blood pressure at a seriously nuclear level.
Other than the shit in my head, there’s no segue that leads me to blurt this out and I can plainly see the surprise on her face at my invasive inquiry.
Her eyes narrow as the surprise turns to anger.
“That you need to know about?” She lowers her fork and leans back in her seat. “Tell me, why exactly would you need to know if there was anything going on with me and Jase Wade?”
I know one thing. I fucking hate the way his name sounds in her mouth.
“Well,” I begin, sitting up straighter and clearing my throat. “For one, I’m on tour with him. And for two, I—”
“Mom! Oh my God! Mom, look! That’s him! That’s Dallas Walker!”
Hearing my name—well, part of it at least—I turn to see a group of girls who appear to be around twelve assaulting their moms with the announcement. A few of them have their cell phones out and are already heading this way.
Robyn looks as if she just remembered there were other people on the planet with us.
“Can I have your autograph?” A blue-eyed blonde with a pink-streaked side braid hands me her iPad mini in a Hello Kitty case and a stylus. My how times are changing. So much for napkins and Bics.
“Of course you can, darlin’. What’s your name, pretty girl?”
“Rebecca,” she says, smiling at me with bright pink braces. Girl likes pink apparently. “I play guitar, too.”
“Do you now? That’s awesome. I—”
“I am so sorry, Mr. Walker,” a woman interrupts as I’m signing Rebecca’s tablet. “We were just at the concert and the girls convinced us to stop in for cheese fries. I told them to leave you be, but they—”
“It’s fine. Really.” I hand Rebecca’s tablet back and a few others hand their items over to be signed. “I’ve always wanted to meet my prettiest fans. And here they are.” I wink at the group and giggles fill the diner.
Five concert tickets, two iPad minis, and a Rosa’s Diner menu later, I’ve signed and smiled and had my picture taken to their hearts’ content. The two moms thanked me profusely. One of them slipped me her number.
“Looks like you have that effect on women of all ages,” Robyn mutters under her breath. “Well, most of them.” She nods to a girl lagging behind the group.
She seemed shy, more reserved than the others, and she didn’t hand me anything to sign. Her dark curly hair in a low ponytail reminds me so much of Dixie, of how she had to wear my hand-me-downs, of how withdrawn she was after mom and dad died, and how I swore to myself that somehow, one day, I would make it better, that it’s almost painful to look at her.
“Can I sign something for you, sweetheart?” I ask her once the other girls have followed the two women with them toward the door.
She regards me warily, like I might bite. Then she shrugs, clearly not as impressed with me as the rest of the group was.
“Actually I’m more of a Jase Wade fan. But thanks. Great show tonight.” With that, she turns and leaves and I gape at Robyn. Who immediately bursts out in hysterical laughter.
“She just . . . totally . . . put . . . in your place,” she barely chokes out.
“Nice. Sheesh. And here I was finally feeling better about not writing and Dixie junior goes and puts me down.”
Robyn sobers almost instantly. “You haven’t been writing? But what about the songs you sang tonight?”
I cringe. I hadn’t meant to throw myself a pity party.
I grab a salt shaker and spin it back and forth between my hands. “Egh. Some of it was old stuff. I threw in a few covers, and Dixie wrote ‘Better to Burn.’ ”
“So . . . how long has it been since you’ve actually written anything?” The concern in her voice matches the way her eyes are watching me.
I focus on my salt shaker.
“A while. Six months maybe. More since I’ve actually written a full song. The band was working on one. Leaving Amarillo, I mean.” I hate that I have to clarify because I have a
Other than the shit in my head, there’s no segue that leads me to blurt this out and I can plainly see the surprise on her face at my invasive inquiry.
Her eyes narrow as the surprise turns to anger.
“That you need to know about?” She lowers her fork and leans back in her seat. “Tell me, why exactly would you need to know if there was anything going on with me and Jase Wade?”
I know one thing. I fucking hate the way his name sounds in her mouth.
“Well,” I begin, sitting up straighter and clearing my throat. “For one, I’m on tour with him. And for two, I—”
“Mom! Oh my God! Mom, look! That’s him! That’s Dallas Walker!”
Hearing my name—well, part of it at least—I turn to see a group of girls who appear to be around twelve assaulting their moms with the announcement. A few of them have their cell phones out and are already heading this way.
Robyn looks as if she just remembered there were other people on the planet with us.
“Can I have your autograph?” A blue-eyed blonde with a pink-streaked side braid hands me her iPad mini in a Hello Kitty case and a stylus. My how times are changing. So much for napkins and Bics.
“Of course you can, darlin’. What’s your name, pretty girl?”
“Rebecca,” she says, smiling at me with bright pink braces. Girl likes pink apparently. “I play guitar, too.”
“Do you now? That’s awesome. I—”
“I am so sorry, Mr. Walker,” a woman interrupts as I’m signing Rebecca’s tablet. “We were just at the concert and the girls convinced us to stop in for cheese fries. I told them to leave you be, but they—”
“It’s fine. Really.” I hand Rebecca’s tablet back and a few others hand their items over to be signed. “I’ve always wanted to meet my prettiest fans. And here they are.” I wink at the group and giggles fill the diner.
Five concert tickets, two iPad minis, and a Rosa’s Diner menu later, I’ve signed and smiled and had my picture taken to their hearts’ content. The two moms thanked me profusely. One of them slipped me her number.
“Looks like you have that effect on women of all ages,” Robyn mutters under her breath. “Well, most of them.” She nods to a girl lagging behind the group.
She seemed shy, more reserved than the others, and she didn’t hand me anything to sign. Her dark curly hair in a low ponytail reminds me so much of Dixie, of how she had to wear my hand-me-downs, of how withdrawn she was after mom and dad died, and how I swore to myself that somehow, one day, I would make it better, that it’s almost painful to look at her.
“Can I sign something for you, sweetheart?” I ask her once the other girls have followed the two women with them toward the door.
She regards me warily, like I might bite. Then she shrugs, clearly not as impressed with me as the rest of the group was.
“Actually I’m more of a Jase Wade fan. But thanks. Great show tonight.” With that, she turns and leaves and I gape at Robyn. Who immediately bursts out in hysterical laughter.
“She just . . . totally . . . put . . . in your place,” she barely chokes out.
“Nice. Sheesh. And here I was finally feeling better about not writing and Dixie junior goes and puts me down.”
Robyn sobers almost instantly. “You haven’t been writing? But what about the songs you sang tonight?”
I cringe. I hadn’t meant to throw myself a pity party.
I grab a salt shaker and spin it back and forth between my hands. “Egh. Some of it was old stuff. I threw in a few covers, and Dixie wrote ‘Better to Burn.’ ”
“So . . . how long has it been since you’ve actually written anything?” The concern in her voice matches the way her eyes are watching me.
I focus on my salt shaker.
“A while. Six months maybe. More since I’ve actually written a full song. The band was working on one. Leaving Amarillo, I mean.” I hate that I have to clarify because I have a
Similar Books
