Of course, I am supposed to be in Bear Valley, not so sure I am supposed to be here, specifically. I don’t know why I didn’t just tell him I would be at his show, but part of me I think wants to see Bee in his element, just in his life.
Hearing Baylor sing is always a treat. Even now, as we have set up in his studio working on lyrics and hooks and bridges for hours on end since my arrival. Even though I can pass by him in the kitchen or sit next to him for a meal, Baylor still seems far away from me. Still somehow untouchable, just like he looks on that stage.
Halfway through the set Baylor starts taking requests and goes off his set list. I smile at the ones thrown to him. More than a few are his own songs, which I’m guessing isn’t news to this crowd. It’s not a secret, well-kept or otherwise, that Baylor writes the songs I sing.
I lean back against the exposed brick, perched on a barstool with a perfect view and a fresh beer on the table by me when someone shouts out a request for “something new.” I look over at Nix who just raises her eyebrows. I wonder if this is something he does often, showcasing new work here at Quinn’s bar.
“What do you know,” I lean over and tell Nix, “The Bear Valley locals hear my songs before I do.” I can’t help but love the idea of that.
Nix smiles. “Baylor will always have to be shared with Bear Valley.”
I nod. I know that; I do. But, this certainly brings it all to light.
“Alright,” Baylor says, strumming a few chords as he looks off into the distance for a moment — right into the stage light.
I know that look.
It lights up his eyes, allowing the sexy contrast with his dark coloring.
Baylor turns around and waves off his band, and they all sit back and open up water bottles as Baylor changes out his guitar pick for a different sound.
The intimacy of the moment strikes me as almost perfect. I’m jealous of his rapport and closeness with the crowd. Here is the core of Baylor as a performer and a man. It’s all about the music. My last concert was in a stadium that seated ninety-thousand people. I could see no faces, and barely make out the yells from the crowd.
“The band doesn’t know this one,” Baylor explains over the sound of his guitar. “Just some lyrics I have been playing around with for a bit.” He looks down, turning the random chords into a song.
Baylor’s voice wraps around the words like it always does, and I swear it’s even hotter than it used to be to hear him sing. He sings about reaching and wanting. The song is about. . .hope.
The thing pulling you back
From the abyss
It’s hope, just hope
And they’ll tell you it’s harmless
The crowd is quiet, listening to the words and I don’t know any performer anywhere who wouldn’t kill for the anticipation this room has for the next line, the next chord.
People are swaying along with the song, getting into the words and the whiskey on the rocks delivery, which is perfect for this song. This piece doesn’t sound like something he just finished. Baylor sings the song like they are old friends.
I can tell by the cadence of his voice he is almost to the end of it, and he closes his eyes to finish.
But, did you know
It’s the hope
That kills you
His voice lingers on the final “hope,” stabbing it straight into everyone’s guts, and twisting with the last lines.
After this many years in the business and he can still say something new. I swallow hard, the desire to be up there with him making that song come to life is a powerful thing.
I want those words on my tongue. Even now, I can’t help myself from sort of singing the song I just heard under my breath, playing with it.
I gesture to Nix and Caleb, and we slip out to head back to the ranch.
There are exactly sixteen steps from one side of Baylor’s foyer to the other.
Ask me how I know.
