Page 68 of Trusting Blake
“Blake’s voice is so dreamy, isn’t it?” a voice to my right gushes. “He’s going to be amazing.”
I crane my neck, ready to agree, but then my cheerful mood instantly plummets, replaced by a dark rumble of jealousy. I see that Lacey is by my side, swaying rhythmically along to the music, a drink in her hand. I’m not naive – I knew she would be here, becauseallof Blake’s friends are, butwhydoes she have to be up front? Sometimes I wish Cindy would stop sneaking off with Myles every chance the two of them gets, because then maybe she would keep Lacey company. It seems to me that when Lacey is a free agent, she gravitates toward Blake the way a moth is drawn to light.
I seal my lips shut, channel my inner Zen, then face back to the stage without entertaining her deliberate attempts to get under my skin. On the other side of me, Tori nudges me and offers a pointed nod at Lacey, and it makes me feel much better that other people can see how obviously scheming this girl is.
The woman closes out her set with a dramatic bow and sweeps off the stage as a guy, maybe the owner, takes over the mic instead. “Let’s hear it one more time for Janet Bee. That girl is fire!” he says with a whoop and a grand gesture, as he runs his eyes over those of us on the dance floor, the packed tables and the crowded bar. “I hope all you folks in here tonight are ready for our next musician. Making his Honky Tonk Central debut, give it up for Blake Avery!”
We erupt into whistles and cheers, and I make sure I create the most noise. I’m applauding, my hands are in the air, I’m whooping and whistling. Most of Blake’s friends are all on the dance floor, with the rest of the bar packed by tourists and locals, who just so happen to have dropped in for a drink or a bite to eat. They are in the right place at the right time. I was worried beforehand that Honky Tonk Central would be quiet on a Monday evening, but I’ve been proven wrong.
Blake swaggers onto the stage, his Gibson Hummingbird already slung across his body, and he hooks it up to the amp with the same rock-star charisma his dad had in Memphis. He squints and cups a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the blinding spotlights as he gazes out over the joint. “Hey, y’all,” he says, adjusting the mic stand into position. “I’m Blake Avery, born and bred in Fairview, and this is my first live show ever, so enjoy – but please take it easy on me, huh?” He cracks a charming smile and then backs up from the mic, testing out a few strings and making a few strums one final time, before moving forward again. He looks down at me standing exactly where he hoped I’d be, and winks.
A shiver runs down my spine and goosebumps prickle all over my skin the moment he begins. The twang of Blake’s guitar is so magical to me, but even more so this time as it reverberates from the speakers all around the bustling bar, dancing in my ears. He opens with the song he planned to, the one he rehearsed so many times in his backyard over the weekend, so I recognize it by now. It’s a cover of “Home Sweet” by some guy called Russell Dickerson, and it’s fast-paced with a dramatic climb to its hook. Blake’s voice sounds even stronger than usual, fueled by passion and a genuine love of performing.
I dance on the spot, rocking my head from side to side, swaying and jumping whenever he hits choruses. He moves through his set list with ease, each transition smooth, and his presence becomes more and more seductive with each song he nails. It’s so mesmerizing seeing him lose himself, breaking away from the mic and utilizing the stage whenever there’s a guitar solo. Four songs in, he’s sweating beneath the burning lights, his confidence growing as his level of expertise doesn’t falter.
I’m mid head-banging to his cover of that same Luke Bryan song his dad sang in Memphis when an elbow digs into my ribs. I write it off as an ordinary dance-floor peril until it happens again as Lacey shoves me out of the way in her attempt to press closer to the stage.
“You sure you have enough space there, Lacey?” I ask sarcastically.
Lacey flicks me a look of contempt over her shoulder. “Not with you taking over the dance floor.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve supported his music way longer than you have,” she hisses, turning her back on the stage to lock eyes with me. Over the sound of Blake’s performance thundering around us, she glowers at me with the disdain she’s had for me all this time, but has never publicly displayed until now. “It’s pathetic, you jumping around like that as though you’re his number-one fan. So attention-seeking. You didn’t even know Blake existed until two seconds ago.”
