Page 11 of Highball Rush
The Crafty Cow Tavern in Hayridge—about fifty miles outside Bootleg Springs—was crowded. Couples swayed to our songs in front of the tiny platform they called a stage. Tables were full, barstools all occupied. Not bad for a Thursday night. Tips ought to be good.
I sat on a tall stool, one foot on a rung, my guitar in my hands. It wasn’t the tips that brought me to places like this. Sure, pocket money was nice. But mostly, I just liked to play. A guitar and a song. It was what I loved.
The size of the crowd didn’t matter much. Two people or two hundred didn’t make a difference to me. Although even I could admit there was something satisfying about an audience. But it wasn’t about my ego. Music was a transaction. To really be what it was meant to be, music needed a musician to create it, and an audience to listen.
It was the kind of give and take I could appreciate. And this audience was lovin’ on us tonight.
Corbin was to my left, on keyboard, and Hung behind, our drummer. We were simple, and country, and didn’t look like we made a lick of sense as a band. Hung was old enough for his hair to have gone gray, Corbin was barely old enough to be in the bar, and at thirty-three, I was somewhere in the middle. But we played damn good music.
And that was what the crowd was here for tonight. We played. They listened. Simple. I liked simple.
My fingers strummed the melody and I sang the last few lines. Applause rose in a crescendo as my voice trailed off. I gave a nod and put my guitar back on its stand.
“We’ll be back after a short break.”
The crowd clapped and cheered again. Seemed as if a bunch of people were holding up cell phones. Had they been recording me? Jesus. That stupid viral video bullshit needed to die a quick death. It had been over a week since I’d heard about it, and Leah Mae said it had started before that. Some jackass claiming to be from a record company kept calling me, and now this? Weren’t people over it by now?
I went to the end of the bar and leaned my forearms on the smooth wood. The bartender handed me a water and I took a long drink. Felt good on my throat after singing for the better part of an hour.
A guy backed into me, spilling water down my shirt.
“Damn it. Watch where you’re going, asshole.”
He whipped around, crowding my space. “What’d you call me?”
The guy reeked of cheap beer and cigarette smoke. I waved my hand in front of my face. “A shower ain’t a bad notion, buddy.”
“The fuck you talkin’ about? You want to start somethin’, pretty boy?”
Pretty boy? That was a new one. I’d been called plenty of names in my life, particularly in bars like this, but neverpretty boy. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“What’choo laughing at?” He poked me in the chest.
Instantly, I stopped laughing, my blood running hot, my mood flipping to anger like a light switch. My brothers weren’t here to back me up, but I didn’t care. He’d touched me. The need to hit someone—or something—made my hands twitch. I wanted to feel this fucker’s nose crunch under my fist. Craved it like a drunk craved whiskey.
“Touch me again and I’ll break your face,” I growled.
“Is that a threat, pretty boy? You think you’re famous now? You can just roll on into our town and be a dick to everybody?”
“Go ahead,” I said, my voice low. “Touch me again. Please.”
“Slow down there, Gibs.” Hung’s arm shot out in front of my chest. “Not tonight. We have a set to finish.”
I held the dickhead’s gaze, my eyes cold, face expressionless.Do it, asshole. Hit me.I loved it when the other guy took the first swing.
He looked me up and down and took a step back. “Whatever.”
I didn’t take my eyes off him until he’d disappeared into the crowd.
“Why you gotta do that, Gibs? We’re here to play, not brawl with the locals.”
I held out my wet shirt. “I didn’t start shit. He spilled water on me.”
Hung raised an eyebrow. “It’ll dry. Let’s go.”
I finished my water and joined Hung and Corbin back on stage. Took my seat on the stool, slung my guitar strap over my shoulder, and adjusted the microphone.
Without any preamble, we started in on our next song. “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” It was always a crowd-pleaser. In seconds, the dance floor was packed.
