Page 46 of Highball Rush
June and George arrived with June’s pet pig, Katherine. George joined Bowie and Jameson while June found a spot off to the side and opened a book, using her headlamp to light the pages.
Callie and I sat on one of the old logs that served as a bench. I hesitated for a second, glancing around, then gently put my arm around her. It was what a boyfriend would do. I expected her to stiffen or shy away. But she didn’t. She nestled in closer, letting her arm drape over my leg, and rested her head against my chest.
The lavender smell of her hair was strangely relaxing, and her warm body felt good tucked up against mine. There was nothing awkward. Nothing forced. This didn’t feel like pretending. It felt like she really was my girl. And the craziest part was how much I liked that idea.
I was about as anti-relationship as a guy could get. Somehow my siblings had sailed into adulthood still willing to take a chance on love. Not me. Maybe it was because I was the oldest. I remembered too much of what my parents had been like. Sure, they’d had their moments. Dancing in the kitchen. Smiling together. Acting like they didn’t feel trapped by marriage and family.
But those moments weren’t what had stuck in my memory. When I looked back, I saw the fighting. The resentment. The regrets. I’d decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to do that to myself. And I wasn’t going to drag someone else down with me, either.
But ever since Callie had shown up at my door and jumped into my arms, I’d been thinking things. Dangerous things. And with her leaning against me like this, soft and familiar, it felt like all those reasons I’d held onto didn’t matter nearly as much as I’d thought.
“Hey Gibs, how about a song?” Buck asked. He held an old acoustic guitar out toward me.
Callie sat up and I reluctantly dropped my arm to take the guitar. I settled it in my lap and strummed a chord. Out of tune. Took me a minute to tune it, but when I was done, it didn’t sound half bad.
I plucked the strings, letting a song come to me. “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” felt right. Long title, but a damn good song. Someone turned off the music as I strummed the opening chords and sang the first line.
A few bars in, a voice joined mine. Callie’s. We’d sung this song together a hundred times. Of course, no one else knew that. No one else in Bootleg had really known she could sing.
She found the harmony easily, and I shifted so I could see her while I played. The firelight reflected off her glasses and made her skin glow. Her sultry voice mingled with my deeper tone. She sounded different now. I’d noticed it the other night. Teenage Callie’s voice had been soft and pure, like a bell. Maya’s voice was richer, sexier. It was mesmerizing.
I lost track of everything but the music. The heat of the fire, the people dancing, talking, laughing—it all went away. It was just me and Callie, alone in the woods again. Singing an old favorite.
The song ended and the party erupted in whoops and hollers. My eyes stayed locked with hers. She smiled at me and my heart nearly beat right out of my chest.
I was in big fucking trouble.
14
MAYA
Life in Bootleg Springs moved at a different pace. It was slower. More relaxed. People lingered on the street corners to catch up on the latest gossip. Stopped to help their neighbors bring in groceries. Brought people homemade muffins and jam in a basket, just because.
It was a far cry from life in the music business. Touring, moving from city to city. Waking up in a new place every few days, sometimes without really knowing where you were. Long hours spent in the studio with the constant pressure to deliver.
I’d been here less than a week, and I could already feel myself acclimating. It helped that I wasn’t working. I checked in with Oliver again and let him know I was staying in the area to take care of some personal business. He said he was glad I was taking a break.
Gibson had an order to fill, so I’d spent the last couple of days happily relaxing at his house while he worked. As promised, he’d taken me to Moonshine for breakfast—twice—and their waffles were just as delicious as I remembered. In addition to eating too much, I’d watched a baking competition show—and subsequently ruined three batches of macarons thinking I could duplicate what I’d seen—practiced yoga in the field outside his house, and painted my nails to match my hair.
It was the most downtime I’d had in ages, and it was surprisingly nice. I didn’t usually slow down like this. I went from project to project. City to city. Always moving, never sitting still.
The sun was shining this afternoon, so I grabbed my handbag and went outside. Gibson had a single chair out on the back porch, facing a view of the woods beyond. I settled in, sitting sideways so I could drape my legs over one arm. The air was fresh and clean, a light breeze easing the heat of the late summer day. The sound of Gibson’s power tools carried from his workshop.
Gibson Bodine. He was such an enigma. Usually I was adept at getting to the heart of a person—at figuring out what made them tick. It was what made me good at my job. But Gibson was hard to crack. One thing I knew for sure. He was hiding a lot of pain behind that angry façade.
What happened to you, Gibson? Who hurt you so badly?
When I worked with a struggling artist or band, I liked to leave them with something that would keep them on the right track after I’d gone. I couldn’t be there forever to make sure they didn’t drift back into conflict or malaise or self-doubt.
Sometimes I taught them meditation techniques to stay calm. I’d done conflict resolution role-playing, left a box of notes with things to spark creativity, and helped brainstorm ideas for hobbies that would give them some downtime. No one would ever believe how many badass rock stars I’d taught to crochet.
I felt like Gibson needed something else in his life. Something to soften him up a little. Bring him some happiness. But what would make Gibson happy? He wasn’t exactly a people person, that was obvious. His work seemed to be fulfilling, and he had his music.
I thought back on Oliver’s offer, but it was impossible to imagine Gibson as a rock star. He had the talent for it, no question. And the looks. Fans would eat up Gibson Bodine with a spoon. Even his prickly personality wouldn’t be a problem, not from a popularity standpoint. His gruff demeanor combined with that husky voice of his—not to mention his rugged sex appeal—would be absolute catnip to millions. With the right backing, he’d be huge.
And he’d hate it.
Oliver would sign him in a heartbeat. And just to be sure I wasn’t making the wrong assumption, I’d ask Gibson about it again. But I was almost positive I knew the answer. He didn’t want that life.
