She’s My Kind Of Rain (Rawlings Ranch #1)

Chapter 4

4

SAWYER - MAY 7, 2004

I now know why I don’t have any lifelong friends. Why, by accident I have made it easy to keep people as acquaintances and no more than that. It’s not because all people suck, hell, I almost wish it was, but rather the fact that unlike me, most people do things that make themselves uncomfortable on purpose.

Rhett hadn’t been kidding when he said he wanted to make me famous, and I won’t lie, the idea of it hasn’t left my head since he said it, but I never expected to actually be on a stage this soon. I thought maybe I would just practice at a park, with one or two people occasionally strolling by to get me used to performing for strangers. Little did I know, my friend would find me a stage the very week he moved in, then surprise me with the news the moment we walked through a random bar’s door.

Well, I’m surprised alright, and also sick to my fucking stomach with fear.

With a name like Gator Ray’s, it should have been a telltale sign that this place would be off-putting, but my desire to give singing a shot has outweighed my gut feeling. I pace backstage waiting for my turn. Cigarette smoke fills the air, and I’m half tempted to crack the backdoor to take in a deep breath of something that doesn’t resemble the stench of an ashtray.

Circling, I try to convince myself to pretend this is just like any other day and that I’m out on the site or with Pops passing time. I notice a table filled with refreshments sitting close to the emergency exit and since the bar is a total dive, a majority of those refreshments just so happen to be used bottles of alcohol. I look over the selection as if I even care to be picky right now and land on tequila, because it seems to be the only bottle that isn’t open. I pour a double shot and slam it, repeating that step again for safe measure and praying like hell that it will kick in before my slot is up. I walk back over toward the right wing of the stage and peer out into the crowd—where Rhett stands staring at the current performer—and then back to center stage where a twenty-some year old girl with blonde hair sings her heart out. Her performance is going well, even though she sounds nervous, but everyone appears to be either enjoying it or ignoring her, so I hope that means they won’t mind my nerves either.

I release a breath once more, shaking out my hands, hoping the nerves will go with it. They don’t.

My palms are sweating, and it feels like I’m back out in the blistering hot sun, but the sun has set and the heat has subsided. I tap my foot to the beat of the song, wishing that the music itself will calm me down, but I can’t seem to regain the composure I’m known for outside of this space.

Her song comes to an end and she races toward me. “Good luck, darlin’,” she says, beaming ear to ear, touching my arm in passing.

“Thanks,” I respond coolly to avoid her noticing my panic. I draw in another breath. “You can do this,” I whisper to myself, expecting that if I hear it out loud I’ll believe it—I don’t.

The tequila hasn’t set in and my worry only escalates when a sweaty man standing near the stage wall gestures for me to go on. My boots feel like they have been filled with the very concrete we had set this week, but I find a way to trudge toward the mic anyways.

Music is usually the thing that keeps my feelings in check, but right now not even the alcohol is subsiding my panic.

Thanks to the surprise, I don’t have my Pop’s guitar. Who knew not having it would feel like missing a security blanket. Man, what I wouldn’t give to go get it right now.

Once I reach the mic, I clear my throat and look toward a young kid whose job is to click play on the sound system that inevitably carries the music through blown speakers. I don’t even know if this moment will be a duet with whoever the fuck’s song I chose in my blurred panic, or if the lyrics have been cut and only the music remains.

I place my hand around the neck of the mic, hoping it will fill the void I’m now noticing without my guitar. The perspiration of my palm sticks to the handle and my hand starts to shake just enough for hopefully only me to notice. The kid shifts toward the play button and then the sound of music drops.

Most people aren’t paying attention until Rhett screams a cat call, and just like that, nearly all eyes are on me. I gulp, wishing I had just said no, feeling more than underprepared in this instant. I regain what little focus I have, and realize I missed not only the first lyric, but the entire first verse. Somebody boos from the crowd and I look stage-left like someone who can fix this is standing there, but the only person there is the kid who probably isn’t even old enough to be here in the first place.

