My joint is jumpin’.
Brad Maxwell smiled to himself, wondering if other people’s thoughts often reduced experiences to familiar song lyrics. Trying to ignore the old song that was now stuck in his head, he wiped a bar towel across the already clean wooden surface just as a blonde and a brunette made themselves comfortable right in front of him at the only two seats left open at the bar.
Dressed in jeans and a tight red top, the blonde locked her gaze on him and smiled in invitation—a smile he knew very well. How many times had he accepted one of those promising grins?
Too many.
Instead of returning the smile, Brad focused on business. There were plenty of other customers needing service, and he was ready to move on and not waste his time with meaningless flirting. “What can I get for you ladies?”
The blonde cocked her head. “How about some conversation?”
“I can do that,” he replied. “What’s the topic?”
“Whatever keeps you right here. I’d like to get to know you better.”
No surprise that the veiled offer failed to get a rise out of him. The game had grown stale. Hell, he’d lived like a monk the last six months. With a shake of his head, he slid the bowl of pretzels a little closer to the women. “Sorry. Too many customers to stay rooted to one spot. How about a beer? Something to eat maybe?” A glance to the stage found the first act finishing their setup. “The entertainment should start soon.”
The moment he took a step away to check the drink queue on his computer screen, she stopped him. “You’re plenty entertaining.” She gave him a flirty wink.
He felt not a single tickle of interest. After grabbing a menu, he laid it in front of her. “How about I get you something to eat? We’ve got great appetizers. Try the fried pickles.”
With a pouting bottom lip, she scooped up some pretzels. “Just a vodka stinger.” No doubt his abrupt rejection had made her omit any politeness in her request.
Brad arched an eyebrow at the brunette.
“I’ll have whatever’s on tap.” Her attention was directed at the stage, although she spoke to him.
No wonder. The first act of the monthly Indie Night was stepping up to the microphone.
Squelching a sarcastic reply, Brad grabbed a glass and poured her a foamy Pabst Blue Ribbon. Not his beer of choice, but PBR had seen a resurgence of popularity that he’d never understand.
After serving the women and topping off a couple of nearly empty pretzel bowls, he moved down the bar to slap down drinks for preoccupied customers. By the time the first note of music rang out, Brad was able to take a breather.
The singer launched into a rather ear-splitting rendition of “Take It on Back.” Brad got himself a Coke and a handful of pretzels, hoping that the next act wouldn’t sound like someone’s cat was caught inside a clothes dryer.
After finishing his soda, he leaned back against a wall, closed his eyes, and tried to dismiss the noise as he chewed on the pretzels. Familiar smells filled his nostrils. Beer. Fried food. The mixture of perfumes and hairsprays with a slight hint of cigarette smoke that seemed to be the essence of a large group of people gathered together.
The smell of Words & Music.
God, he was proud of himself—a pride that had been a long time coming. It had taken him so long to accept he’d made more than a few mistakes and was ready to change his life.
Opening his eyes, he let his gaze float around the cavernous bar and restaurant. He took in the tall tables framing the stage and the dance floor. They were all full of people who clapped, whooped, or swayed despite the rather dissonant cover of a good song. The large dining area was packed, and there was a decent line in the waiting area, which looked to extend out the door. Every seat surrounding the wooden bar was occupied.
He let a lazy smile cross his face. Words & Music was prospering under his management—and his partnership. The old Brad was gone.
Hopefully forever.
“Man, my joint is jumpin’,” he sang softly.
“What d’ya say?” Ethan Walker, one of his two partners, cuffed Brad on the shoulder, near to knocking him over since he hadn’t expected it.
“I said we’re busy tonight.”
Ethan nodded, his eyes following a route similar to the one Brad’s had just taken. “Yep, we are.”
Brad gave Ethan a quick appraisal, taking in his friend’s ragged jeans and well-worn shirt. “Did you come right from the farm?” He chuckled. “I guess chicks like the rugged cowboy bullshit.”
“Bullshit? I am a rugged cowboy. Besides,” Ethan said, “since when do you care if I pick up a woman tonight? The way you’ve been acting lately, I’m amazed Trojan’s stock hasn’t plummeted.”
That comment didn’t deserve any kind of reply. Brad made one anyway. “I’m sure you’re more than making up for my slack. Besides, I haven’t found a woman worth taking a night off for. Not in a long time.”
Unfortunately, the first performer was preparing to launch into his second song. Worse, he’d received enough applause that he’d probably be back to perform again next month—applause loud enough that Brad missed whatever smart-ass remark Ethan made in reply. Probably for the best.
Ethan nodded at the stage. “One to ten?”
