Black Gold (2 page)

Cheering erupted from the men gathered around the pool tables as they pushed a member of their group toward the stage. It didn't look like he felt much like singing, but his rowdy friends weren't about to let him sit back down. When the bar owner handed him the microphone, he mumbled something unintelligible and tried to give it back.

The audience started chanting his name as Stiletta got up from her barstool and went back on stage. She picked up her battered old guitar and handed it to the man before she jumped gracefully down from the stage and returned to her seat. He sat on the stool the bartender had dragged into the middle of the stage and looked around, his shoulders sloped in defeat. "Oh, all right," he said, tipping his hat in the direction of the audience without actually looking at them. "Evenin'," he added softly, while he made a few adjustments to the tuning.

"Here we go." Carl sighed, as the waitress set their drinks down in front of them. "I
hate
amateur night." He took a deep sip and Regina, who’d been considering sending hers back, did the same, wincing at the cloying sweetness of the drink. She might well need the alcohol to get through the performance by the "local favorite." For scouts with finely trained ears, unpolished performers could be sheer agony.

The man cleared his throat and gave the body of the worn guitar an affectionate little pat. Then he strummed a couple of chords and began to sing.

"Hold the press," Carl said after a few bars.

Chase Warner, whoever he was, had a hell of a voice, world-weary and gritty and resonant. The notes of an unfamiliar song in a minor key poured from him effortlessly as though he'd learned it as a child and sung it in the shower a thousand times. By the first chorus, Carl had his laptop back out and had jammed the little desktop microphone into place, furiously typing notes. Regina tried to absorb and mentally catalog as much as she could about the man. Around six feet tall, solidly built but not heavy, with nice muscular forearms under an unexceptional knit shirt. Chestnut brown hair, skin lightly tanned. Reasonably good haircut, though Regina would probably recommend he grow it a couple more inches, maybe get some lowlights to make the blond ends really pop. Gorgeous dark eyes—hard to tell in this light, but Regina was guessing brown—though he didn't make nearly enough visual contact with the audience. Didn't show them he wanted to have their babies, as Meredith always said.

Regina risked a glance at Carl. Damn—he was hanging onto every note. Why couldn't he have left before this guy took the stage? Stiletta was good, and with a little polish and a new wardrobe, she would be very commercial. But this guy—Chase something, wasn't that his name?—was the real deal. Like a young Randy Travis, with those soulful eyes and engaging, easy grin once he got comfortable with the song. The way his eyes crinkled when he winked at the older ladies at the front table—pure gold.

As he moved smoothly through a key change, his voice reached down inside Regina and gave her heart a little tug... stirring something else in the process, something that hadn't been stirred in a while.

Charisma: the man had buckets of it. He wore his old, frayed blue jeans like a second skin, and the leather bracelet on his wrist showed off his corded muscle and the faint gold hairs on his tawny skin. The longer Regina listened to him, the better he looked. Professionally speaking, of course.

When the song ended, the rowdy group in the back exploded with cheering, yelling his name and stomping their boots. Chase set Stiletta's guitar carefully back in its stand and looked out into the audience, his eyes finding Regina’s. They lingered there, and she felt a thrill of electricity along her spine. It was as if he noticed something special in her, something he wanted to hold onto as much as she wanted this moment not to end.

His grin went adorably crooked, and he stepped off the stage, coming toward her. He was saying something to her as he made his way through the bar tables, something she couldn't quite hear.

She stood up, moving to meet him as though drawn by an invisible force. "I'm Regina McCary," she said, holding out her hand. "That was amazing."

"I think I'm going to be sick," he said before turning away from her and lurching across the bar to the men's room.

"Nice going, Reggie," Carl said, behind her. "Let's double down, what do you say? I'm going to sign them
both
. If I do, I get Buckeye—and a second chance with you. If you can sign even one of them, we're settled up on the wedding and you can cook me a consolation dinner."

"You're on," Regina said. Not because she had any intention of spending one more night with lying, smooth-talking Carl Cash-nee-Bettendorf—but because she wasn't about to let Chase Warner out of her sights, not until he'd signed on the dotted line and packed his bags for Nashville.

