Good Time Bad Boy (16 page)

Daisy curled her lips into a smile that managed to be both sweet and sinful. She turned and left him standing there, hard and aching and counting the hours until tomorrow night.

W
ade pinched the bridge of his nose, doing his best to be patient. His mother was on the  other end of the phone, lecturing him about getting along with Chris. This was something she felt the need to do every once in a while, and he could only hope Chris got a version of the lecture too. Wade had learned the hard way that it was best to just shut up, listen, and say yes ma’am at the appropriate times. Thankfully she was finally winding down.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a rush. “Is the Escott still the nicest place in town?” The Escott Hotel took up half a city block not far from the town square and across from the now defunct train depot. It had served as the primary hotel for visitors traveling by train for years but that was decades ago. Since then it had been turned into an elegant restaurant on the ground floor, with the old rooms renovated into apartments.

The question through her off balance. “The Escott? Why? Do you have plans?”

Did he have plans? Oh dear God, yes he had plans. None he was willing to discuss with his mother. “I was thinking about going out to dinner tonight, that’s all.”

“With a lady friend?”

God damn that little bastard Chris and his willingness to gossip with their mother. “Momma.”

“Oh, fine. Though it wouldn’t hurt to tell me if you’re dating.”

He thought of what Daisy said about not wanting to be his dirty little secret. That wasn’t his intention at all. He just didn’t want to get into an invasive conversation with his mother. But really, what was more important? Protecting his privacy or respecting Daisy? Just admitting he had a date and who it was with hardly counted as giving up his privacy. So he gritted his teeth and answered. “I’m taking Daisy McNeil out to dinner.”

Marlene repeated the name. “That sounds familiar but I don’t think I know her.”

Wade closed his eyes. “She’s a waitress at Rocky Top.” He counted the seconds the silence lasted and made it to twelve before his mother spoke again.

“Well, Randy always hires nice, hard-working young girls.” A slight acidic undertone flavored the bland words.

Wade dropped his chin onto his chest and resisted the urge to throw the phone. “She’s twenty-six, Momma.”

“Mmm. Well, unfortunately the dining room at Escott’s is only open on the weekends now. The winery’s got a nice little restaurant but you might want to call ahead and make sure you can get a table. It’s a popular spot in the summer.”

He really had been gone too long. “There’s a winery here now?”

His mother sighed. “Hold on, I’ll email you the link to their website.”

Marlene Sheppard might be nearing retirement age, but she was far from being ready to let the world pass her by. Wade thought about that while he waited.

“Okay, you should have an email. It’s a lovely place. The menu is small but the food is excellent. It’s Italian. There’s not a dress code but nicer clothes would be appropriate, especially for a date.”

“Good Lord, Momma. I know how to dress for a date.”

“If you think something a little more informal would be better, there’s a Cajun restaurant down around the lake. If you think your Daisy would be more comfortable there.”

Wade couldn’t tell if his mother was trying to be nice or snide. She was so good at straddling the line between the two with her impeccable Southern manners. He decided not to argue and thanked her for the information, getting off the phone before the conversation got any weirder.

Seven o’clock was still hours away. He fixed a sandwich and ate on the back deck, watching the sunlight play on the lake surface. When he took his plate back to the kitchen, he came back out with his guitar and a notebook and pen. He sat with the guitar poised on his lap, fingers idly strumming. Staring at the open notebook, the blank page daring him to fill it.

Could he still do this? Songwriting had come as natural as breathing for years, more than half his life. He’d let it slip away like so many other things.

Fingers too restless to play nothing for long, he fell back on that endless jukebox in his head. First the Eagles, then the Allman Brothers.
Midnight Rider
was an old favorite, one he’d been playing live for years. He played it now, his only audience the breeze and the trees and the calm waters of the lake. The tempo loosened his hands and the song’s mood helped him relax.

Wade hadn’t set out to be a country music outlaw but his behavior put him in that category. Now he no longer cared if he fit in with the Top Forty hits out of Nashville. If he was going to write songs again, it would be on his terms. Not by appointment and not with a marketing angle instead of a story. But who the hell knew if anybody wanted to hear music like that anymore.

