Holding Out For A Hero: SEALs, Soldiers, Spies, Cops, FBI Agents and Rangers by Tawny Weber, Opal Carew, Sharon Hamilton, Lisa Hughey, Denise A. Agnew, Caridad Pineiro, Gennita Low, Karen Fenech Page B
Authors: Tawny Weber, Opal Carew, Sharon Hamilton, Lisa Hughey, Denise A. Agnew, Caridad Pineiro, Gennita Low, Karen Fenech
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always set Jameson Daniels’ nerves on edge, until he began to feel the music in his bones. He covered up his shyness, closing his eyes and falling into the rhythm of his music. Then he felt comfortable enough looking out into the crowd he knew to be mostly women, about twenty deep, standing as close to the stage as his security would allow. Though he wore his Transitions shades, in time his eyes adjusted so he could see their gleaming faces. Flashing cameras still made him jump.
The music always playing their warmup when he walked out with his guitar, his rum and coke discreetly placed close by. But as he stepped up to the microphone, the band would quit treading water and begin some serious groove on. He preferred the heat level hot to begin with. The slow sexy songs came after he was good and sweaty, his voice becoming raspy. That’s what the crowd wanted. He always aimed to please.
Playing at Halfway to Heaven was a trophy experience for him, as it was for thousands of other up-and-coming Nashville stars who would sacrifice their right leg to have a gig here. If need be, they’d hobble around on stage, just as the old timers did who now drank too much. Drunk or sober, the audience loved them.
At twenty-five, he was perhaps starting late, and he was new to Nashville. But playing at Halfway to Heaven did two things, in order of importance. First, it gave him the chance to meet up with a producer who might buy his songs, or, better yet, offer him a record deal. Second, as the name implied, his social life and sexual needs were satisfied every night with a hot girl who would boost his confidence and stroke his ego, as well as a very important body part. He thought the venue name was well-chosen.
The bright faces of the lovelies cheered him up just as the band gave him that kick of confidence. He began his theme song,
Bring, bring it on, baby,
The night is still young…
He smiled, seeing his old friend, Thomas Becker, bellying up to the bar and raising his drink to him. Thomas had told him, “Shoot, Jameson, any little lady in the audience who didn’t have the idea of going home with you tonight sure had one after hearing that song. That’s your fuckin’ siren song. ‘ Come fuck me!’ ”
Thomas had been right here, his cowboy boots standing where Jameson’s were now. And he’d lived in the limelight, basked in the shadow of Jameson’s light. He was Jameson’sometimes warmup act, a friend who didn’t want to steal from him, just envied and liked him, and didn’t expect a handout. And as fast as Thomas’ sunk, Jameson’s star was on the rise.
Jameson tipped his hat to Thomas, the gesture returned. Then the girls started to scream, arms in the air, as he continued.
We were made for lovin’
We’re gonna have it all.
He didn’t look for a single face in particular as the sets played on. The band was having a good night, laughing and improvising with each other. The crowd was especially loud and responsive. He tried to take a short break, and they kept begging him to stay on stage, so he accepted someone’s shirt, wiped the sweat from his brow and chest, threw it back, and continued.
His break came twenty minutes late. Back in his dressing room, he set his guitar in the stand, removed his hat, and lifted his rum and coke—already prepared for him—to his forehead, as he sat back and propped up his feet.
Music filtered in through the dressing room door as it opened a crack. She had on impossibly tight jeans and red cowboy boots. Her white shirt was wet, sticking to a noteworthy chest. When she gave him that shy smile he could see the courage it took to sneak into his dressing room and admired her boldness, but remained seated.
Arlen Strickland, Jameson’s head of security, barged into the room behind the little blonde. “Sorry, Jameson. She slipped past me.” He had a hand on her forearm as the girl frowned and tented her eyebrows.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Daniels. Just wanted an autograph.
The music always playing their warmup when he walked out with his guitar, his rum and coke discreetly placed close by. But as he stepped up to the microphone, the band would quit treading water and begin some serious groove on. He preferred the heat level hot to begin with. The slow sexy songs came after he was good and sweaty, his voice becoming raspy. That’s what the crowd wanted. He always aimed to please.
Playing at Halfway to Heaven was a trophy experience for him, as it was for thousands of other up-and-coming Nashville stars who would sacrifice their right leg to have a gig here. If need be, they’d hobble around on stage, just as the old timers did who now drank too much. Drunk or sober, the audience loved them.
At twenty-five, he was perhaps starting late, and he was new to Nashville. But playing at Halfway to Heaven did two things, in order of importance. First, it gave him the chance to meet up with a producer who might buy his songs, or, better yet, offer him a record deal. Second, as the name implied, his social life and sexual needs were satisfied every night with a hot girl who would boost his confidence and stroke his ego, as well as a very important body part. He thought the venue name was well-chosen.
The bright faces of the lovelies cheered him up just as the band gave him that kick of confidence. He began his theme song,
Bring, bring it on, baby,
The night is still young…
He smiled, seeing his old friend, Thomas Becker, bellying up to the bar and raising his drink to him. Thomas had told him, “Shoot, Jameson, any little lady in the audience who didn’t have the idea of going home with you tonight sure had one after hearing that song. That’s your fuckin’ siren song. ‘ Come fuck me!’ ”
Thomas had been right here, his cowboy boots standing where Jameson’s were now. And he’d lived in the limelight, basked in the shadow of Jameson’s light. He was Jameson’sometimes warmup act, a friend who didn’t want to steal from him, just envied and liked him, and didn’t expect a handout. And as fast as Thomas’ sunk, Jameson’s star was on the rise.
Jameson tipped his hat to Thomas, the gesture returned. Then the girls started to scream, arms in the air, as he continued.
We were made for lovin’
We’re gonna have it all.
He didn’t look for a single face in particular as the sets played on. The band was having a good night, laughing and improvising with each other. The crowd was especially loud and responsive. He tried to take a short break, and they kept begging him to stay on stage, so he accepted someone’s shirt, wiped the sweat from his brow and chest, threw it back, and continued.
His break came twenty minutes late. Back in his dressing room, he set his guitar in the stand, removed his hat, and lifted his rum and coke—already prepared for him—to his forehead, as he sat back and propped up his feet.
Music filtered in through the dressing room door as it opened a crack. She had on impossibly tight jeans and red cowboy boots. Her white shirt was wet, sticking to a noteworthy chest. When she gave him that shy smile he could see the courage it took to sneak into his dressing room and admired her boldness, but remained seated.
Arlen Strickland, Jameson’s head of security, barged into the room behind the little blonde. “Sorry, Jameson. She slipped past me.” He had a hand on her forearm as the girl frowned and tented her eyebrows.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Daniels. Just wanted an autograph.
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