Run Rose Run(7)

“That’s because I look ambitious.” She leaned forward like she was about to tell him a secret. “And I also look like I did my makeup in a Popeyes bathroom.” She held out a slender arm. “Seriously,” she said. “I really did. On this here wrist is nothing but pure eau de fried chicken.”

The bartender stared at her for a moment and then burst out laughing. “You’re funny. Country music’s a tough business. Maybe you should consider a career in comedy.”

She said, “Yeah, that’s on my bucket list, right after climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and becoming a contortionist in Cirque du Soleil. But I need to get this dream accomplished first because it’s in the number one spot. So do you want to keep chatting me up or do you want to hear what I’ve got?”

“Can you sing?” he asked.

“Like my name was Melody,” she said.

Billy didn’t say anything for a moment. He got a bottle of whiskey down from the shelf and poured some into a shot glass. But instead of giving it to a customer, he knocked it back himself.

She watched him, her heart fluttering in her chest. She couldn’t fake confidence like this much longer, but she couldn’t let this chance slip away, either.

“Okay, listen,” she said, more serious now. “I was kidding just then. I don’t care about mountains or circuses. I only care about this.”

Billy dropped his shot glass into a sink of bubbly water. “Do you have any idea how many people come up to me every week, just like you’re doing?” he asked.

“Probably about a million,” AnnieLee acknowledged. “But I’m one in a million—not one of a million. That’s a big difference there.”

Billy pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I did just kick out my filler act.”

“Ray?” AnnieLee gasped.

“That man can out-Cash Johnny when he’s sober.”

AnnieLee sat up straighter. “I guess this is my lucky night,” she said.

“I guess it is,” Billy agreed.

AnnieLee bit her lip. “Just one thing,” she said. “Do you happen to have a guitar I could borrow?”





Chapter

6



If AnnieLee had been jittery trying to talk her way into singing, it was nothing compared to how she felt as she stood at the back of the bar, waiting for her turn to go up onstage. Nerves made her chest hurt so bad she almost wondered if she was having a heart attack.

Deep breaths, girl, she told herself. This ain’t the firing squad.

She touched the edge of a picture of Emmylou Harris that was hanging on the wall and then brushed a speck of cigarette ash off the frame of Ruthanna Ryder’s photo, wishing that somehow the spirits of these great country women would give her strength.

She scanned the room, trying to breathe long and slow. There were only a few dozen people in the bar, most of whom probably wouldn’t even look up from their beers when she started playing. So why did she feel so damn nervous? Her hands were sweaty, and her cheeks felt as hot as frying pans.

Maybe she was so jumpy because this was the only first chance she’d ever get. Or maybe it was because she was scared and alone and she needed some kind of proof that this all wasn’t some giant mistake.

The singer with the ten-gallon hat and the battered Martin came striding off the stage to the sound of half-hearted applause. He passed close by AnnieLee on his way to the bar.

“Good luck, kid,” he said gruffly, and then it was her turn to walk up those three impossible steps.

She made it onto the stage without tripping—and without turning tail and running, which she did for one instant consider doing. Her legs were trembling, and her heart had shot so far up into her neck she wasn’t sure she could speak. She sank onto the folding chair. Keeping her head down, she moved the lower microphone so it was positioned right in front of the sound hole of the guitar and then adjusted the vocal mic so it was close to her lips. When she looked up, ready to face her audience, she realized she could barely see anything or anyone with that stage light in her face.

Well, she thought, that’s probably good, all things considered.

She cleared her throat. “Good evening,” she managed, and the microphone squealed. Startled, she jumped back before collecting herself and trying again. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m kinda new at this. But I guess I’ll at least sound better than that.”

A low chuckle floated up from the front row. Encouraged, AnnieLee gave the guitar’s strings a light flick of her fingers. “I want to thank you for sitting here with me tonight,” she said as she twisted the tuning peg on her high E. “Living in Nashville, you’ve probably seen more live music than I’ve seen hot dinners.”

She began to strum a chord progression she figured they’d recognize—“Crazy”—and she could see Billy behind the bar, nodding his head in approval.

The safest thing to do was to play a cover—she knew that. Something old and beloved, or else a song the middle-agers in the room would’ve sung in high school. “Strawberry Wine,” maybe, or “Friends in Low Places.”

But as she got ready to channel Patsy Cline, AnnieLee hesitated. This was her stage right now—this was her chance. Why sing someone else’s words when she could sing her own?