Page 41 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“Which one?” he asks cheekily.

I roll my lips together to resist grinning like a madwoman. “Am I interrupting something?” I ask.

“Uh, no, but I have about thirty seconds before a meeting,” he says.

My heart sinks. “Oh, sorry, sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize.” A moment. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

I look at Jolene for help. I’m going to need resuscitation after this. “It’s good to hear your voice too.”

“Let’s get dinner later this week.”

Is that a date? “Yes.”

“Or a drink more like it. My schedule is packed.”

Guess not. “Totally. Just let me know. I’m . . . I’m free.”

“I’ll text you after my meeting. Thanks for checking in on me.”

“Yeah. Any time.”

Luke says goodbye and hangs up before I can reply. I lower the phone and stare at it blankly.

“What happened?” Jolene asks.

“He’s busy. Really busy. It—” I roll my eyes, trying not to let tears fill my eyes. There’s no reason to cry over something like this. It’s fucking silly. Just a crush. “It wasn’t a good time.”

Jolene’s concern is obvious on her face. She glances up at the clock. “Come on. Early lunch. Burgers and fries. A milkshake. You need it.”

14

LUKE

The crowd is good for a Wednesday night especially for an up-and-coming Tejano rock band. Since the audience isn’t super familiar with the music, it’s not at all rowdy. A lot of listening, a lot of nodding along when a lyric hits them, a lot of leaning into their friends, whispering, “S’good.”

I watch from the bar. The venue is small, no big backstage area for me to hide out, keep tabs from the wings. Instead, you could probably feel a performer spit on you all the way in the back of the venue. The big stages are my bread and butter, but the little ones are where all the soul lives.

I lock eyes with the band manager, an old-timer who’s been on the Austin circuit for years. He gives me a nod of respect. I nod in return, trying to keep my composure. The manager used to be a titan with his big mustache and ten-gallon hat. Now, he’s slowed down and lost some of his cred. But still slings himself around like he’s cock of the walk.

Regardless of his current status, I respect my elders. They’re the reason I’m here, and why the Austin music scene still blooms anew again and again. So, when I promised him that I’d have the venue full for his band, I meant it.

There’s not an empty cabaret table, and standing room keeps filling up with passers-by.

Very good for a Wednesday night.

In fact, I ought to consider giving up my seat at the bar so someone can sit and stay a while. I look down the bar at all the patrons. At the very end is a man tapping his foot against his stool, considering the band thoughtfully through a pair of black-rimmed glasses. His completely white hair is cut stylishly, and his lips are pulled down like a trout, the quintessential expression of someone who likes what he’s listening to.

Skip Baxter, the Beat Cowboy, is a local disc jockey who’s been active since the ‘90s. Though he’s at least sixty, he wears his age well. Radio hosts are pretty good at staying out of the fray. They get to be in the industry while avoiding the party scene as much or as little as they want.

I narrow my eyes. He’s been around. Probably has a catalogue of all the acts that have waltzed through town.

I wonder . . .

No. It would be silly to ask about Diane.

Except I haven’t shaken her since Eleanor found out her name. Sometimes it keeps me awake at night, which isn’t good considering how busy this month is for me. I can’t afford to lose any more sleep.

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