Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(25)

“Okay,” I tell him. “You guys want to come back to the motel?”

“I was thinking we should jam over at Lobo Lizard.”

“The bar?” I say.

“Yeah, I got us a gig. We’ll be playing to a live audience.”





Chapter 32



WHEN I SHOW up to the bar at six o’clock, Dale and Walt are setting up. I have only my guitar, but they have loads of other equipment: Walt’s various instruments, Dale’s guitar and bass, electrical cords and amps.

Dale shakes my hand and says, “I was afraid you might stand us up.”

“I thought about it,” I say. “It’s been a long time since I played in front of an audience.”

Lobo Lizard is about half the size of Pale Horse, the Redbud bar where Willow used to play, but there is a decent crowd filling the tables and barstools, though the small dance floor close to the stage is empty.

A waitress brings me a Sol that I didn’t order.

“The gig doesn’t pay,” Dale says, “but the beer is on the house.”

Dale and Walt have their setup routine worked out, so I pull out my guitar and act like I’m tuning it.

If this isn’t a hostile audience, I don’t know what is.

The door opens and Ariana walks in. She gives me a bright, friendly smile. Her hair is down, and she’s wearing a little bit of makeup. She’s also wearing a black skirt—the first time I’ve seen her in one—and a Def Leppard T-shirt.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, feeling even more nervous now. I have to work with her tomorrow whether I make a fool of myself or not.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this,” she says.

I nod to her shirt. “I take it you’re not much of a country music fan.”

She smirks. “I prefer rock and roll.”

Dale comes over, struggling to maintain his gregarious personality in the presence of Ariana. When she walks away to get a beer, Dale says, “How do I get her to marry me?”

I clap him on the back and laugh. “You could start by talking to her.”

We begin our sound check, and my nerves are a mess. I tell myself I’ve been involved in high-speed chases, I’ve faced men armed with shotguns and assault rifles, and my Stetson has been shot right off my head—I should not be scared to play some music in a little bar in the middle of nowhere.

But I am. I can’t deny it.

I try to picture Willow, going from playing bars to performing in huge venues. As the opening act for Dierks Bentley, she’d step out onstage to face an indifferent crowd eager to see the headliner, not someone with one single on the radio. She’d have to win over the audience with her energy and her talent. If she has the courage to step onto a stage like that, I need to match it.

“Ready?” Dale asks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Our rendition of “I Walk the Line” earns polite applause, but no one gets up and starts dancing. When I glance at Ariana, sitting alone at the bar, she raises her beer to me and nods.

Not bad, she seems to say.

I feel better, looser, and we keep going.

A successful cover band plays songs the audience can’t resist. Songs they’ll dance to. Songs they’ll sing along to. Songs they already know by heart. Next we surprise them with “Take Me Home, Country Roads” by John Denver. I change the lyrics, switching in “West Texas” for “West Virginia,” “Guadalupe Mountains” for “Blue Ridge Mountains,” and replacing “Shenandoah River” with “Rio Lobo.” The crowd loves it, and by the time we sing the second chorus, pretty much everyone in the bar is singing along with us.

Then we hit them with Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places.” The crowd sings practically the whole song with us, and the dance floor fills up.

I find myself smiling, having a great time.

I see people on the phone, telling their friends to come catch the show, and soon the place is packed, standing room only. When we’re playing the last song in our first set, I notice a group of guys walk into the bar. They’re all muscular and tough looking. All wearing pistols on their hips. This isn’t all that unusual. Open carry is legal in almost every state, but Texans seem to take advantage of it a lot more than most.

Chief Harris is with the group. He stands close to a guy who is even more muscular than he is. The guy has long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, a thick beard, tattoos covering both his arms. He’s wearing sunglasses that he doesn’t take off, and he crosses his arms and stares at me, as if appraising me.

One glance and I know who he is.

Gareth McCormack.

The alpha dog.





Chapter 33



WE TELL THE audience we’ll be back after a short break. As we’re setting down our instruments, Dale throws an arm around my shoulders and says, “Hot damn. That went better than I expected.”

“Is that your boss’s son?” I ask, nodding toward Gareth McCormack and his men, who have moved to the pool table, displacing players who had been in the midst of a game.

“Yeah, that’s Gareth,” Dale says. “He thinks his shit don’t stink, but he ain’t a bad guy to work with.”

“Are all those guys your coworkers?”