“But I know him well enough now,” I respond with a laugh as I flippantly wave my hand at her. “Get out of my face.”
“Don’t worry, I will,” she says, while in fact moving threateningly closer. “Oh, and I heard you’re leaving tomorrow, Mila, so I trust you have a safe flight home.” Then with a smirk, she murmurs, “I’m sure there’s plenty girls around here who’ll take care of Blake for you.”
Rage. Pure, blinding rage – that’s what ignites inside of me. I lose my cool entirely as I shove Lacey away and she falls back into the stage. She gasps at me as though I’ve just assaulted her unprovoked, pulling off the perfect weepy expression of innocence as she glances up at the stage to see if Blake has noticed. He has. Of course.
This is so not a good look.
The song comes to an end, and Blake leans down to grab a bottle of water from the stage floor, lowering himself nearer to Lacey. “What the hell are you doing?” he discreetly hisses.
“Blake—” I try, but Lacey beats me to the punch, whining, “Can you ask Mila to stop pushing everyone around?”
“Will you cut it out? It’s embarrassing,” he snaps, and I recoil with shock when I realize his words are directed at only me, then – as Lacey flashes me the most triumphant, patronizing smirkever– he lines himself back up with the mic as he attempts to regain his momentum as though his focus hasn’t been broken by two girls squabbling over him. My heart sinks in shame.
“How many folks in here love some Taylor Swift?” he asks the room, upbeat and charming.
But only a few people reply. Instead, a wave of hushed voices moves around the bar, and I look behind me to see what’s going on now. Everyone’s attention has shifted to the opposite corner of Honky Tonk Central, to where a bubble of people surrounds one person as he enters the bar.
“O.M.G.” Savannah emits an excited squeak. “Mila – it’s him, isn’t it?” I can only shrug, all thoughts of Lacey forgotten, as she exclaims, “What is yourdaddoing here?”
The hushed voices are punctuated with the odd callout. Dad tries to edge deeper into the bar, but he can’t move far thanks to a handful of strangers approaching him. I throw my hand up in the air and attempt to wave him over, but as I watch, heads turn at the bar and customers quit stuffing tacos into their mouths. My heart sinks further and further. All attention is on the celebrity who has just waltzed through the door, half the crowd starstruck and rooted to the spot, the other half clambering toward Dad. The music has died, leaving Honky Tonk Central without a heartbeat. Blake has stopped performing.
“I invited him,” I whisper, but I don’t think Savannah hears me.
She takes off with Tori across the dance floor, and even Lacey has disappeared, and as Dad gets picked apart like a carcass thrown to crows, I stand alone and paralyzed at the front of the dance floor. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Before Blake picked me up earlier, I invited Dad to the gig. He likes watching people chase their dreams, after all, and he seems to like Blake. It’s our final night in Tennessee, the paps are no longer stalking his every move, and I thought that if he came. . .if people heard Everett Harding was at Honky Tonk Central on a Monday evening. . . that it would help draw in a crowd. More people for Blake to perform in front of. More people to fall in love with his talent.
But I didn’t realize I had nothing to worry about in the first place. Honky Tony Central was already packed; packed with music lovers who are now no longer caring about some teenager’s honky tonk debut, who are now overcome with the thrill of having a celebrity in their midst. My blood curdles cold inside me as I realize that with all the excitement of seeing Blake on stage, it totally slipped my mind that Daddidsay he might swing by.
Horrified, I turn to the stage. Blake stands there alone with his guitar in his hands, wounded and abandoned, his gig at a standstill. The owner rushes onto the stage, stepping in front of him and taking over the mic, a born ringmaster.
“It looks like we have a very special guest here tonight! Everett Harding, welcome to Honky Tonk Central!” he cheers to a far bigger round of applause than the one Blake’s entrance received, and I can physicallyfeelmy heart breaking apart as Blake’s face falls. “Everyone, please calm down! I’m sure Everett will be more than happy to sign autographs and take pictures, so there’s no need for quite such a frenzy.” He laughs, awkwardly, then instructs, “Please return to your tables, order yourselves another beer. Listen to some great live music. Oh, and Everett, your drinks are on the house!”
