Page 9 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“’Course honey. Need anything else?”

I smile. Not gonna lie—being called honey by a stranger is different, but it’s kind of sweet. “Well, I actually have a question. Do you know anything about the band?”

“Fried Polyester?”

I hold back a laugh. Sounds even funnier out loud. “Yeah, I—a friend invited me tonight, I’m just along for the ride.” Calling Luke a friend might be a stretch, but there’s no better way to describe someone I nearly maimed with my camera earlier.

“Oh, they’re goooood,” she says with a slow nod and a big smile.

“Yeah? What kind of music do they play?”

“Cowpunk.”

I blink. I know there are lots of . . . interestingly named music genres. Zydeco. Shoegaze. Acid Jazz. “Cowpunk?”

“Yeah! It’s like country and punk mixed together. You’ll like it.”

I wilt at the sound of “country.” I’m in Texas, after all; I should have known that’s what I’m in for. But like many Midwesterners, “I’ll listen to anything but country” is a mantra. That being said, I’ve never really given country music a fair shot.

“Oh, don’t make that face. You haven’t even heard it yet,” she says, eyes glimmering. “Just strap in and enjoy. I’ll come check on you during the set and see how you like it.”

The bartender waltzes off to her next table. I appreciate everyone’s positivity around here. Maybe she’s right. I ought to give it more of a chance. Country isn’t a bad word. Right?

I sip my Yellow Rose of Texas. Lots of tequila. I have to be careful with these if I want to drive home later.

I watch the stage as a few guys lumber around tinkering with the instruments. I’ve never understood why the musicians don’t do the final tune-ups of their instruments. Wouldn’t you want to make sure everything is perfect? It seems like it’s just a tactic to get the crowd riled. Which it does. The crush of people downstairs starts cheering.

I continue to sip my drink, watching as the scene plays out on stage. The techs are acting like they don’t even hear the crowd. Tuning up the bass guitar, whacking the drums . . . someone even runs a spoon along a washboard.

God, what the hell am I in for?

At the back of the stage, Luke appears. He’s totally out of place compared to the raggedy jean-wearing techs. His arms are crossed over his chest as he speaks in a low voice to one of the techs, gesturing toward the microphone set up at the front.

Damn, I’m a sucker for watching men in their element. And given the poise and focus Luke exudes, he is in his element.

He starts to turn and then gives a final look at the stage. His blue eyes cut right through the low club lighting. And a smile ticks onto his lip before he disappears behind the dark curtains.

Instinctually, I pull the picture out of my bag once more and put it on the table. I stare at it, willing it to tell me more about the captivating singer. I wonder if this woman ever performed on this stage. I wonder if there was a crowd waiting on pins and needles for her just like this one. I hope she’s happy wherever she is.

For a second, I’m struck with the silliness of this situation. I know nothing about Luke. I don’t even know his last name. I don’t know what his personality is when he hasn’t just met someone. Why am I waiting around to let him help me when he’s just a stranger? I’m a city girl, I know better than this.

Before I can let my thoughts push me into an anxious spiral, the house lights dim, the stage lights go up, and a group of guys lumber onto the stage. Trucker hats, flannel, blue jeans. Yep, exactly what I pictured.

When they’re all set at their instruments, they begin.

It’s nothing like I expected or could have imagined. Fiddle mixed with heavy bass and guitar, lyrics about bad childhoods and the world ending, familiar drumbeats subverted to a ‘70s sound.

Yeah, the bartender was right. This is good.

And I think if I’m going to hack it in Austin, even just for three months, I’m going to need to reserve my judgments. Because so far, this place is pretty cool.

4

LUKE

The band is flying, the crowd is eating them up. I’ve paid Fried Polyester’s manager and stole a bag of the gummies as retribution. For the most part, my work is done. Now I just need to be on high alert for any funny business. The last thing a music promoter needs is drama at their event. Well, second to last thing. The last thing they need is the band walking out. But we’ve already made it this far. I think we’ll be fine unless someone throws a beer bottle.

I sneak out of the backstage area and check on the bar. No one’s been overserved, everyone’s in good spirits. Then, I take a look at the balcony, narrowing my eyes.

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