Nashville - Combined Edition - Part One and Part Two Page 16

  “Goodnight,” she says.

  And I don’t let myself look back. Only a fool would look back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CeCe

  I’ve never been a good liar.

  But my lie is the first thing I think about when I wake up at just after ten. That and the look on Holden’s face.

  Considering how I’ve had to watch him with Sarah and act as if it doesn’t bother me a single iota - the way she holds onto him, the way she looks at him as if there’s no question that he is hers.

  But then doesn’t she have that right?

  Hank snuggles up against me, and I know I need to get up and take him out. My head throbs dully. I feel like I haven’t had a glass of water in two years.

  Did I go with Beck last night to make Holden jealous? The question pops up like a red flag.

  Not entirely.

  But somewhat?

  Maybe.

  I throw on some running clothes, grab Hank’s leash and slip out of the apartment without seeing anyone.

  I know Thomas had to work this morning, but the last thing I want to think about is whether Holden and Sarah are sleeping in and what they might be doing if they are.

  Since I’m already in my running clothes, I decide to pound some of last night’s toxins out of me and take off at a good pace. Hank Junior is always up for a run of any kind and needs no encouragement.

  We go out about two miles and I turn back. A half-mile or so from the apartment, we walk. A car pulls up alongside us, beeping its horn. I glance over and spot Beck in a convertible BMW, an uncertain look on his face.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “You’re doing pretty well to already have a run under your belt.”

  “Figured my body could use it,” I say.

  “Yeah, about that—”

  “Let’s not,” I say. “Better to leave it alone.”

  “Buy you a coffee.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “What if I said I want to?”

  “I’ve got Hank.”

  “He’ll fit nicely in the back seat.”

  “He’s not used to rides this nice.”

  “It’s a car. Four wheels. Come on.”

  “I could use the coffee. That much is true,” I say.

  He reaches over to open the passenger door for me. Hank hops over the seat and into the back, sitting straight as if he’s prepared to enjoy the view.

  Starbucks is packed with Vanderbilt students, sitting at the outside tables with laptops poised in front of them.

  “Drive through okay?” Beck asks.

  “Sure.”

  He asks me what I’d like, and I tell him a tall Veranda with one sugar. He goes for a black Pikes Peak. The girl at the drive-through window smiles big at him and asks if it’s okay if Hank has a treat. I nod, and she hands Beck a cookie.

  He holds it back for Hank to take, and he sits munching in happiness.

  We sip our coffee in silence as we pull away from the Starbucks. We’re a few blocks from the apartment when he says, “I didn’t sleep last night, thinking about what could have happened.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Actually, I should have known better than to leave you with her.”

  “You didn’t. Look, everything worked out all right. I won’t be buying her latest single though.”

  Beck laughs. “Me, either. You could press charges against her or something if you wanted to.”

  “I don’t want to. I just want to forget it. Maybe take it as a lesson learned about being a naïve, gullible—”

  “Hey,” he says. “You’re not gullible. She’s just bad.”

  We pull into the parking lot of the apartment building. Beck cuts the engine. He angles toward me in his seat and says, “I’d really like to make it up to you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Please. Let me.”

  I sigh, reach back to rub Hank Junior under his chin. “So what do you have in mind?”

  “Dad’s writing with Bobby Jenkins later this afternoon. He’s one of the top writers in town.”

  “I know who he is. That’s great.”

  “I’m going with him. I thought maybe you’d like to come, too.”

  “Sit in on a session with Bobby Jenkins?”

  “Yeah. He’s a cool guy. He writes amazing songs.”

  “Wow. You don’t have to do this.”

  “I know. I want to.”

  “I’m supposed to work tonight.”

  “Maybe you could get someone to take your shift.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I’ll try. Give me your number, and I’ll call you in a bit to let you know if I can get off.”

  He tells me the number, and I punch it into my phone. “Send me yours?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks for the coffee.” I get out of the car, motion for Hank Junior to follow me and then shut the door, stepping onto the curb.

  Footsteps sound on the stairway behind us. I glance over my shoulder to spot Holden and Sarah walking toward us. Sarah has her hand tucked inside his arm. He spots us, and maybe it’s only me who notices the way his eyes go a deeper blue.

  “Hey,” Beck says.

  “Y’all are out early,” Sarah says.

  “Figured I owed her a coffee at the very least,” Beck says.

  “Yeah, I’ve yet to hear the real story of what happened last night,” she says, looking at me with raised eyebrows. “That must have been some party.”

  “A little more than we bargained for,” Beck replies.

  “Had to have been fun if you two are already at it again,” Sarah adds.

  Holden is yet to speak, and the response on the tip of my tongue isn’t one that would make Sarah and me friends. “Thanks again, Beck,” I say.

  “See you later this afternoon.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You better,” he adds.

  Hank and I cross the parking lot and make for the stairwell. I can feel Holden’s eyes on us, but I just keep walking.

