Good Time Bad Boy (13 page)

“How did you cheat?” She crossed her arms and eyes him suspiciously.

“I never cheat at cards.” He indicated his arms, bare below the sleeves of his black t-shirt. “No hidden cards, no tricks. Just honest to goodness luck.”

Her mouth curved into a smirk. “Well, I guess I’m yours for the rest of the night.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. “Let me text Megan, then we can go.”

“Aren’t you going to ask what I’ve got in mind?”

“I told you, I’m feeling reckless.” She attacked the keyboard of her phone with her thumbs. Finished, she dropped it back into her purse and stood. “Better take your chance while you can, cowboy. You might not get another.”

Any doubts about what he had planned for the next couple of hours fell away. This girl needed what he wanted to give her almost as much as he did.

His truck ate up the pavement on the highway to the lake, headlights picking out the yellow eyes of an occasional animal in the trees at the side as they went around curves. Daisy turned his radio from a country station to a pop station. He turned it back. She gave him a sharp look.

“Hey, you said whatever I want. The king of hearts says I get to pick the music.”

“How do you listen to this stuff? It’s not even like what you play.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of why I’ve been listening to it. I want to know what’s current in Nashville.”

“I don’t even like country and I can tell you that. It all sounds like high school kids.”

He laughed. “Don’t you sound like the crotchety old lady wanting all the kids to get off her lawn.”

She slapped at his arm. “Shut up. I’m way younger than you.”

The reminder stung a little. “But you don’t like that high school music.”

They were almost to the bridge that traversed the lake before she spoke again. “It all sounded so adult to me when I was growing up. I couldn’t relate to it. Now country is for younger people but I guess I’m old enough that I still can’t relate to it.”

“I get what you’re saying.” He pointed at the radio. “I’m not really getting anything out of this, either. I hadn’t bothered in a long time to pay attention to what’s new and popular. I mean, I’d hear it some but that didn’t mean I was really paying attention.”

“Yeah, that’s how I do at the bar when the jukebox is on. It’s there and some of it soaks in, but I don’t really pay that much attention.”

“Do you pay attention when I sing?”

“Every now and then.”

He caught the curve of her smile in the low light as he pulled the truck into the parking lot of the state park at the lake. The temptation to take her someplace more isolated had been great, but he didn’t want to test his resolve too much.

Daisy looked around. “What are we doing here again?” She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and ran her fingers through it.

He would have gladly volunteered to do that for her. “Stargazing.” He got out and opened the door to the extended cab, removed his guitar from its case and grabbed a blanket from his emergency kit, then walked around to open her door.

Daisy swung her legs out and nearly bumped into him. “Are you for real with this?”

“Haven’t you ever been stargazing before?” He tossed the blanket over his shoulder and offered her his hand. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I promise.”

After a moment she took his hand. They walked down to the grass in front of the beach, not far from the bandstand used for Fourth of July shows and other events. Wade picked a spot and had Daisy hold his guitar while he spread the blanket. Making sure he left enough room for both her and the guitar, he laid flat on the blanket with his hands linked across his chest and looked up at the sky. “The view’s best from down here.” He patted the space on the blanket next to him.

Daisy joined him. Her hair tickled the side of his face. He wanted to take a lock and smooth it through his fingers, know what it felt like against his skin. He cleared his throat and pointed at the sky. “That’s the Big Dipper right there.”

“That one, I know.”

He moved his hand to the left. “Bet you didn’t that one is called the Gibson F-4. You can tell because it’s the shape of a mandolin.”

“Uh.”

“And that over there.” He moved his hand to the north. “That’s a Gibson L-5.”

“Okay, I’ll play. What’s a Gibson L-5?”

“Specifically, it’s the 1928 Gibson L-5 guitar that belonged to Mother Maybelle Carter, one of the pioneers of country music. That constellation right there shines so bright, it’s inspired countless stargazers for decades.”

Her throaty laugh sent pleasant shivers up and down his spine. She pointed at a section of sky over the lake. “Okay, what’s that?”