Fuck . I thought I could do this. I really did.

The kid restarts the song and I make uncomfortable eye contact with him, thinking it would have been better off if he had just closed the metaphorical curtain on me instead. Sweat beads at the nape of my neck and I reach back to glide my hand over it. The last beat of music plays before the lyrics start, I open my mouth to sing and nothing comes out, fear taking the forefront of everything I have. Another person boos in the crowd. My eyes shift to the floor and I walk off stage.

I choked.

“Hey man, I’m really sorry that’s how that went.” Rhett’s tone is laced with pity while we walk side by side down the sidewalk away from Gator Ray’s.

“I’m not gonna lie, I thought that would be easy. I literally sing in front of the crew all the time. It comes out so naturally. But that stage felt different. Maybe it was wrong to assume this was a good idea,” I huff, wishing I could erase the last fifteen minutes of my life.

“I shouldn’t have sprung it on ya, that’s a lot to take in outta nowhere.” A gentle smile surfaces on his face. “Ya know, I was tryin’ to be a good friend and pay ya back for bein’ such a good friend to me, but I think I got a little too excited. I sometimes forget not everyone likes to take the bull by the horns.”

“Don’t tell me your next idea is to put me on a bull.” A nervous laugh escapes my lips as the tequila starts to set in. A little late, might I add.

“Hah, no ya dumbshit. I wanted to help make ya famous, not dead. Besides, if anyone’s gettin’ on a bull, that’ll be me.” He chuckles again. “Now, enough about that, hows about we go get another drink and forget this shit ever happened?”

“I’m right ahead of ya,” I pause, stopping in front of one of the nicest bars on Broadway Street, The Westmore, and admire its magnificent exterior. The letters of its name are carved into a large wooden sign that spans the entire length of its front, and pillars carved in the shape of guitars are placed on both sides of the double-door entrance. The windows have deep red velvet curtains blocking out passersby and every bit of it takes my breath away without even entering.

“Now, this is probably where I should have called for a spot.” Rhett’s eyes scan the bar, in just as much awe as me.

We advance through the doors after a bouncer checks our I.D.s and my jaw gapes as I take in the wonder of this place.

“I’m glad you didn’t, choking on this stage would have been much worse.” I try to make light of the situation since there isn’t much else I can do. I notice a bar with open stools to the right and amble towards it, with Rhett in tow.

The bar itself is made of a dark-stained oak, behind it, a wall of liquor is arranged by type and what I assume to be cost, with the more expensive bottles placed not only higher, but also in a way that shows off their packaging. At least twenty massive bar stools are placed side by side, running the entire length of the bar, each one cognac leather with the faintest filigree imprinted into its surface, and dark oak legs to match the countertop they sit before.

The moment we take our seats, we’re approached by an older woman, her gray hair twisted into an updo, and a gentle smile that makes her appear genuinely happy to see us on her face.

“What’ll it be, sweeties?” Something about her tone makes it feel like we’re her most important customers, though I think that is just her being good at her job.

“I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks, thanks...” I say, unsure of her name or how to address her.

“It’s Nancy, hon. And for you?” She turns to question Rhett.

“I’ll have a beer. Whatever’s your favorite.” He winks, and I can’t help but crack a smile. He doesn’t care if a woman is twenty or ninety, he’s going to make them feel special by default.

She hustles off to the other end of the bar to grab our drinks, and I turn to take in everything that is The Westmore .

Small tables are placed on the outskirts of the room, leaving a majority of the floor open for those who are here to drink, dance, and most importantly, listen to the music. The real star of the show is the stage, though. Velvet curtains—that match the ones up front—drape from wall to wall behind the stage. Large columns are placed on either side, engraved with a similar, but much larger filigree than that of the bar stools, and an entire back up band is there to play the music live instead of through a CD player. It’s a spectacular display, all centered around a ribbon style microphone. The epitome of a stage I strive to be on…one day. If I can learn to keep my shit together once I get on one.

