Leaving Amarillo(2)
“Yeah, I’m good. Sorry. Let’s go again.” I shrug and bring Oz, my fiddle, up onto my shoulder.
Two bars into the song, the music surrounding us cuts off sharply once more.
“Damn it, Dix. It’s three chords we’re working with here.” Dallas’s ice-blue eyes are laser beams and I am the target.
I lower my bow and sigh loudly. “Sorry.” Taking a deep breath, I shoot him and Gavin both an apologetic smile. “Promise I’ll get it together. I’m good now.”
“Did you ever get any sleep last night?” My brother’s gaze softens, and I’m slightly surprised by his unexpected show of concern. When we’re rehearsing or recording, the music comes first. Usually. I don’t know if it’s the dark rings around my eyes caused by long nights of caring for our grandfather or my recent breakup that has him worried, but he waits for my answer before continuing.
“I did. I’m really okay. Let’s go again.” I force a smile and raise my bow once more.
We play half of our set without stopping and I fight through the exhaustion and the non-Jaggerd-related painful memories plaguing me. Instinct honed by years of practice takes over as my bow flies across the strings.
“Hell yeah,” Dallas calls out, fist-bumping Gavin when we finally stop to catch our breath. “That’s what I’m talking about!” He grins at me and I smile back at his enthusiasm.
“Think we’re ready for Nashville?” I feel ten pounds lighter from playing, and from making my brother proud.
“We’re on our way, little sister. On our way,” Dallas tells me before turning to Gavin. “Okay, let’s pick it up at the top of ‘Ring of Fire’ and push through to the end of the set.”
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes at the little sister part.
Despite the fact that I’m nineteen, Dallas acts like I’m twelve most of the time. And like he’s my dad. Since our parents were killed in a car accident when we were kids, he actually filled that role every now and then.
Gavin’s hazel gaze meets mine and he nods to make sure I’m ready before he counts us into the next song. My heart does the little stuttering flip-turn it likes to do on the rare occasions we make eye contact for more than a split second.
Just like that, one lingering look and I’m transported back in time to the first time I saw him.
Gavin Garrison, our drummer and my brother’s best friend, was the first boy I’d ever had a crush on. From the moment he stepped onto my grandparents’ porch the day of my parents’ funeral, with his cautious silvery eyes and his torn clothes and messy hair that was in serious need of cutting, looking like a stray puppy, the three of us had been inseparable.
That day had been so surreal, with everyone—strangers mostly—tiptoeing around us, offering cookies and tea, and whatever else they thought would distract us from the fact that we were suddenly a nine-and twelve-year-old pair of orphans.
Dallas and I were sitting out front on the porch swing in silence, which was unusual for me as I typically had a hard time shutting up. But the heavy hands of shock and grief were still firmly clamped over my mouth.
Gavin had walked up, nodded at the throng of people flowing in and out of the house, and turned to us.
“Party?” he asked without introducing himself.
I watched my brother for cues on how to answer the stranger. Dallas swallowed hard and shook his head. “Funeral. Our parents.”
Gavin ran a hand through his mussed hair, mussing it further. “Well . . . f*ck.”
It was the first time I’d heard the word out loud and on purpose and a thrill shot through me. My heart sped in my chest, which was surprising since all it had done since my aunt Sheila had told us that our parents were dead was thud heavily as if it were considering saying to hell with the whole thing.
“Wanna go break shit?” Gavin asked.
I turned to my brother, sheer panic and pure adrenaline pumping fiercely through my veins. Say yes, I pleaded silently.
“Guess so,” Dallas said, hopping down off the swing as if we followed strange kids all the time.
I walked with the two of them off the porch. Dallas introduced us. And Gavin did the same. He turned and shook my hand like adults did, and I swear on all things holy, lightning flashed right up my arm. It flickered in his eyes at the same time and I froze.
“What were you doing? Why were you at our house?” Dallas asked, narrowing his eyes and watching our exchange suspiciously.
“Um.” Gavin pulled his hand back and scratched his head. He glanced around as if looking for the nearest escape route. His eyes darkened, the wary edge they’d first held returning when he shifted his guarded gaze to my brother. “Looking for something to eat. Figured a party would have food.”
The sound of drum cymbals shatters through my memory. My intro comes and I’m snapped back into the present and out of the past. I lift Oz and play my part until Dallas nods, satisfied that I haven’t royally botched anything this time, but he can probably tell that I’m distracted. While he belts out the lyrics to the song we wrote about the past being more than just a memory, I glance back at Gavin.
He’s changed a lot since that scrappy, overly thin boy he used to be. Thick muscles strain and flex against his charcoal-colored T-shirt, intricate tattoos painting a mural up and down his arms. I can’t tear my eyes away from him as he rocks the drums with everything he has.