Nashville.
It’s a whistling, whooping, hell-raising, bass-thumping, guitar-twanging, sequined city, served with a side of creative despair. I love it best at night, when the streets swell with people looking for a good time and the neon lights reflect in the dazzled eyes of tourists. I love the sway of leather fringe, the stamp of handcrafted cowboy boots on polished floors, the hands lifted in blissful adoration of the music, the droplets of drinks spilled while dancing. I love the swerving hips, the crooning voices, and the raucous bands.
Whenever I feel the urge to escape the New Orpheum, I go to Lower Broadway, the pounding heart of the city’s nightlife. That’s the only Nashville many tourists ever see, but as a local, I’m also acutely aware of the grungy back streets lined with dilapidated housing and the railroad tracks where grifters go to inject the money they’ve scraped together during the day. I know about the century-old houses bought up by developers and ripped apart to make way for the pristine mansions of wealthy people fleeing California and New York. Iknow about the farmlands that stretch for miles around the outskirts of the city, and I know they are the heart of Nashville, too.
But those peaceful lands and quiet fields aren’t what I need when I come out at night. I need the tourists, the strangers, the wanderers, the people who are easy to extricate from the crowd, the ones who won’t be missed for a night. I refuse to prey on the addicts and the unhoused, so I thread my way through the visitors instead. These people have money to burn. They’re here for bars with no cover charge, for free music and dancing, for flirting and sex and cheap drinks. They won’t be much worse for wear when I’m done with them.
Tonight, Meg and I are meeting up with a couple of other girls. It’s best that way. When I disappear, they can give her a ride home.
I’m sure Meg thinks I’m a nymphomaniac, and it pleases me that she doesn’t judge me for that or treat me any differently. She simply accepts the way I am. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so accommodating if she knew what I really do to the men I seduce.
“There they are!” Meg waves to a pair of girls in crop tops, miniskirts, and cowboy boots. She makes introductions. The tall one is Gabriella—ebony-skinned and elegant, with soft dark eyes and intricately braided hair. The short one is Jaz, curvy and luscious, her pale arms covered in elaborate tattoos. I’m not sure where Meg meets all the people she seems to know. She makes friends more easily than anyone I’ve ever met.
Music is pouring out of the nearest doorway, so we wedge ourselves through the elbows and shoulders into the steamy heat of the crowd. The smell of the packed bodies is dizzying for me. I can feel my gums swelling, my lips twitching back. I waited too long this time. I should have gone hunting sooner. But I’ve managed worse cravings.
I’ve got this under control, I tell myself, over and over, as I lift one hand and bob along with the crowd, pretending to be transported by the jaunty vibe of the music.
And truthfully, it helps. Music distracts me, at least temporarily—gives me a hit of dopamine that’s just powerful enough to tide me over. Drinks help, too, so when Gabriella jostles her way back to our group with her hands full of cocktails, I take one gratefully.
I can’t get drunk, though. Got to keep my wits sharp if I’m going to find a mark.
Sometimes I picture myself as a ranch hand, singling out a calf, cutting it from the herd, flinging the lasso, jerking it tight with a cruelsnap. Down he goes, and I’m on top of him, tying his legs before he even knows what’s happening. He’ll get to run free, but not until I’m ready.
While I scan the bar for the right mark, I keep jiving to the music. The sheer amount of talent in this city never ceases to astonish me. In Nashville, world-class singers and musicians play in random bars, dives, and pizza joints for tips. Published songwriters, master guitarists, skilled vocalists, and talented drummers mingle with the tourists. You could bump elbows with somebody famous and never know it.
“Too hot in here,” Meg calls. “Too many people.”
I nod, understanding. She’s small, so she can feel overwhelmed more quickly amid densely packed bodies. We sidle out of the bar with the other girls and head up the street, past a group of guys embroiled in a heated debate, past a middle-aged couple holding hands, past a dozen shrill bridesmaids and one boisterous bride.
The next bar we duck into is quieter. A scruffy man on the stage is crooning a beautifully desolate country song.
Meg and Jaz head to the bar for more drinks, but I stand still, entranced by the timbre of the singer’s voice.
“What is it, do you think?” I say aloud, almost to myself. “What makes this city so passionate about music?”
Gabriella swirls the ice in her cup. “Started with the Grand Ole Opry, I guess.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t seem like enough to explain the way musicfeelshere—like it’s necessary. Like it’salive. Like it possesses people’s entire souls and feeds off them. And sometimes it grants their wishes, and sometimes it just…gnaws them down to bones, bit by bit, starving them with hope.”
Gabriella crooks an eyebrow at me, and I laugh a little.
“Sorry, I can get weirdly philosophical sometimes.”
“It’s okay.” She smiles. “My daddy used to say that music is a language. Some people like the way it sounds, but they don’t bother learning it. Some people learn just enough to get by. Some people master it. And then others—they’re born knowing it. It’s in their bones and blood. It’s their mother tongue. Lyrics, instruments, voice, dance…however they choose to express it, they feel some kinda way about music, and other people just don’t get how deep the connection goes.”
“That’s beautiful,” I say. “Your daddy sounds like a wise man.”
“He was.” She closes her lips tightly.
“My parents passed away last year.”
“Then you get it.”
“I do.”
We’re quiet for a moment, listening to the first few bars of the guitarist’s next song, which is more up-tempo and gets a few people dancing. Then, impulsively, I ask, “Do you believe in muses?”
“Like for inspiration?”
