Diva NashVegas (16 page)

“I pulled a few strings, irritated a few people, but you're worth it, Pop.” “Payback for putting up with you during your teen years?” He tips up his soda bottle, again.

“Come on, I wasn't so bad.”

“Aggressive, ornery, full of yourself. Driven. Did you sleep at all in high school?”

“One or two nights a week.”

Dad's deep chuckle rolls out of his chest. “See the redbird flitting over the grass? Reminds me of the time you smacked one out of a tree with your slingshot.” He looks over at me. “You'd just gotten good aim.” The memory sickens me all these years later. “It fell to the ground, fighting to fly.”

“Never saw a ten-year-old boy cry so hard.” Dad pops my knee. “But you nursed her back to health, and she flew again.”

The redbird in the yard flutters and hops over the grass, ear cocked to the ground.

“Yeah, she flew. Sideways. Almost boomeranged into the house.”

Dad laughs. “One of life's hard lessons.” He offers me a swig of root beer. “So, how's it going with Miss James? Ain't a bad job, is it, boy?”

“Somebody's got to do it.” I fake a weary sigh, then chug a drink of soda.

“You heard Brit is going to Europe?”

The sound of her name still pings some hollow place in my soul. “London for a year.” I pass back the root beer.

“You're better off without her. She was flakey.”

“I finally convinced myself.” Though Brit broke off our engagement over a year ago, she'd moved in and out of my life every few months until I finally wised up and ended things. Permanently.

“All right, you two, we're ready to eat.” Mom sets a serving bowl containing something picnicish on the table. “Chuck, call the kids to come wash up.”

Dad anchors his pinkies inside his mouth and lets out a loud, shrill whistle. My nieces and nephews peel toward the house, slamming against each other to get in the back door. I lean over to Mom. “Did you all forget to tell me something, or are there more kids than at Christmas?”

She tee-hees. “The kids brought friends. They want you to organize a baseball game.”

Slapping my hands together, I nod. “Sounds like a job I can handle.” My sister Sally unwraps a tub of potato salad. “Is it true?”

I pick an olive off the top. “That the world is round?”

She makes a face. “Are you really so immature? After all this time?”

“I'm a guy. I'm the youngest. I have dibs on immaturity.”

My sister Patti leans over Sally's shoulder. “Are you really interviewing Aubrey James?”

I glance at Mom. “Can I not tell you anything?”

She busies herself with stacking napkins, refusing to look me in the eye. “You didn't say it was a secret.”

“Did you tell Brit?” Sally asks, stuffing a big wooden spoon into the potato salad.

“She'll freak. She
loves
Aubrey James.”

“I haven't seen or talked to Brit in three months, and don't intend to start now.”

“What's Aubrey like? Is she as beautiful in person?”

I thrust my hand inside an open bag of chips. “More so.”

Patti snatches the chips from my hand. “Well, here's what we really want to know.”

“What's that?” I gaze at them, my guard up. Nosey sisters. But I'm not dishing on Aubrey. She's sacred territory, for now, until I'm over my crush.

Patti points to my face. “What the heck happened to your eyebrows?”

Aubrey

For a summer that started out to be about resting and recuperating, I've
been busy. Monday morning Piper drops me off at the Blackbird Studios where I meet Dave in Studio A with his guitar and SongTunes A&R director Aaron Littleton.

Seeing me, Dave rises from a posh leather chair. “Look, Aaron's here.” He makes a face only I can see.

“Aaron, good to see you.” I shake his hand, glancing back at Dave.
What is he doing here?

“Sorry, Aubrey. Nathan wants to know what you're up to—his words not mine.”

“Too scared to come down here himself?” I drop my handbag on the table.

“No, he was going to come, but I convinced him I should. You know, do his dirty work for him.” He smiles as if to assure me he's joking. “I figured he'd just aggravate you and we'd never get another Aubrey James album.”

I twist open my FRESH! bottle. “You're a wise man, Aaron.”

“We're just starting the album over,” Dave says. “There's nothing to tell Nathan.”

Aaron crosses his arms and falls against the wall. “It's okay, Dave. I'll just hang around so I have something to tell him. Besides, it's always fun to watch Aubrey work.” He looks around, deciding to sit instead of stand. “Why are you starting over?”

“Aubrey's going to write or cowrite all the songs.”

“You're kid—” He stops with a glance at me. “Aubrey, this isn't standard Aubrey James.”

“We told you, Aaron,” I say.

“You're going to write the songs, record them, and hand it over to Nathan in less than two months.” Aaron sounds dubious.

I glance at Dave. “Yes, with the help of a new songwriter, perhaps.”

Aaron closes his eyes with a loud exhale. “A
new
songwriter? Aubrey, Aubrey, you're going to give Nathan a heart attack. What's wrong with the
old
songwriters?”

“Nothing, but this album is about doing music a different way. I can't, won't, be boxed in, stuck in one of Nathan's marketing brands.”

“Holy cow, it's going to be a showdown.”

The floor of my music room is littered with wadded-up paper when Car
sticks his head through the door.

His eyes scan the room. “Killing trees?”