CHAPTER TWO

Chase came out of the stall and headed straight for the sink. He was tempted to stick his entire head under the faucet, but he didn't think it would fit. Instead he washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and wished he had a toothbrush. He hadn't had this much to drink since the night of his father's funeral, and he'd sworn the next day on the way to the lawyer's office to hear the reading of the will that he'd never end up like his father. Gerald Warner had drunk too much, and even though Chase rarely did, he had no intention of tempting fate.

But when he'd made that promise to himself, he had no way of knowing that six months after the funeral he'd be living in Conway, North Dakota, working on an oil rig, bringing up crude from deep underground, and living in a bunkhouse with four other men and one woman who had become his best friends. Friends who weren't about to let his twenty-eighth birthday pass without a proper celebration. And since every single one of them had bought him a shot, and Chase thought it would be rude to refuse, he'd downed them all—as well as the ones bought for him by other well-wishers, including his boss from out on the rig, and the guy who sold tamales from the trunk of his car.

"That's right, buddy, clear your head," the man at the next sink said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You're gonna be good as new."

Chase turned, expecting to see Calvin or Jimmy. Instead, he found himself staring at a guy in a black shirt with a black string tie, topped with a black jacket. Black jeans and boots completed the look. Very Ring of Fire, except that his smooth, tanned face was way too perfect to resemble the Man in Black.

"I think I might’ve had a little too much," Chase said ruefully.

"Hey, when can you cut loose a little, if not your birthday? I'm Carl Cash," he said, offering his hand.

"You related to Johnny?" Chase asked, shaking hands and wincing at the crushing grip.

"Heh, well, I try not to take advantage," Carl said modestly. He took a card from the pocket of his shirt and handed it over.

Chase squinted, the print wavering in front of his eyes. "Professional talent management," he managed to read. "Nashville. Oh, you here to see Stiletta?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I hope to talk to her."

Chase nodded. "Figured it was just a matter of time before she was headed for Music City. She's really got talent. I tell you what, you spiff her up a little, she'll pack 'em in."

It was about time Sherry got a break, and Chase struggled to pull himself together so he didn't accidentally blow her chances. This guy Cash seemed decent enough, if you could judge a man's character by spending a few minutes in a public bathroom with him after throwing up, which on second thought struck Chase as unlikely. Still, Carl Cash didn't need to know Sherry had been juggling two other jobs and sleeping in the Tar Barn to make ends meet for herself and her little brother.

"Yeah, we'll see. Meanwhile, you've got a hell of a voice yourself, Chase. You ever perform professionally?"

"No," Chase said, suddenly on the alert. "No, no, uh-uh. Nope. Hey, I got to get back to my friends. Nice to meet you."

He was already backing toward the door, but Carl followed. "Hey, wait up, I'm serious. I'd like to talk to you some more, maybe take a listen to your demos."

"I don't have any," Chase said. It wasn't really a lie, since none of the recordings were here in Conway. They were all sitting in a storage unit back in Red Fork, Arkansas, along with his father's war medals and the silver comb and brush that had belonged to the mother he didn't remember, who had died when he was three years old.

"Well, we can work around that."

Chase pushed through the door, back into the din of the bar, but he didn't want to be a complete jerk, so he turned around and faced Carl. "Look, it was sure nice to meet you, and I'm flattered that you liked my singing, but that was just for fun. I don't do it professionally."

"But you might be able to. Not to be crass, but what can you pull down, working on an oil rig up here? Thirty, forty thousand a year?"

More like eighty
, Chase thought but didn't say. Since the boom began, a shortage of workers meant you could make a lot of money if you were willing to work hard. In a couple years, he'd have saved more money than he'd earned in the entire ten years since high school. Which was a hell of an irony, since—thanks to Gerald—he didn't have to work much at all any more. If he was careful, he could probably make his inheritance last another ten years.

But now that Gerald was dead, that chapter of his life was over.

"I do all right," he said, in a steelier tone than he intended.

