Run Rose Run(6)

Then she turned on her heel and walked over to the microphone.

“All right, then,” she said. “Let’s play some damn music.”





Chapter

5



Underneath a buzzing neon sign that read CAT’S PAW SALOON, AnnieLee smoothed her hair and took a deep breath.

“You can do this,” she whispered. “This is what you came here for.”

It wasn’t much of a pep talk, but AnnieLee figured she shouldn’t stand around on a city sidewalk muttering to herself like a crazy person, so short and sweet would have to do. She took another deep breath, yanked the door open, and strode inside.

The bar was cool and softly lit by Christmas lights draped in multicolored strands along the ceiling and walls. On a stage at the back of the room stood a man in a big black cowboy hat, playing a battered guitar and singing a Willie Nelson tune in a low, mournful voice. To her right was a long wooden bar, and to her left, a woman in a DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS shirt was racking balls on a red-felted pool table. AnnieLee scanned the crowd, such as it was, and decided everyone looked reasonably friendly. The air smelled like beer and French fries.

In other words, it was a perfect dive bar, and it would do just fine for her Nashville debut. AnnieLee walked over to the bar and climbed up onto a stool, ignoring the admiring eyes that followed her progress.

The bartender, a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache, slid a cardboard coaster toward her. “What can I do for ya, miss?” he asked.

AnnieLee swallowed down her fear and smiled her klieg light smile at him. “You can put me up on that stage after that guy’s done,” she said.

The bartender gave a snort and swiped the coaster back. He bent down behind the bar, reappearing with a knife in one hand and a giant lemon in the other. AnnieLee watched as he started cutting the lemon and pitching the slices into the garnish station, next to a tray of crimson-dyed maraschino cherries. He didn’t look at her again or say another word.

Is that it? she wondered. Is he going to ignore me now?

She tapped her fingers on the bar as she glanced over at the singer, now playing the opening chords to a Garth Brooks number. No one in the room seemed to be paying much attention to him. AnnieLee wondered if he felt bad about being background music, or if being up there with a guitar and a microphone was reward enough. Because if he wasn’t enjoying himself sufficiently, she’d trade places with him in a heartbeat.

AnnieLee gave her hair a nervous flip. She knew she could shine on that stage—she just needed the chance. And Mr. Mustache here had to be the guy who’d give it to her, because her feet hurt too much to walk any more today.

She turned back to the bartender, who was now hacking away at a bunch of limes. She cleared her throat, but he still didn’t look up.

Her courage wavered. She had the songs, but she hadn’t prepared the sales pitch.

Listen, she said to herself, you didn’t carjack your way to Nashville to watch someone cut up a damn fruit salad, so you better open your big ol’ mouth and start talking.

“I’m sure you get people coming in here wanting to sing all the time,” she said to the bartender. “But I think I’ve got something that you’d really like to see.”

“Your titties?” The voice was a low, lewd growl, and it came from right behind her.

AnnieLee whirled around, heart pounding and hands curled into fists. An old man with gin-blossom cheeks took a wary step backward, even as he kept leering at her.

When she realized she didn’t know him, she unclenched her fingers. “Pig,” she said.

“Just a peek?” he asked, his voice pleading.

But the bartender had overheard him. “Oh, damn it, Ray, that’s it,” he yelled, snapping his towel at the old man. “You’re eighty-sixed. Go home.”

Ray blinked drunkenly. “But Billy—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, you old creep,” the bartender said.

Suddenly chagrined, Ray looked over at AnnieLee. “I beg your pardon,” he said, bowing, and then he lurched away toward the door.

“I’m really sorry about that,” Billy said as he watched the old man leave. He filled a glass of water and set it in front of AnnieLee.

She was rattled, but she did her best not to show it. Vulnerability was never a good look. “I was ready to defend myself,” she said.

“I noticed.” He briskly wiped down the bar top. “What are you drinking? I’ll put it on Ray’s tab. He owes you now.”

“I’m okay, thanks.” AnnieLee paused, steeling her nerves, and then the words came out so fast there was hardly a breath between them. “Look, I can’t tell you how I got to Nashville without incriminating myself—which is too bad, because it’s a really good story—but I can tell you why I’m here. I’m going to make it as a singer or else I’m going to die trying. My name is AnnieLee Keyes, I turned twenty-five years old last week, and I’m asking you to give me a chance to sing up there on that stage. Will you be the one to give me my first big break? I really hope so. And then when I’m famous, I’ll tell everyone that I owe it all to Billy the bartender at the Cat’s Paw Saloon.”

He gave another snort, but this one was gentler. “Like I need more desperate wannabes coming into my bar.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Though you don’t look desperate, if I’m being perfectly honest.”