He didn’t know what to do with himself, or what anybody wanted from him. Trying to force the answers to drop out of thin air wasn’t getting him anywhere. So he played a few more songs and drank iced tea instead of whiskey or beer and he watched the water shimmer and flow.

Wade was thinking about nothing at all when the words tumbled from his memory –
good time bad boy
. Daisy had used the phrase to describe him, and he suspected other men in her life. God knew it fit him. He could be a very bad boy, but when he wasn’t brooding over his mistakes, he was a damned fun bad boy. Plenty of women he’d met on the road could attest to that.

He picked up his pen and scribbled the words on the blank page. The weight of that black ink amidst all that white felt almost too heavy to carry. He’d started, now he had to finish. The page demanded to be filled. With the guitar tucked against his body, he leaned closer to the table and stared at the page.

I pretended to be bad with names so I could call them all darlin’

But really I just didn’t care

I’d be gone soon enough, just a sweet memory of a bad boy

Who showed ‘em a mighty good time

Shit. The kind of things he got up to, dirty would be a better word than sweet. But would that be acceptable in a country song?

Fuck it, he was going with dirty. Chances were nobody would ever hear this so what the hell.

I’d be gone soon enough, just a dirty memory of a bad boy

Who showed the girls a mighty good time

That pretty little redhead in Santa Fe

Who stole her cheating ex-boyfriend’s Corvette

After I taught her how to hotwire a car

We drove fast and wild through the desert night

Laughing and singing to the radio

She climbed into my lap, took me and her revenge

Left her panties on the gear shift as a souvenir

Well, okay, that was probably going too far. Plus he wasn’t sure if it quite worked as lyrics. He tapped the notebook with the pen and rubbed his chin.

Once again, he decided fuck it, at least for now, and continued to write.

A good time bad boy was all I knew how to be anymore

So I was gonna be the best bad boy I could be

I knew how to make women happy

At least for a little while

And then hit the road before the road hit me.

Okay, that last line wasn’t so great. He circled it as a reminder to work on it later. It pleased him that he could fall back into his old habits and methods of writing after so long, but he didn’t dwell on it too much. So he had a few lines – that was no big deal. He’d thrown out a notebook full of random lines and unfinished songs.

He wanted a finished song, even if he never performed it for anyone. Completing a new song seemed more important than ever. A familiar itch in his hands and in his heart demanded that he do this. It didn’t even have to be a good song. It just had to be finished.

The afternoon slipped by as he struggled with words and chords, the perfectionist in him damn near driven around the bend. He wasn’t happy with what he was coming up with, but he was happy to be writing again. Muscles in his soul he hadn’t used in far too long stretched and ached. No wonder he’d quit this for so long. It was fucking hard.

He glanced at his watch, alarmed at the time. The thought of spending the evening with Daisy shifted the gears in his brain and got his body moving. He had a lot to do before time to pick her up.

***

D
aisy was glad she could still fit into the only little black dress she owned when they pulled into Two Rivers Winery and Vineyard. She’d never been to the winery before but she’d heard about it. Megan bought a bottle of their wine every now and then. The restaurant was small and cozy, decorated in brick reds and dark earthy gold tones. It wasn’t as intimidating as she was afraid it would be, so she tried to relax as she let Wade lead her through the dining room.

It took halfway through the meal for her to work up the nerve to ask him what had him distracted. The answer surprised her.

“I spent the afternoon trying to write a song,” he said. “It didn’t go well.”

Daisy chewed her pasta and tried to think of something encouraging to say. She knew nothing about this kind of stuff, though. “How does it usually go?”

“It’s been awhile.” He picked up his glass and stared into the dark garnet liquid of the pinot noir he’d ordered. “A long while.”

“Well, it’s good that you’re getting back into it then, right?”

“Becky told me to spend the summer figuring out what I want to do with myself. That’s turning out to be a little harder than I thought it would be.”

