this one. “I think we’re gonna go in a different direction.”
“Whatever,” Tommy feigns offense. “Let’s talk about the music. It’s different, not as raw as the band’s stuff. It’s more polished. How long have you been working on it?”
“Before the tour until now.”
“I know you’re taking a break from the band, but this could really be something interesting for the band to put out. What do you want to do with it? Go into the studio and record?”
“Maybe.” Glancing at me, Dalton shrugs and says, “Probably.”
“I think it could be a hit for you,” Tommy says, “It shows your range. Would you tour?”
Suddenly playing a few gigs has turned into something much bigger, so I listen intently when he answers, “I don’t know. I’ve not thought about it. I would have to tell the band. I’m not sure how to even tour without them.” His hand rubs my leg under the table. “And the baby’s coming.”
Tommy sits back, settling in for the hard talk. “They know this is a possibility. They know you’re down here playing your own songs. It’s crossed their minds.”
“Why does everything have to be so big?” I ask.
Tommy answers, “It doesn’t, but this is how the industry works. You put out an album and you tour to support it.”
“I understand that, but can’t the tour be smaller, less cities. Maybe just the U.S. You know the last tour was rough on all of us.” This is a subject we’ll have to discuss soon, but not now. “Let’s just celebrate tonight. I’m glad you did it.”
“I’m glad it’s fucking over and I’m ready to do it again.”
Holding up my glass, I say, “To fresh starts and new adventures.”
Dalton glances to Tommy before lifting his glass and tapping mine. “To fresh starts and new adventures.”