Carl didn't look offended. "What I'm talking about is you doing
more
than all right. I'm talking about getting you in front of a crowd that can appreciate you, making the kind of money that really adds up." He stepped a little closer, which Chase had to give him credit for, since he was pretty sure he didn't smell very good. He, Jimmy, and Zane had just come off a three-week hitch without a day off, and he'd barely managed a shave and a clean shirt before coming out tonight.

"But that's not what you really want, is it?" Carl continued. "You want to sing. I've known enough guys like you to see it. The way you handle the guitar. Your first line as smooth as the last. Need to find out who writes for you, by the way, but we'll get to that."

Chase edged away from him. "Don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, not meeting Carl's eyes. "It's just a hobby."

"Hobby, my ass. But all right. You go party with your friends. Enjoy your birthday. You have my card. Give me a call tomorrow, and we'll get this thing rolling."

"I really don't think—"

Carl tipped an imaginary hat. A black one, no doubt. "Don't fight it, my friend. You were born to be a star."

*   *   *

"We are never going to drink our way out of this," Zane said, gazing at the row of shot glasses. Each held top shelf tequila courtesy of Carl Cash, who'd slipped the bartender a stack of bills before leaving.

"I got a solution for that," Chase said. He turned to the audience, which was settling back into their seats as Sherry/Stiletta came back on stage and started tuning her guitar. She was a good kid—he just hoped she was tough enough for the big city ways and hard-edge business side of Nashville. Ever since she'd taken up residence in the Tar Barn, she'd been like a little sister to the rest of them. A guy like Carl Cash, if he pushed her too hard, could have her in over her head before she had time to catch her breath. Chase made a mental note to go visit her in the Tar Barn tomorrow and make sure she was handling it all okay.

But that was tomorrow's problem. Today's was lined up on the bar. "Hey, Grover, Rickshaw, Tadpole—drinks on me!" he shouted, getting the attention of some guys he worked with on the rig. Even though they could all afford to drink in the swankier establishments in town, where oilmen lined up four deep at the bar trying to talk to the few women, these were the sort of boys who preferred to drive a few miles out of the way to find a place that reminded them of home.

"Hey, happy birthday, man," Rickshaw Jones said, picking up a couple of the shot glasses and draining them in a row. "What are you now, old man, forty? Fifty?"

"In your dreams," Chase said, sipping at his beer as his friends guffawed and made jokes at his expense.

"Excuse me," a voice said at his elbow. A female voice, attached to a faint cloud of perfume. It was so rare that Chase was around any women besides Sherry, Jayne, his landlady and the check-out clerks at Wal-Mart that he was momentarily disoriented.

He turned and found himself staring down at a woman who looked like she walked right out of the 1950s. Her blond hair was curled and pinned against her pale, long neck. Heavy, black eyeliner and a dusting of pearly glimmer accented her wide, blue eyes, and her lips were a bright red pout. She was wearing a polka-dot dress that cinched tight at the waist before flaring out into a skirt that barely grazed her knees. She was a rockabilly dream come true.

"Ma'am," Chase said automatically, then chastised himself inwardly. Gerald had ridden him hard about his manners. "Ma'am" and "sir" were as ingrained as the notion that Chase would never be good enough to carry on the Warner name.

"I'm hardly a
ma'am
." The woman laughed. She had a nice laugh, throaty and deep and genuine. "My name is Regina McCary. I'd love to buy you a drink."

Jimmy hooted, nearly falling off his chair. Chase noted the shot glasses had all been drained; his friends wouldn't be feeling too good tomorrow. Or him, for that matter. Skipping that last shot didn't exactly make up for everything he'd had to drink already. Sober, he'd never have had the courage to get up on that stage.

Or to do what he did next.

He offered Regina McCary his arm and steered her to a booth in a dim corner of the bar. Maybe a beautiful woman was exactly what he needed to pull him out of the blues that had been chasing him all week as his birthday drew near. "There's no way you're buying me a drink," he said, "but seeing as it's my birthday, I guess it's my prerogative to buy
you
one. As long as you tell me what you're doing in town—and how long you're planning to stay."