When Mama died, any aspirations my nine-year-old self had died with her. I still played the chords on that guitar, but I never stepped onstage and pretended to perform again. After the way the press dragged my family through the mud, I never wanted to be in the spotlight. And I've done a great job screwing that up lately.
But this one time . . . it can't hurt anything. I might be a little rusty from only singing in the shower or my car, but why not? A thrill zips through me as I remember how much I loved playing and singing for Mama.
I scan the bar again. Eight people. Safe enough.
Hope grins like she knows she's won.
"Fine. I'll do it. You gonna pick?" I almost regret asking, because I wouldn't put it past her to suggest something crazy.
"Nah, give it a go with whatever."
I cross toward the stage where the sound crew set up everything for open-mic night instead of the house band instruments. This is about one voice and whatever instrument the person brings with them. As I step up onto the raised platform, I wonder if anyone has ever been discovered at the White Horse. It has been a fixture in Nashville for years, so it wouldn't surprise me, but the chances have to be slim to none. And also completely irrelevant. I'm a bartender, not a nine-year-old with a pipe dream.
I take the microphone off the stand with a sweaty hand and flip it on. I go through the usual round of "Testing, one, two" anyway, and Hope gives me a thumbs-up from the bar.
Now what? I lean back, resting my butt on the tall stool in the middle of the stage. A song that has run through my brain so many times over the last few years rushes back to me. I can picture the video of the girl fighting with her drunk of a father, wishing a tornado would blow it all away.
Very fitting, so I launch into Carrie Underwood's "Blown Away."
I'm probably crazy to sing it a cappella, but in this moment, I don't give two shits what anyone thinks. The song and the story wrap around me and transport me somewhere else, on the outside looking in on all those times my father told me I wasn't good enough. All the times he called my mother a whore and told me I was just like her.
I just want it all to blow away.
But unlike the song, there's not enough rain in Nashville to wipe the sins from that bar. It will never be clean again.
I lose myself in the lyrics, belting them out with everything I have, not caring if I'm off-key, because I feel every last word down to my soul.
When I whisper the last away, I finally open my eyes. The bar is silent. Every single person in the room is on their feet, their mouths agape, staring at me.
One of the waitresses starts a slow clap, and everyone else joins in as someone yells encore!
A rush of heat burns my cheeks as I realize I just bared my soul onstage in front of a room of strangers. I flip off the mic and shove it back in the stand before giving them a nod and stepping off the platform.
People are smiling and clapping as I walk by.
"Holy shit, girl. You got pipes."
"Damn, I did not see that coming!"
"Why are you serving drinks instead of playing shows?"
I smile at them as the comments come, but hurry back behind the bar where I feel safer. When I get there, Hope says nothing, choosing to watch me with a smug smile as I grab a towel and unnecessarily wipe down the bar.
"Sound system works fine," I mumble.
When I came in today, I told her everything that happened with Boone. She listened until I finished, then wrapped me in a tight hug and whispered, "It sucks now, but I promise it's going to get better." She knew I needed this outlet to pour out my frustrations and disappointments, and set them free.
"I'd say it's never worked better," she deadpans.
"Stop it." I'm fighting a smile. I don't want to admit just how good that felt, because I can still feel eyes on me. After my little performance, I don't need to draw any more attention to myself.
Apparently, that ship has sailed.
"Well, shit. You could've been filling that bar of yours every night of the week if you'd just stepped on your own damn stage, Rip."
I jerk my head around to see Zane Frisco staring at me, his hand wrapped around a beer and a broad smile on his face.
Oh crap. Where did he come from?
"I don't perform," I tell him.
He lifts the beer to his lips and tips back a swig. He doesn't speak again until he lowers it to the bar. "So, what the hell would you call that? Oh, wait, we could call it God-given talent going to waste."
I grab a towel and wipe down the perfectly clean section in front of me, needing to be doing something with my hands. Hope heads to the end of the bar where a customer waits, which officially steals my best excuse for escaping.