One to ten. Their typical way of rating the possibility of any Indie Night act moving to the “big time” and finding a place in the cutthroat world of country music. “Two. Tops.”
“You’d know,” Ethan retorted.
Brad wasn’t so sure. Once upon a time, he’d written songs for the stars, but he’d been on the periphery of that world since he’d vowed to get away from the shit and dishonesty that were such integral parts of being famous. As rapidly as Nashville reinvented itself, a few years might as well be a century.
No, Words & Music was his world now. “Hard to believe,” he mused aloud as he looked around the place.
“What’s hard to believe?” Ethan asked.
“This used to be two buildings instead of one.”
“Yep. The Grand Theatre and Cole’s Haberdashery, both of which were toast by the 1970s.”
“Glad your parents saw the potential,” Brad said.
Ethan let out a chuckle. “What they saw was a tax break—two rundown joints in the middle of town they could turn into a bar? Like they could resist that. No, I’m glad you saw the potential.”
“We,” Brad corrected.
“God, you’re a pain in my ass. Fine. We.”
Why Brad had so much trouble taking credit was a mystery. Maybe he just wanted Ethan to know he valued the ownership trio they had with Russell Green too much to ever let them think this bar was his own one-man show. But once the three pitched their lots into turning the neglected dive into a showplace, Brad had been the one who insisted they renovate the old stage of the theater instead of replacing it. That stage had too much character to destroy. Instead, they’d knocked down walls to open up the buildings and make one enormous bar/restaurant/dance floor/stage. There wasn’t another place like it in Nashville, although places like the Black Mustang gave it a shot. Sure, there might be other multipurpose venues, but they didn’t have the character of Words & Music.
Instead of commenting, Brad watched a woman preparing for her turn on the stage. Her back was to him as she looped the strap of her acoustic guitar over her head and draped it over her shoulder. She spoke to the two men who were her backup musicians. He’d seen them before, many times. Studio musicians who backed up a lot of different acts, which meant she was probably a solo act and had paid the guys to be her accompaniment.
When she turned to face the crowd, he drank in a deep breath. Damn, she was a pretty thing. Long blond hair—so sun-bleached it was almost white—that held not a hint of wave or curl. She’d tinted some of the strands framing her face a deep blue, something he found oddly attractive in its quirkiness.
Why did she look so familiar?
Brad moved closer to the stage to get a better look, not at all surprised when Ethan followed right behind.
The closer Brad got to her, the prettier she got. Her clothes were more “flower child” than Nashville. Flowing, gauzy skirt in a sky-blue hue. Ivory peasant blouse, secured around her slim waist with a braided leather belt. She wore several silver bracelets on her left wrist and a necklace of silver and turquoise. There was a small tattoo, the outline of a bird, on the inside of her right wrist.
Once she was settled on her stool and had adjusted the microphone stand, she spoke softly. Shyly. “Hi, everyone. Are you ready for a few songs?” She tucked some long blue strands of hair behind her left ear.
The crowd had grown apathetic during the set change, but she seemed undaunted by their listless applause. It had been years since he’d seen a performer who could exude such innocence and timidity yet still show poise, a stage presence, as though her shyness was part of her act rather than who she really was. Most singers would be shaking in their boots at facing an audience who seemed ready to start complaining at any moment.
With a sweet smile, she said, “Once upon a time when I was all of twelve, I got to meet the best singer that has ever lived. Y’all know her. Reba McEntire.”
The audience warmed, applauding her choice of idol and punctuating their clapping with a few approving whistles.
“I doubt she’ll forget meeting me,” the woman said, adjusting her guitar strap. “After all, I tend to make a perfect first impression.”
She gently strummed her guitar—a well-tuned mahogany Martin. C chord. Then a D4 before she gave the audience another bewitching smile.
The dimple in her right cheek made Brad’s heart skip a beat.
Adjusting the mic one last time, she said, “Of course, my family will never let me live it down. How many people spill a Coke in their idol’s lap and still get an autograph and a kiss on the cheek?”
The audience chuckled. With her spell now woven around the crowd, she nodded to her backup musicians and started to make music. Her voice, sweet and clear, was perfect for the old Juice Newton song “Queen of Hearts.” The up tempo and her infectious enthusiasm had the audience enraptured. The crowd was eating right out of her hands.
So was he.
A hand waved in front of Brad’s face. “Earth to Brad.”
He ignored Ethan and kept watching the angel on the stage as she sang a second song—a Chelsea Harris tune—and then once again bantered with the audience. A rarity that the rather persnickety stage manager, Randy, was giving her a chance at a third song. He was notoriously stingy with new acts, but he evidently recognized talent when he saw it.
“Um…hello?” Ethan said, all but slapping Brad.
