Playing it Kale (The McCain Saga Book 4) (2 page)

“Eduardo?” Ming says as she looks back
at him in the rearview mirror.

Eduardo sits in the back seat by
himself.
 
It’s hard to tell how old he
is.
 
He could be eighteen, he could be
thirty.
 
But right now, he has earbuds in
and is bashing on invisible drums, his eyes squeezed closed.

This kid belongs in a rock band, not in
a wedding singer group who can only get a few gigs a year.

Ming chuckles and shakes her head.
 
“Seriously, no worries,
Whit.
 
You’re going to be awesome
tonight.”

“Hmm,” I mumble as I look out the window
and try to not think about how badly I’ll embarrass myself tonight.

I never asked where the gig was.
 
It’s about a forty minute drive.
 
I don’t pay much attention until we pull off
the main road and onto a gravel driveway.

“Where are we?” I ask as I look around.

There’s an older house with a flag pole
in front of it.
 
Next, we roll past a
barn, and then park behind a huge, old, metal garage.

“I think the town’s called Duvall?” Ming
says, uncertain as she puts the van into park.
 
We all start climbing outside and pulling our equipment out.

The smell of horses and mountains hits
me immediately and it’s both overpowering and comforting at the same time.
 
Just across the driveway, I see a huge fence
and a dozen horses out in the field.

“Welcome to the sticks,” Connor says as
he surveys our surroundings.

Yes, this does feel like out in the
middle of nowhere, but it’s beautiful in its own way.
 
No evidence of the huge city I grew up
in.
 
Just towering
trees, the mountain backdrop—just country.

“You found us!” a cheery voice from
behind us says.
 
We all turn to see a
thin woman who looks to be in her fifties, with fiery red hair, walking toward
us.
 
“You must be Ming, I’m Raelynn,” she
says as she extends a hand.

“That’d be me,” Ming says with a bright
smile.
 

“Well, how about I show you where to set
up?” she says.
 
“Sorry I can’t stay
around and help, I’ve got to get back in and help the bride.
 
Wedding starts in an hour!”

The excitement in her voice is
contagious, and I find myself smiling with her.

Raelynn walks us toward the second
barn.
 
There’s a large concrete pad with
a huge overhang.
 
There are twinkle
lights strung up in the rafters and flowers hang everywhere.
 
Just off to the side of the barn is a pergola,
also with flowers and silks wound
everywhere.
 
It’s gorgeous.

On the other side of the barn is a
platform—a makeshift stage.
 
There are
extension cords running to it from the barn.

“Is this enough room?” Raelynn asks,
sounding unsure.

“It’ll be fine, Mrs. James,” Ming
says.
 
“I think we can handle it from
here.
 
You go be with the bride.”

“Break a leg,” she says as she starts
back for the house.
 
“Or, no, don’t do
that.
 
I’m sure you’ll be great.”
 
The woman shakes her head and laughs at
herself as she jogs back toward the house.

My heart starts racing as I look back at
the stage.
 
There’s already a ton of cars
parked behind the garage.
 
As I look
toward the house, I see a whole lot of people milling about in the house.
 
I can hear voices from the upper level of the
main barn.
 
This has to just be the
wedding party.

They’re probably going to have a million
guests that will be arriving just before the wedding.

And they’re all going to be witness to
me forgetting my lyrics.
 
Or just
standing up there and freezing up.
 
Or puking.
 
Or shaking.
 
Or some other horribly embarrassing event.

“Whitney,” Ming cuts through my mini-freak-out.
 
“Calm down.
 
Stop thinking about it.
 
You’re psyching yourself out.”

I look over at her and can tell that I’m
stark white.
 
My hands shake
slightly.
 

“We can handle setting everything
up.
 
You go find a place to chill out for
a while.
 
We won’t need you until after
the ceremony is over anyway.”
 
She says
all this as she helps the band set up the amplifiers and drums and
microphones.
 

I should be helping.
 
I really should.

But I’m really, really freaking out.

I nod, clutch my guitar case all the
harder, and start wandering.

With so many people milling about at the
moment, it’s hard to find some privacy without just wandering out into the
trees or fields.
 
So I aim for the back
of the main barn.
 
There are stacks of
wood everywhere and to the side of it, there’s a tall log round that I settle
myself onto.

A horse wanders over toward me at the
edge of the fence.
 
He’s a beautiful
silver/gray color.
 
He puts his head
between the panels and sniffs at me.
 
I
lean forward and scratch his nose.
 
His
lips try nibbling on my fingers and when he tries to eat my hand, I quickly
snatch it away.

The horse gets bored and wanders back
out into the field.

After wiping off the lovely slime the
beast gifted me, I pull my guitar out of the case and set it across my lap.
 
My fingers strum over the strings, the
fingers of my left hand forming different cords.
 
My right fingertips pick out different notes
and
goosebumps
flash over my skin.

Growing up in such a strict household,
the last thing my parents wanted me “wasting my time on” was music.
 