Wade thought for a moment. “That is a Gibson RB-Granada Mastertone, a banjo.”

“And who did it belong to?”

“Earl Scruggs. He was one of the greatest banjo pickers and bluegrass players who ever lived.”

Daisy scooted closer to him. “What else is up there?”

He moved his arm to let her snuggle up next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, one hand on his chest. “Back over there’s the 1944 Martin D-28 that belonged to Hank Williams. So many songs that still define country today were played on that guitar. It’s practically a holy relic.”

“You really love music, don’t you?”

“It’s who I am.” He rested his hand on his chest, fingers not far from hers. The night was quiet but alive. The steady lap of the water was joined by the occasional sound of a car going over the bridge. Crickets sang a constant chorus. A pair of owls did a call and response in the trees that dotted the picnic area. Peace filled him with an easy lassitude.

“Tell me about your guitar.”

Wade smiled. “My guitar is a Gibson Hummingbird electric acoustic in the wine red finish.” He couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice.

“I do like that red.” She propped her chin on his chest and met his eyes. “And those hummingbirds are beautiful.”

“The only thing I like better than those hummingbirds is how beautifully it plays. That was my dream guitar. I wanted one since the first time I saw a picture of one. It didn’t hurt that Gram Parsons played a Hummingbird.”

“Who’s that?”

Gram raised his head to give her an incredulous look. “You don’t know who Gram Parsons was? The Flying Burrito Brothers?”

She ticked an eyebrow up. “Nope.”

“Shit.” Gently, he lifted her so he could sit up. She followed suit, crossing her legs and placing her hands on the blanket behind her. He picked up his guitar. “The Byrds and the Flying Burrito Brothers are why the Eagles existed. Why country rock exists still today. They were legendary.”

“Never heard of them,” she said. “Well, I have heard of the Eagles.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Would you like me to get off your lawn, old man?” Daisy grinned.

He leveled his index finger at her. “Watch your tone. This is one of your country music lessons. There will be a test.”

Daisy threw her head back and laughed. He drank in the glorious sound, let it fill him up. She said, “If you’re gonna test me, I guess you better tell me about the Flying Enchilada Brothers then.” She tapped his leg with her foot. “Better play me one of their songs, too.”

“Burrito,” he corrected. “Get it right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I like you calling me sir, you keep that up.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I was taught to respect my elders.”

Wade settled the guitar across his lap. “Keep on teasing me about my age. We’ll see who wears out who.”

It was hard to tell in the dim light but he suspected her cheeks were stained a red almost as dark as his guitar. For once, she didn’t have a snappy comeback. Mindful of his intentions for the night, he forced himself back to thinking about music instead of all the things he’d like to do to wear her out.

“The Flying Burrito Brothers were a California band. They played country but it was a different kind of country. Some people called it cosmic country. Their sound was mellow and melodic. Some of their songs were so gentle, playing them is like holding something fragile in your hands, afraid you’re going to drop it and shatter it to pieces. They had a different sensibility. Rockers like Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were attracted to that sensibility. Gram Parsons wound up becoming the most famous member of the band.”

“What did he do to manage that?”

“Partly by being an amazing songwriter, partly by dying of an overdose when he was twenty-six years old. Out in the California desert of Joshua Tree.”

Daisy grimaced. “Shit.” She shook her head. “If he’d held on for a while, he could have made the twenty-seven club.”

The twenty-seven club, a group of artists who died at that age, included the likes of Robert Johnson, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janice Joplin, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse. “So you do know a little about music.”

“I like R&B and girl singers. I read about the twenty-seven club when Amy Winehouse died.”

“I’d heard of her but I’ve never really listened to her music.”

“You should. It’s really good.”

“What other girl singers you like?” Wade was genuinely curious about her taste in music. Finding out what kind of music spoke to someone, appealed to their sensibilities, always told him a lot about a person.

“Adele. Lana Del Rey. Pink.”

He had an Adele album but he’d have to look up the other names, check out their sound.

Daisy drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Play me something Gram Parsons sang.”