He smacked Ethan’s hand away. “What?”
“Where’d you go?”
“Go?”
“Yeah, you zoned out there,” Ethan insisted. “Missed a couple of really dirty jokes I was trying to tell you.” His gaze followed Brad’s to the stage before a knowing grin spread over his face. “Oh. Now I get it.”
“As dense as you are, you don’t get anything.”
Ethan let out a snort. “The hell I don’t. She’s why you trotted up here. You wanted a better look. Damned pretty, isn’t she?”
She was a hell of a lot more than pretty, but it wasn’t as though Brad was looking for any feminine companionship. Even if he were, he wasn’t going to get mixed up with an up-and-coming singer.
Where had he met her before?
“And that voice?” Ethan hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and rocked on his feet. “Do you see how she’s seducing the audience?”
“I see.” What the woman didn’t realize was that she wasn’t only affecting the patrons at Words & Music. She was also seducing one of its owners. “What do you know about her?”
“You mean you don’t recognize her?”
“I think I do.” He rubbed his forehead. “It’s driving me crazy ’cause I just can’t place where. You know how bad I am with remembering people.”
All Ethan did in reply was laugh—too long and loud for a simple question.
“What’s so damn funny?”
“Would it surprise you if I said I know quite a bit about her?”
“Where’d you meet?” Brad asked, not able to hide his curiosity.
“I know her birthday.”
“Did you date her or something?” Not likely. Ethan wasn’t known for being with the same woman long. He surely wasn’t with someone long enough to know her age or when her birthday was.
Just the thought of Ethan having slept with the woman made Brad want to hit something. Hard.
“Or something,” Ethan replied with a smirk. “I know her address, too. Might be able to get my hands on her phone number and social security number.”
“Spit it out already.”
“I can also tell you that she works tomorrow from ten ’til five.”
“How the hell could you know all that?”
“You seriously don’t recognize her, do you? God, what kind of manager are you?” Ethan asked.
“For shit’s sake, can you please stop talking in riddles? And what does me being a manager have to do with anything?”
“She works here, Brad. Her name’s Savannah Wolf. She’s been waitressing for us for the last six months.”
“What?” Trying hard to picture the woman on the stage in one of the red T-shirts the waitstaff wore, Brad finally made the connection. “Well, I’ll be damned.” As her song hit the bridge, he realized that he wanted to hear more from her and decided to do something for her he’d never done for an Indie Night performer. “Ethan, I’ve got a great idea.”
“Don’t you always?”
“How about we offer this woman a new job?”
A broad grin filled Ethan’s face. “As a singer, right?”
Brad nodded. “Think Russ will agree?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then let’s talk to him.”
* * *
Savannah Wolf gently set her favorite guitar inside its velvet-lined case. Her satisfied smile couldn’t be contained. While she’d hoped for a warm reception for her first time on this stage, having Randy—Words & Music’s rather particular stage manager—tell her to sing a third song meant she’d knocked her performance right out of the park. For that third song, she’d chosen “For My Broken Heart” by her idol, Reba McEntire, knowing most of the people she was singing for would recognize the pain behind the words.
Thanks, Juice, Chelsea, and Reba.
Those women represented the kind of country singer she hoped she was—a singer who took risks, who sang songs that meant something rather than churning out silly tunes that jumped on whatever the trend was. Her tactic had worked well the first time she’d stepped into the country music world. She’d started to build a nice fan base.
And then…
Nope. Not going to feel sorry for myself. Never again.
Her mother’s mantra echoed in Savannah’s mind, a mantra that had helped her through the last five years of hell.
“Everything happens for a reason.”
Perhaps her budding career had died because it simply wasn’t her turn. After the warm reception from the audience, she now had hope that her time had finally arrived—she could support herself with her singing and bid waitressing good-bye.
She had no illusions of being the next hot ticket, nor was that what she wanted for herself. Just a modest living singing at small venues, doing commercial jingles, or even backing up big names when they were near Nashville would allow her to provide for her family in a way she could never do waiting tables. That’s what she wanted. What she needed.
When she’d finally made the decision to try for her dream again, she’d worked up some guts and dove right into the deep end.
And she’d been able to swim just fine.
Randy held up his hand, waiting for her to give him a high five.
Savannah obliged, even as he grinned and raised his hand a little higher as a tacit tease about her height. Or lack thereof.
“You kicked some ass tonight, pretty lady,” he said as the next act launched into their first song.
“Thanks. And thanks so much for letting me have a third song. I sure didn’t expect it.”
Randy nodded toward the bar. “The bosses want to talk to you.”
Shifting her gaze to the bar, she found her bosses standing there—Brad Maxwell pouring drinks, Russ Green and Ethan Walker sitting on stools. “About?”
