Leaving Amarillo(72)
Gavin’s doing his glarey, broody stare, which I now know is his I-hate-that-I-want-to-f*ck-you face. He looks almost as uncomfortable in his all-black attire as I feel.
“Is that a tie you’re wearing, Mr. Garrison?” I say, giving the skinny black tie a tug as we fall in behind Mandy and Dallas and head to the car.
“I don’t know,” he bites out at me. “Is that underwear you’re wearing, Miss Lark?”
“Actually I’m not wearing any,” I whisper conspiratorially to him. “There wasn’t any room for them under this dress.”
His eyes darken and the world around us falls away. He stalks past me without another word.
Well now he’s just hurting my feelings.
I don’t speak to anyone on the drive to the venue. I just watch out the window as the busy streets of Nashville blur by. Mandy makes a comment about my jacket but I don’t bother engaging. Whatever her game is, I’m not playing.
This is a big night and it’s not about me, or her, or even Gavin. It’s bigger than each of us as individuals, more powerful than we could ever be on our own. This is about the band, about everything we’ve put in to the success of Leaving Amarillo. The sacrifices and the time and the dedication. Blood and sweat and tears and nights and days in vans and rehearsing for hours on end. Not just us, but Nana and Papa gave everything they had to support our dream, too. Playing helped heal us when we were three broken kids and I’m not letting anyone get into my head and get in the way of what we’ve worked so hard for.
I glance over at Gavin and watch him drum his thumbs hard against his knees. My gaze lingers on his hands and for a brief second I remember how they felt on me. But when he feels my stare and turns my way, I resume staring out the window.
No, nothing is going to get in the way tonight. Not even my stupid heart.
The Palace is a fairly large venue. It’s half bar and restaurant, half stage and it’s full of men and women in everything from expensive suits to country western attire. A band called Black Revolver is leaving the stage and thanking the audience. Mandy ushers us to a sign-in table as another band called Cold September introduces themselves and begins to play. Their sound is more alternative than what I expected at a showcase in Nashville but it’s decidedly unique and I find myself paying more attention to them than Mandy’s instructions.
“Dixie, did you hear me?” she says, her voice equal parts exasperated and annoyed.
“Um, no. Sorry.” I have to shout a little over the music the closer we get to the stage. “What was that?”
“I said, you have ten minutes to mingle and introduce yourselves. Then you need to be ready to play your opener.”
I nod. “Got it.”
Dallas looks eagerly at all of us. “Same set list as last night, okay?” He looks like he wants us to put our hands in and do one of those sports huddle cheers but Gavin is just listening and nodding passively and I’m still partially distracted by the band that’s playing. “Guys? We good?”
“Yeah, D. We got this,” I say, reaching over and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.
He smiles at me, and Mandy nudges him. “You’re going to be amazing. You always are.” She means him, not the band. Just him. It’s obvious by the way she edges Gavin and me out with her shoulders, but I don’t even care. His smile widens and I’m happy that he’s happy.
“Okay, then,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get out there and meet some folks, shall we?”
I walk behind them, Gavin close beside me as if we’re silently competing for who gets to stand farthest in the back of our little group.
The first table Mandy stops at holds two men in suits and an attractive woman in a jacket similar to mine. Mandy says their names and the label they’re with, one with initials that I’m not familiar with. Dallas turns on the charm instantly, introducing each of us and giving them a short rundown on our band and the places we’ve played. I smile when they nod at me, but this is so not my area.
When I see that the woman at the table has returned her attention to the band onstage, I assume it’s okay to do the same. They’re older. These guys are probably in their forties or so. Before they finish their set, we follow Mandy to two men standing at a high-top table drinking liquor in short glasses.
“Brian Eades and Lowell Kirkowitz, meet Dallas and Dixie Lark and Gavin Garrison—or Leaving Amarillo. My newest clients.” Mandy winks and flirts as they chat with us about our band, how we came to be and where we’ve played. Dallas fields most of the questions while Gavin and I nod along like puppets whose strings he’s pulling.
Just as we start to walk away, moving on to another table, the one she called Brian, the younger of the two, catches my elbow. “Dixie, is it?”
I nod, looking over to Dallas, who doesn’t notice I’ve been held up. “Um, yeah.”
“I had a question for you. If you can spare a few minutes.”
I look over to my group once more and see that only Gavin has noticed my absence. He says something to my brother and I give them both a little wave. Mandy gives me a thumbs-up, which I assume means Brian Eades moonlights as a serial killer.
“Sure. I guess I do.”
He smiles and waits patiently for me to give him my full attention. After widening my eyes at Gavin, who looks as if he might like to set this entire bar on fire, I turn to Brian and lean close to hear what he’s asking.