Wade launched into his favorite Parsons song,
Return Of The Grievous Angel
. The only thing better than the smile it brought to Daisy’s face was her asking to hear more. He played nearly a dozen songs before she became noticeably sleepy, and he realized what a long night it must have been for her. Rocky Top had been packed and here it was now long after midnight. He led her back to the truck and followed the directions she gave him to her place.

Her eyes were heavy as she unlocked her door. “I’m not asking you in.”

“I’m not expecting you to,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you got inside safe and sound.” He paused. “And I wanted to do this.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, resting his lips against her soft skin for a moment before breaking the contact.

“Thank you for tonight,” she said. “I had a good time.”

“Me too.” He touched her arm, just a quick, light caress. “Good night, Daisy.”

“Good night, Wade.” She opened the door then stopped. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I just. I like it that all those holy relic instruments are the constellations that guide you. That’s really nice.”

Emotion clutched at his heart and clogged his throat. “That’s...that’s the most amazing thing anybody’s ever said to me.”

“I’m so tired, I was afraid it wouldn’t make any sense.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“Good.” Daisy smiled and waved, then went inside the trailer.

He listened for the sound of the door being locked before turning back to his truck. He sang more Gram Parsons to himself all the way home.

D
aisy worked on putting her groceries away while Megan sat in the breakfast nook going through a basket of nail polish. Megan said, “How often do you check these? I think I found one that’s turned into a solid.”

It took Daisy a moment to realized what Megan said. “Throw it out.”

Megan lifted a bottle in the air. “This color is hideous. Why did you buy this?”

“Throw that one out, too.” She closed a cabinet harder than she meant to, the sound reverberating through her head.

“Okay, I’ve put up with this long enough. What’s wrong?”

Daisy wadded up the plastic grocery bags and stuffed them in another bag under the sink to use later as trash bags for the bathroom. “I went all week avoiding my mother. Quit listening to her voicemails after the third one. So of course she sicced Deanna on me. Bright and early this morning I get a call from Dee about how I’m hurting Momma’s feelings. How the way I treat her is a threat to her sobriety, because I’m not supportive enough. I tell her the shit on those voicemails and she just keeps going, like it’s my fucking fault our mother is like this.”

“What was on the voicemails?”

“I swear to God, that woman was nicer when she was a drunk.” Daisy pulled herself up to sit on the counter. “She just had to give me shit about that picture in the paper. First it was about what a sleazy reputation he has. Then it was about how some little nobody like me could never land a rich star like him. That he just wanted sex from me since that’s all men like him would ever think I’m good for.”

“Jesus Christ. Where is all this coming from? You’re right, when she was drinking, she was never this mean. Irresponsible as hell, sometimes downright neglectful, but never mean.”

Daisy snorted. “Sometimes neglectful? Shit. I don’t know if its sobriety or that church she joined. Whatever it is, I can’t stand being around her when she gets like this and I’m sick of her dumping it all on me. Dee doesn’t get shit like this dumped on her, no matter how many losers she dates. Donny’s a fucking pot dealer and she doesn’t say shit about that. I’m the one trying to make something better of myself, and I get the unending stream of the most judgmental shit you can imagine.”

“I’m sorry she’s like this.”

“And I’m always the bad guy. Every fucking time. Deanna makes excuses for her. Donny barely notices or even cares. I’m just expected to take it from her. Be the dutiful daughter and smile and nod and say, of course you’re right, Momma, no nice man could ever want to be with me.” Unshed tears clogged in her throat. She did her best to push the emotions back down but this was working up to be another Alice-inspired crying jag. God, she was so tired of that.

“You know that’s not true,” Megan said. “Look, I’ve only met Wade a couple of times and Chris doesn’t exactly speak highly of him. But he seemed cool to me and you’re a good judge of character and if you like him, then─”

“Am I a good judge of character? The only reason I’m not still dating losers like my sister is because one of them put me in the hospital. I haven’t dated anybody in two years because of that. Am I really judging Wade accurately or am I just so lonely that there’s things I’m missing?”