“You’ll hafta ask them.”
Setting her guitar case out of the way, she said, “Then I should go talk to them.”
“You do that.” Randy patted her shoulder. “You really did kick some ass out there, and I’m not just blowin’ smoke.”
“Thanks, Randy,” she said before heading to the bar. Practically floating on air, she made her way through Words & Music.
The place was packed, and despite the fact that a new act was performing, several people stopped her as she wove her way through the high-top tables. She smiled with each kind word about her performance. By the time she reached the bar, she had a broad smile on her face.
“Well, well, well,” Ethan said when she took the stool next to his. “Aren’t you full of surprises tonight, Ms. Wolf?”
“I suppose I am,” she replied. Then she shifted her gaze to Brad. “Randy told me you wanted to talk to me.”
After setting the beer he’d just poured on one of the empty trays, Brad nodded. His blue eyes found Savannah’s.
The color was so vivid that she could only compare them to the ocean surrounding Saint Bart’s that she’d seen so very long ago. The intensity of his stare almost made her glance away.
“You were really great up there,” he said.
Her face heated as her smile returned. Here was the validation she needed from a man who had once upon a time been a successful songwriter. One day she’d find the nerve to ask why he’d stopped composing and now owned a bar.
“Quite a performance,” Ethan said with a pat on the back.
She’d met Ethan at her interview. He’d hired her on the spot when he’d found out she was a single mother. His compassion had amazed her. Most people who came from money couldn’t seem to realize exactly how hard it was for other people to earn it. He’d been around the restaurant from time to time to see how things were going for her and the other waitresses, and he always had a kind word for their hard work.
Ethan’s hand dropped away. “Funny thing about seeing you onstage…”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s that?”
“Brad didn’t even recognize you.”
Russ barked out a laugh as the scowl Brad leveled at Ethan was hot enough to set the place on fire.
“What?” Ethan’s grin could only be described as cheeky. “You didn’t, did you?”
Brad held his tongue.
It wasn’t as though she was surprised. Ethan had interviewed and hired her. Russ had been in charge of most of her shifts. And the head waitress, Cheyanne, had trained her. The only times she’d seen Brad were on busy weekend nights. There had to be at least twenty-five servers working on Fridays and Saturdays. She was only one among many who wore the same red T-shirts with the Words & Music logo and black shorts. Since Brad requested that the waitresses keep their hair in neat ponytails, they tended to look like Stepford servers.
Plus, she’d only added the blue highlights to her hair three days ago. From his perspective, Savannah was nothing more than another short, skinny blond waitress. As manager of the place, he’d probably seen hundreds.
She tried to put him at ease. Not because he was her boss but because he looked so awfully uncomfortable at Ethan’s teasing. “So you didn’t recognize me?”
Brad shook his head.
“No wonder. For pity’s sake, you must have to supervise more than a hundred people a day to make this place run as well as it does.”
His frown eased and then morphed into a crooked smile. “Did you really just say ‘for pity’s sake’?”
Savannah folded her arms under her breasts, not quite sure of his motives. Sure, it sounded like he was teasing. But he was, after all, the man who signed her paycheck. “I did.”
“Who says that?” Since his voice held a bantering lilt, she eased her stance.
“My mom. My grandma. Pretty much everyone.”
“Not anyone I’ve ever known,” he announced.
If he was open to joking, she could give as good as she got. “At least I recognized you.”
“Touché.” With a flourish of his hand, he gave her a corny bow. “I admit it. I didn’t recognize you.”
“Seriously, though,” she continued, “I don’t know how you do it, but this restaurant is the best organized one I’ve ever worked for.” Not an idle compliment. She really did enjoy her shifts, although not enough to give up her dream and become a lifelong waitress. But for now, it paid the bills.
“Thanks,” he said in an aw shucks manner. He pushed a wayward lock of his tawny hair away from his eyes. The man was in desperate need of a proper haircut since his hair was neither short nor long. Just somewhere in between, which gave it an unkempt look.
“You’re welcome.”
Brad waved to the stage manager, who came to join them. As Randy made his way through the crowd, Brad whispered something to Ethan and then to Russ. Both nodded as smiles broke out on their faces. Then he said something quietly to Randy. His grin was every bit as broad.
Finally turning back to Savannah, Brad put his hand on her shoulder. “Looks like your waitressing here is moot now anyway.”
Savannah cocked her head. “It is?”
“Yep, it is.”
Since all the men were still smiling, she felt as though she’d missed some joke. There was clearly something they knew that she didn’t. “And exactly why is it moot, Brad?” she asked.
“Because you’re going to be our new opening act,” he replied.