Daisy searched her memory for that name and came up empty. She wanted to know who the other woman was, but she wasn’t sure how to ask without sounding jealous. “Do you mean with your career?”

“I’ve been playing bars and casinos and state fairs and just whatever gig she could book for me for a long time now. Just coasting along.”

That sounded like this Becky person had something to do with his career in an official capacity, which made Daisy feel better. Then she felt dumb for feeling even a little bit jealous. “Can you not make another album?”

“My old label dropped me after the last album in my contract.” He smiled ruefully. “For some reason they didn’t want a guy who kept showing up late and drunk for concerts and events.”

“Were you really all that bad?”

“No, I was worse. Let’s just say, I was a real dick for a while there. They were right to drop me.”

“So what made you stop being a dick?” Daisy tasted her wine and did her best to suppress her reaction. It was way too dark and heavy for her.

Wade noticed, though. “We can get you something else if you like.”

“It’s okay.”

“If you don’t like the wine, I want to get you something you do like.”

She thought about it for a moment, then slowly pushed her glass toward him. “I like moscato. It’s all light and bubbly and sweet.”

Within minutes he had a bottle of moscato on the table. She sipped slowly, not wanting to get drunk. She knew she’d get tipsy but if she kept it down to only a glass or two she wouldn’t embarrass herself. The stuff tasted so good and Wade was gorgeous and attentive and the restaurant was lovely and she was definitely in danger of having the best night she’d had in a long time. She decided to let herself enjoy it.

“You never did answer my question.”

“What’s that?” Wade studied the dessert menu.

“What made you stop being a dick?”

He tapped the heavy card on the table. “I used to play arenas. I’ve won all kinds of awards and done a lot of things I never would have gotten to do if I hadn’t been a star. Then nobody wanted me to make records anymore and I was playing state fairs and rodeos instead of those big arenas. That’s a lot of humble pie to have to eat.”

“So did you just calm down or what?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Gradually. Becky talked me into going to rehab once to try and make it seem to Nashville like I was cleaning up my act. I drink a lot sometimes but I’ve never had a problem putting it down, and I resented the implication that I belonged in rehab. My attitude got me in trouble that time. Well, all the time, really. I had a lot of personal problems, but I think I just wasn’t suited to be a trained seal, either. The shit you have to deal with takes a lot out of you. I let it take too much.”

“You seem to like playing at Rocky Top. And you’re good at it, too.”

“I do like playing live. Always have. I didn’t want to do this, but I think Becky had the right idea, forcing me off the road for a while. You stay out there too long, you forget how to live. I’m trying to remember how to do that.”

Daisy emptied her glass, picked up the bottle, and poured more moscato. “Okay, I have to ask. Who is Becky?”

Wade grinned. “Sorry, I thought I’d told you. She’s my manager. Has been since I got my start. Well, since I moved to Nashville. I met her there.”

“Your tough manager. Okay. You talked about her but you hadn’t mentioned her name.”

He rested his arms on the table and leaned closer. “I need to stop talking about myself. Why don’t you tell me something about you?”

Daisy toyed with the stem of her wine glass. “There’s not much to tell. You know the basics. Where I work. That I go to school.”

“Human resources.”

“Mmm.”

“Why that? You don’t seem excited about it.”

“I want stability.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “I want a nice place to live and halfway decent benefits and maybe a raise every now and then.”

“Is that really what you want? That kind of picture perfect life.”

Her shoulders tensed. “What do you mean? Of course I want that. Isn’t it what everybody wants?”

“I think people want to find what they’re good at and do it. I think they want to find something that engages them. When you talk about your school major, you get this distant look in your eyes. Like you’re working to convince yourself that this is what you want.”

She looked away, suddenly finding the mural on the wall the most fascinating thing she’d seen all day. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Wade reached for her hand, enclosing it in his. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay.” The room seemed to get smaller, louder. There weren’t many other diners but it felt like all eyes were on her. She knew it was in her head but didn’t care. She wanted to be gone from this place. She looked at Wade. “I don’t want to talk about anything anymore.”