  AS IT TURNS OUT, I am able to switch shifts with Ainsley, one of the other waitresses at the restaurant. She’s glad to do it, she says, since I offer to take her shift tomorrow night and there was something she wanted to do anyway.

  I text Beck and let him know.

  I feed Hank Junior early and leave Holden a note that I’ve fed Patsy, too.

  My clothes selection isn’t vast, so it doesn’t take me long to decide on a simple pink sundress and flat sandals.

  Beck is driving the BMW again, top down, and it feels good sliding down the Nashville streets with music from his iPhone blasting through the car’s speakers.

  “You look great,” he says, glancing over at me, smiling his confident smile, one hand on the steering wheel.

  “Thank you,” I say, and feel myself blush a little.

  Being with Beck feels different from being with Holden. With Holden, I always feel on the edge of something about to happen. Something I very much want but am also very much afraid of.

  Not that I couldn’t be intimidated by Beck. He’s lived a life I know very little about. A life I have dreamed about but don’t know in reality.

  And he’s gorgeous. Who wouldn’t be intimidated by that? But he’s also young. My age. And that makes him easier to talk to. Easier to be with in some ways. And then again, there’s that small difference of him not having a girlfriend looming in between us.

  “So the studio where we’re going,” Beck says, “is really cool. Bobby can pretty much write with whoever he wants considering his track record. And it’s deserved. At least that’s what my dad says.”

  “I think I know every song he’s ever written,” I say. “Are you sure it’s okay if I’m here?”

  “Positive. I checked with my dad.”

  It takes us twenty minutes or so to get there, the house not as far outside the city as Beck’s house. When we pull into the driveway, I spot t
he Ferrari, indicating that Case must already be here.

  Beck pulls up beside it, gets out and comes around to open my door.

  “Thanks,” I say, sliding out and trying to subdue the sudden flutter of butterflies in my stomach. “I’m nervous.”

  “Don’t be. Everything’s really laid back here.”

  The house isn’t nearly as grand as Case’s, but impressive all the same. It’s a classic brick style with an antiqued wood front door and a mammoth knocker shaped like a guitar.

  Beck knocks and a few seconds later, a pretty woman somewhere in her forties answers the door. Her smile is welcoming and we follow her through the house to a studio set up very much like the one at Beck’s house. It’s not as big though, and the equipment seems a little less fancy, more like the workhorse version.

  Case and the man I instantly recognize as Bobby Jenkins are sitting together at a round table. I saw him once in an interview on the country music channel. Both men have guitars on their laps. Beck introduces me.

  “It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Jenkins.” He’s older than I expect, maybe late fifties.

  “So glad you could be here.”

  “Thank you so much. Really.”

  Case told him about the recording session yesterday and how I’m part of a group called Barefoot Outlook. It sounds strange hearing it as if it’s really happening, and while I’d like to believe it’s true, it feels more like something made of toothpicks than beams.

  “Well, good luck to you,” he says.

  “You got anything you want to start with, Case?” he asks, picking up the guitar.

  “Just a phrase,” Case says. “Don’t have too much attached to it yet.”

  “What is it?”

  “Wishing time away.”

  Bobby nods. “Hmm. Yeah. See what we can do with that.” He throws out some angles, some kind of obvious, some not so much.

  I listen to the rally between them, mesmerized at the process and can’t help but think how much Holden would love this. The two of them are like miners, digging, sifting, rinsing, until they find the lines of gold nuggets that begin to form a verse, a chorus, a bridge. The pieces put together with such expertise that I can’t really imagine ever reaching this level of capability.

  The music they create fits the words perfectly, like a glove to a fine-boned hand.

  Three hours have passed when they push back their chairs and smile at each other.

  “Yeah,” Case says. “I like it.”

  “Me, too,” Bobby agrees.

  Beck and I glance at each other and smile. Neither of us has said a word since the start of the session, and I wonder how many times he has seen this done.

  They call it a wrap. We stand, and Case throws an arm around Beck’s shoulders, giving him a hug.

  Beck shakes hands with Bobby who looks at me and says, “Really glad you could be here.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “So much. It was a priceless experience.”

  He smiles at me and nods. When he doesn’t poo poo my extravagant praise, I wonder if someone had once done the same for him, someone who was really great at writing the same as he was.

  We’re in the car on the way back into town when I say, “That was really incredible, Beck. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I think I owed you one,” he says. “It was cool for me, too. I haven’t gotten over being amazed by the whole process yet. It’s kind of like magic or something.”

  I know what he means. It is like that, watching something amazing being conjured out of thin air, the pieces coming together to form something beautiful and possibly able to resonate with so many people.

  “It’s early. You wanna go somewhere and hang out a while? There’s a good band over at Lauren’s place.”

  “Can we have an honest moment?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “I like you, Beck. I really like you. Who wouldn’t? But my head is kind of somewhere else right now.”

  “Holden,” he says.

  “It’s not something I won’t get past. I really don’t have a choice. So maybe if you could just give me a little time?”

