Page 44 of Trusting Blake
“Blake?” I nudge him with my elbow, gently.
“That guy—” he rasps, diverting his panicked eyes back to me.
“Which guy?” I prompt. “Where?”
“The one walking out onto the stage.” He nods over at a tall guy, casually waving to the crowd. “That guy is my dad.”
17
Jason Cox tosses his guitar strap over his shoulder and connects the amp cable. “How are y’all feeling tonight, Memphis? Let’s get rocking!”
With an electrifying opening strum, he breaks straight into the deafening tune of a country rock song, his hands dancing over the fretboard. His long messy hair whips around his face from beneath a cowboy hat, and his style is seriously vintage – red flannel shirt paired with faded, torn jeans and clunky Timberlands.
“That’s yourdad?” I tear my eyes away from the performer up on stage and back to Blake, who seems locked in a trance. “But I thought you said your dad gave up on music.”
Blake doesn’t even blink. “He did.”
I grab another stash of napkins and hastily dry the table, then duck to the floor to scoop up the handfuls of ice that Blake has spilled. It’s all I can do to keep my hands busy as I wrap my head around the fact that Blake’s dad is in this random bar in Memphis playing music again after he had, apparently, long quit.
A waitress rushes over with a mop bucket to take over cleaning the floor while I apologize profusely on Blake’s behalf. When she leaves to fetch another drink, I sit back down and watch Blake watch his dad.
Like Blake, Jason is a country musician, armed with an acoustic guitar and a husky Southern drawl that melts hearts – only it seems Jason prefers rock, while Blake leans more toward pop. And they both sing with their eyes closed.
Jason’s tone is deeper, edgier as he belts out the lyrics into the standing mic, losing himself in the feel of his guitar beneath his hands, one foot rhythmically thumping the ground. Under the intense spotlight, I notice his face break out into a sweat.
“Luke Bryan,” Blake says in a quiet voice, barely audible over the music booming through the speakers above us.
“What?”
“‘Move’by Luke Bryan. That’s the song he’s covering,” he explains. His eyes never leave the stage, and his expression is still so unfamiliar, so eerily unmoving and full of consternation.
I realize then that I know nothing about his dad. I know Blake has an old, treasured guitar that belonged to him once, and I remember Blake mentioning that he’d moved to Memphis with his side chick, but the mostly resounding silence regarding his dad never had me pushing for more. “Do you ever talk to him?” I ask, leaning right into him so he can hear me.
“Every once in a while.” He thanks the waitress as she returns with his drink, and he instantly chugs several mouthfuls of soda, like his throat has turned to sandpaper. He sets the glass back down with aclinkand relaxes his shoulders. “I haven’t visited since last year, and we haven’t talked in several months. He has a drinking problem, and he hasn’t. . . he hasn’t played in years. Not since he left.”
We both glance back at the stage at the same time. Jason hasn’t missed a chord, screwed up any lyrics, or even made a single out-of-beat foot tap. He is very in control of his performance with a sincere smile spread across his face. He doesn’t look much like a deadbeat alcoholic to me.
I avert my gaze back to Blake. “Are you guys close?”
“No,” Blake answers honestly. “But we get along, and I always looked up to him as my musical inspiration growing up. He’s just not much of a father.” His eyes cloud with disappointment and he glances away.
Before I can even try to sympathize with him, a hand touches my shoulder and I jolt in surprise. An older guy with a jawline laced with stubble and the bitter scent of beer on his breath leans in uncomfortably close to me and says, “Hey, you look like the kid of that guy in the news. That ain’t you, is it? Something Harding.”
“Sorry, my name is Savannah Bennett,” I lie smoothly, and the guy scratches his head and saunters away.
When I turn back to Blake, his features have transformed into their usual arrangement – raised eyebrow, dimpled cheeks, and a smirk that sends shock waves through my body.
“First name that popped into my head,” I tell him, then wrap my arms sheepishly around myself. I nod to the stage. “Are you going to let him know you’re here, or should we slip out as soon as we’ve eaten?”
“I’ll talk to him once he’s finished his set. Don’t wanna throw him off his game.” Blake mocks ducking down low and shielding his face with his hand, then angles his chair so that he isn’t facing the stage directly. It brings him closer to me.
“Hi, Blake,” I say.
“Hi, Mila.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, my dad rocking out again was the last thing I imagined seeing tonight, but it’s kind of. . . great,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Watching him perform again.”
