Dave raises his hands. “Lord, no. Just let me know if the weirdo comes back to bother y’all and I’ll kick him out. I’ll call the sheriff if I gotta.”
Something ain’t right. Dave’s a tall, broad fella and I bet he’s had plenty of experience laying down the law in his bar. Why would he be scared of that Trevor kid pretending to be a cowboy?
“I think we’ll be fine.” Tally says with a tight smile, and Dave goes to serve the other customers.
“So what’s the big deal with Trevor?” I ask Erin.
“Ugh. Him.” Erin’s voice drips with disgust.
“Trevor’s a classic scumbag name,” Tally remarks over the rim of her glass.
Erin rolls her eyes. “Nobody in town messes with his family. His daddy runs a huge cattle operation and they recently found oil on their property. He never has had a lick a’ sense, but now hisego is swollen to the size of the moon. To make matters worse, he’s gotten engaged to the daughter of some finance big shot from the city.”
Tally chugs the bourbon and slams the glass on the bar. “Fuck, I hate men like that.”
“Best to stay away.” Erin clears her throat. “I’m gonna go to the ladies’ room and give y’all some alone time to prepare for your show.”
When she’s out of earshot, I sidle up to Tally. “Slow down with the drinks, Trouble.”
“You ain’t my daddy,” she teases weakly.
“No, but Iamyour concerned husband.”
“Ex-husband,” she mumbles, but it lacks the usual fire.
I grab her chin between my thumb and forefinger, making her look at me. “Instead of drowning yourself in bourbon, how ‘bout you tell me what’s bothering you?”
She pulls away. “Nothin’.”
“Please. Talk to me.”
She traces the rim of the empty glass with a single finger. “It’s stupid.”
I grasp her by the waist, turn her on the bar stool and step between her legs. Her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol and my groin pressed against her center, but worry is plain in her eyes.
“What did I tell you about this self-deprecating talk? I don’t wanna hear none of that,” I scold affectionately, cupping her face with both hands.
“I’m… nervous,” she whispers.
Confusion filters through me. This woman has filled entire stadiums of fans and performed in front of tens of thousands of people.
“You’re nervous about playing in this old honky-tonk where even the AC ain’t workingproperly?”
She nods bashfully.
“But I thought this is what you wanted?”
She nods again and I realize I don’t have to understand her reasons. I just want to be there for her.
I kiss her softly and press my forehead to hers. “If you changed your mind, we can get the hell outta here. No pressure.”
“But I want to stay and sing,” she says firmly. “It’s complicated.”
“Can you try to explain it to me?” I ask.
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “When I perform as superstar Tally Creed, I play a role. Despite all the shape-wear pinchin’ my body and the stupid wigs givin’ me a headache, it’s safe. The crowd sees the curated, perfect version of me. But here in this bar, it’s just me, raw and unfiltered, dressed in a thrifted maxi skirt and an old Brooks & Dunn T-shirt. Hell, I didn’t even clean my boots.”
Her gaze drifts to the tiny wooden stage, a stool and a mic in the center lit up by two lights dangling precariously from the ceiling. A faded, gold sequin curtain nailed to the wall serves as a backdrop.