  “That’s more than cool,” he says. “Let’s just hang out. No expectations. No demands. How’s that sound?”

  “I don’t know. Like maybe you’re too good to be true?”

  He laughs. “Or maybe I just know a good thing when I see it, and I don’t want to blow it.” He reaches out and brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. “Let’s just go have some fun, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. And that sounds like a great idea to me.

  THE RESTAURANT IS CRAZY busy. There’s a line flowing out the main door and down the sidewalk several storefronts long.

  Beck knows the guy behind the rope and gets waved in, towing me along behind him.

  “I feel really funny about that,” I say as we slip inside the low-lit interior.

  “Funny enough to go stand at the end of that line?”

  “Um. Maybe not?”

  The band playing on stage is country with a thumping beat, and you can’t help but instantly feel it in your bones and want to move to it.

  Holden isn’t supposed to be working tonight, so I start at the sight of him behind the bar, filling glasses with ice. As if he feels my gaze on him, he looks up and suddenly we’re staring straight at one another, my heart kicking up instantly.

  In that moment of blank honesty, I see the flash of hurt in his eyes.

  There’s no justification for it. He has no say over who I’m here with, but at the same time, I know that feeling. It’s the same one I get when I see him with Sarah, and I realize that it gives me no pleasure to make him feel that.

  He turns his back and smiles at a woman at the bar. I watch its effect on her, the way she leans in and stares up at him. I turn away abruptly as my stomach does a somersault of hurt, unreasonable as it is.

  As it turns out, Beck knows a couple of the band members, and we snag a table up close. During the first set, I sit as if anchored to my seat, focusing on absorbing every note of every song. The lead singer is incredible. She’s got a voice that flows from her like warm honey and a range that makes me instantly envious. She also has the kind of looks that make listening to her nearly secondary to watching her.

  They take a break after the first set and the singer comes over to our table.

  “Hey, Beck,” she says. “Glad y’all could come out.”

  “Hey, Tania. You’re rockin’ it tonight.”

  “Thanks,” she says with an appreciative smile.

  “Tania, this is CeCe MacKenzie.”

  “Y’all are great,” I say. “I love your sound.”

  “Thanks,” she says, turning her smile to me. “We’ve been working hard at it.”

  “No doubt,” Beck says. “Y’all are really getting the polish on it.”

  “Thank you.” She looks at Beck, her eyes suddenly teasing. “Is she why you never called me back?”

  Most guys would have been embarrassed by that kind of direct arrow, but Beck shrugs and says, “Nooo. But she could be.”

  Tania laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m on to greener pastures.”

  And for some reason, what’s between them doesn’t feel like anything other than good-natured ribbing. No daggers like there had been with Macey last night.

  The rest of the show is great, and Beck seems to know half the people in the place, but I’m relieved when the band plays its last encore, and we head out into the night.

  I manage to leave without meeting eyes with Holden again. “That was awesome,” I say as we get in the car. “Thank you for asking me.”

  “Yeah, they’re pretty cool.” Beck cranks the music, and we speed down the highway. We both seem content not to talk, and when we get back to the apartment, he cuts the engine, insisting on walking me to the door.

  “That was really fun,” I say, sticking my key in the lock and turning to look up at him.

  “Thanks for going with me.”
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  “Thanks for asking.”

  “So we’re stuck on that friends thing, huh?” he says, a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

  “For now?”

  “For now. I think you’re worth it,” he says. “The wait, I mean.”

  Footsteps sound on the stairwell, and I look over Beck’s shoulder to see Holden come to an abrupt stop at the sight of us.

  “Sorry,” he says, and I can see he’s caught off guard. “Excuse me.” He cuts around us, pulling my key out of the lock and handing it to me. He inserts his own and opens the door. He goes inside without saying another word.

  The awkwardness left in his wake is thick and undeniable.

  “A little time?” I say.

  “A little time,” he agrees. “Goodnight, CeCe. Sleep well, okay?”

  “You, too.” And with that, I watch him walk away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Holden

  I absolutely HATE this feeling.

  Jealous guys suck. I mean, what is jealousy anyway?

  Awareness that there’s something you can’t have. Or that someone is better at something than you are. Or has someone you can’t have.

  There it is. Large and looming. The truth. Ugly as it is.

  Someone I can’t have.

  I grab a beer from the refrigerator, pull out a drawer for the opener, pop it off and take a long drink. I head for the shower then just because I don’t want to be standing here when CeCe comes in.

  The water is cold but does pretty much nothing to cool my misery. In my room, I wait until I hear her door click closed, and then I step out into the hall and knock.

  She doesn’t respond for several moments, which tells me she’s considering not answering. “CeCe?” I say.

  The door opens and she stands there looking at me with What? on her face.

  “Ainsley asked me to remind you about her shift tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay.” Awkward silence, and then I manage, “How was it?”

  “It was great. All of it. Great.” She’s quiet for a moment and then, “Where’s Sarah?”