But music was and still is in my blood.
 
I walked around everywhere with my iPod and a
set of headphones.
 
I listened to
everything from country to reggae to pop to opera.
 
And when I was thirteen, I went to a pawn
shop and bought my first guitar.

I had no money to pay anyone to give me
lessons and there was no way I was going to tell my parents that I wanted to
spend time doing something other than science.
 
So I’d walk down to the
waterfront park
and
practice.
 
I found books to teach me at
the used bookstore.
 
Watched
videos online.
 
And I learned.

My parents had no idea I could play the
guitar until I was sixteen.
 
They’d
always known I could sing, and they were proud of my voice, but that was as far
as it went.
 
No encouragement to pursue
it.
 
It wasn’t a logical life choice.

But I still want it.
 
I’m twenty-two now, and I feel as if I have
this ticking clock inside of me.
 
Like if
something doesn’t happen now—soon—it
never
will.
 
I don’t really care for the fame
and the praise.
 
I just want to share
music with others.
 
I want to make other
people happy with something I create.
 
I
want it to mean something to others, as much as it means to me.

But there’s logic.
 
And there’s my terrible stage fright.

So nothing is ever going to come of it
all.
 
I’ll end up working as a
microbiologist for the rest of my life.

I hear voices off in the distance.
 
But they’re far away and I’m positive no one
can hear me through all the chaos of the wedding prep.
 
I start humming the lyrics to one of the
songs I recently wrote as I watch the horses graze and wander.

And everything calms inside of me.
 
My nerves settle.
 
My stomach normalizes.

It’s just the music and me.

Like we’re in our own
little world.

“You have a really freaking awesome
voice.”

I jump so hard my guitar slips out of my
hands.
 
It hits the stack of wood I’m
hiding behind, sounding a hard, loud vibration before it crashes to the
ground.
 
And just as I try to get to my
feet, the owner of the voice rounds the corner.

The perfect jawline.
 
The amazing hair.
 
The intense eyes.

“Holy, Kale McCain,” the words slip out
of my mouth.

I can’t look away from him, and I do not
see my guitar lying in front of me.

So I trip over it.

Land flat on my face.
 
My dress joins me in my acrobatics.
 
And flips right up.
 
Exposing my rear end in all
its glory.

“Oh, shit,” he says and suddenly his
hands are around my arms, trying to right me.
 
“I’m sorry.
 
I didn’t mean to
scare you.”

A look of pure horror is on my face as I
finally get back on my feet, my
unders
fully
covered.
 
I can only stare at him, my
mouth forming a big ole O.
 

The
Kale McCain looks me up and down and reaches forward to brush grass and bark
from my dress.
 
“Are you okay?” he asks
as he actually reaches up and
picks
something out of my hair.
 
“That fall
looked like it hurt.”

I am the worst human-person-thing
ever.
 
Cause I just stand there.
 
And look at him.

Seeing that I’m put back to proper upright
position, Kale finally meets my eyes, and I could just about melt down through
the center of the universe.
 
“You okay?”

Something finally snaps back into
working order and I manage a small little nod.

And then he reaches up, places his
fingers under my chin, and closes my mouth for me.

Kill.
 
Me.
 
Now.

“I’m Kale, by the way,” he says, with a
crooked smile.
 
But there’s the barest
hint of embarrassment in his eyes.
 
“But it
sounds like you already knew that.”

My eyes still wide freaking open, I nod
again.

“And you are?” he encourages.
 
He gives an awkward little chuckle and rubs a
hand over his perfectly shaped jaw.

It takes me half a beat to realize that
Kale McCain has just asked me a question.

The
Kale McCain, who is the face of modeling right now.
 
The
Kale McCain, who is plastered all over New York and Paris and
Milan.
 
The
Kale McCain, who has just had some
article written about him on how he’s the most well-known, most powerful male
model in the past fifteen years.

Again,
holy Kale McCain.

“Whitney,” I squeak out.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he says as
he stuffs his hands into his pockets.

I clear my throat, and slowly, one by
one, my limbs start to unlock.
 
“Whitney.
 
Whitney Ford.”

He gives me a little look, like he’s
wracking the back of his brain for something.
 
“You’re name sounds super familiar.
 
Do I know you from something?”

I shake my head, and the smallest hint
of a smile starts to curl onto my face.
 
“Just about everyone says that.
 
I
don’t know what it is about my name that sounds like someone you’ve already met.”

“You’re a musician, though?” he asks as
he bends to pick up my guitar.
 
It’s
smudged with dirt.

I just nod as I bite my lower lip and
take it from him.

“Well, that’s a good thing, if everyone
already thinks they know your name,” he says with a smile.
 
He takes two steps back toward the fence and
leans back against it.
 

And I could die.
 
Because he just looks too freaking hot to be
real.
 
Dressed in a
tux.
 
Country
background.
 
Perfect
body.
 
It’s a fantasy come to
life.