The sound of Nancy clearing her throat snaps me out of my daze, drawing my attention back to the bar. “Here’s your whiskey, sweetie, and your beer…” She winks at Rhett in an obviously joking manner, and I can tell right away that this is the start to a beautiful friendship amongst us three—though that could be the tequila talking. She giggles when he winks back. “Have either of y’all ever had our famous Bushwacker?”

“Now, Nancy, I didn’t know this place was full service.” Rhett chuckles at his joke, and Nancy and I follow suit. “But whatever that girlie drink is, it’ll probably ruin our rough and tumble image.”

“Oh, sweetie, it’s like a chocolate coconut milkshake dream. They are to die for. the pleasure they bring with the music you’ll hear, is nothing short of full-service, i assure you that.” She lets out a soft laugh. “Ya boys truly need to get over the rough and tumble exterior thing. Live a little.”

“No we don’t, Nanc! If anything, Sawyer needs to buckle down with his rough and tumble exterior if he ever wants to look like a true country singer,” Rhett replies.

I raise my glass to his remark, downing my whiskey as I think back to how I choked in front of a room full of people less than an hour ago. Trying to shift the subject off music, hoping not to embarrass myself any further, I say, “I’ve got to be somewhat of a true cowboy. I have a horse and a barn and, hell, I even got a ranch hand.” I shoulder bump him with a wide smirk on my face.

“Now I ain’t his ranch hand,” Rhett grins back, turning towards Nancy. “But I do like to earn my keep, beings as he don’t charge me to take up space on his little ranch, if we can even call it that.” He lets out an exaggerated huff. “So Nanc, any insider word on how Sawyer here can get a spot on that stage?”

My eyes must nearly fall out of my head because he adds, “If he wants to, that is.”

“Unfortunately, ya have to be invited to that stage, hon. I have no sway on who gets a spot, but if you’re good, I’m sure that time will come.” She pats my hand that rests next to my now empty cup. “Where else have ya sang?”

Rhett jumps in before I can respond. “Nowhere just yet. He sings all the time while we’re at work, and the man has some serious talent. We’re just tryin’ to find the right way to go about it.”

“Ya probably can’t tell with my youthful glow,” she giggles, “but, I’ve been around for some time, and I’ve seen many careers from the very start. My best advice is to find a place that makes your heart sing, that way, part of ya is already in performance mode before ya even set foot on the stage.”

Her words resonate with me right away, and I find myself thinking about how The Westmore feels, versus the feeling I had gotten being in Gator Ray’s. This place begs to be graced with music and love, while that shithole needed to be graced with a good cleaning and some air freshener.

“Thank you for that, Nancy, really, it resonates more than I can ever express.” She didn’t know about the flop of my previous performance, and yet she found a way to erase a majority of how it made me feel.

She pats my hand again. “Don’t mention it, sweetie. Just don’t give up on your dreams when ya got ‘em. Life is far too short for that.” She shifts her gaze to Rhett. “And don’t ya go givin’ up on any dreams now either, ya hear?”

He looks to the performer walking off the stage and all the women who seem to be flooding that general location, then back at Nancy and myself. “Ya know, for now my dream is just to get Sawyer on that stage someday. And when he does, make sure ya tell every pretty lady in this bar before he gets off stage that I’m his best friend so I can plant myself right over there.” He points to a spot I can only identify as the groupie location. “I think many women will find it just as appealin’ that I’m the reason ya made it.” He winks and takes another sip of his beer.

“Are ya needing help in that department, hon?” She snickers, making her question seem more of a joke than an actual question, egging him on when it isn’t even necessary. And then she moves on down the bar to wait on her other customers.

“Ya know what? I really like her.” I can see the wheels turning in Rhett’s head. “I think it’s a good goal to eventually get ya on this stage, since I’m pretty sure it guarantees ya some traction. Might just have to hit the lotto here one of these nights and run into Blake Montgomery himself. If that happens, I swear to God, ya better just get on that fuckin’ stage, invite or not, and start singin’ the best ya got. Hopefully he likes ya enough to bail your ass outta jail after, too.”