I growl and crumple up another page. “Trying to write a song.”

“Just
one
song?” Car picks up one of the paper wads.

“Yes, a song.” I play the melody that's been running through my head all day, but can't create the lyrics to match. “Gina left you a plate in the warmer.”

“I ate downtown.” Reading my lyrics, he joins me on the piano bench. “Since when did you write songs?”

“Since I was a kid.”

Being the son of Grace Carmichael, he had seven years of piano, so he plays the chords written on the crumpled paper. “Sounds good to me.”

“Car.” I grab his hands with mine. “I appreciate your encouragement, but it can't just sound ‘good to you.' ” What was I thinking? I can't write an album of songs. Even half an album of songs. I can't even write one song.

“Why are you doing this? Aubrey, you've become a superstar singing other people's songs. It's the economy of the music business. The writers write, the singers sing. Why are you stressing yourself out over this?”

“Your faith in me is overwhelming,” I snap.

Car rears back. “I'm just making a point. You're a huge name, Aubrey. There's not a songwriter in town who wouldn't give his or her eyeteeth to have an Aubrey James cut.”

Did I expect him to understand? “Sorry, babe, I'm just ready to do something different.”

All evening I'd been racking my brain for a unique way to sing, “I'm in love with you,” without rhyming with the words
true
,
blue,
and
new
or sticking in some cliché like “never before” or “first time I've ever felt this way.”

Car kisses my forehead. “Don't overthink it, Brie. If you can't come up with something, just go with the familiar.”

Go with the familiar.
The words hit me like a beam of light. I feel their intent.
Compromise
. Whenever something is hard, I compromise and go with the familiar. Well, not this time.

Car stands at the door. “By the way, the movers are coming Saturday.”

“What?”
Love . . . dove . . . above . . . hug?

“Brie?”

I look up. “Movers. Saturday.”

He nods. “Just wanted to make sure you heard me. I'm going to use the library as my den.”

This I hear and jump up. “You can't use the library. My boxes are in there.”

“Aubrey, you sincerely want to waste that beautiful library storing junk?”

“It's not junk, Car. In those boxes is all I have left of my parents, of my childhood.”

“Then do something with them or throw them out.” His tone is sharp, making me feel like a troublesome child.

Crossing my arms, I step over to him. “There are plenty of other rooms in this house. Make one of them your den, Car, but the library is mine.”

“The library has those beautiful built-in cherrywood bookshelves. You want to hide them with boxes of crap?”

Boxes of crap?
“Pick another room, Car.”

“Aubrey, if you're going to be territorial, then let's sell this place and buy a new one.”

“I'm not being territorial, but you can't come in here and order me around, telling me what I should and shouldn't keep. Whether you like it or not, Car, I was here first.”

Car bangs his fist against the door and walks out. My legs feel weak and wobbly, so I sink slowly to the piano bench.
Oh, Car
. . . This is ridiculous. Moving in together shouldn't be this hard, should it?

“Car, wait a minute . . .”

Basketball day. Thursday. Aubrey James versus Scott Vaughn. Piper is
coming over early to help me get ready. For all my bragging about whupping Scott, I haven't played basketball in years.

“You came to bed late,” Car says, walking out of the bathroom, his skin pink and fresh from a hot shower. The steamy fragrance of his soap fills the bedroom.

“Two a.m. But—” I pull a pair of baggy mesh shorts from the bottom dresser drawer. They're old and winkled. “—I wrote a song.”

“One song?” He tugs open his sock drawer. “Are . . . we okay?”

Fighting a yawn, I tighten the short's drawstring and nod. “Yeah, we're okay.”

He grabs my hips and tumbles me back onto the bed. “Are you sure? You seem rather quiet.”

“I have a lot on my mind. Plus I'm not quite awake yet.”

He runs his finger along my jaw line. “You're so beautiful, Brie.”

I press my hand to his cheek. “Thank you, Car.”

His kiss is passionate as he draws me close and tight, then suddenly releases me, springing off the bed. “Any more of that and I'll be late for work.” He winks at me, straightening his tie.

I pat his back on my way to the bathroom. “Have a good day.”

Dangling my Nikes from my fingertips, I head down the hall to the
library. Piper will be here in a few minutes, but Car's announcement the movers are coming reminds me of something.

My promise to Zach to pray about marrying Car.

Stepping over the boxes and piles of clothes, I land on the couch, pausing a moment to stuff my feet in my shoes. Somewhere in one of these boxes is Daddy's Bible, worn and marked up.

After a brief search, I find it in the box by the door. Returning to my spot on the sofa, I cradle the Good Book to my chest and try to formulate a prayer.

“God, it's me . . .” The conversation feels foreign. “I need to talk about Car and me.” Pausing to formulate my next thought, my mind wanders.
What time is it? I wonder if Gina's out with the dogs? I'm going to need
breakfast before basketball.

Stop. Focus. “Is he the right one for me? Is there even such a thing as the ‘right one'?”

I wait for an answer, but nothing comes. No audible voice. No thunder or lightning crack. “Do you have an opinion here, God?”

Closing my eyes, I focus on focusing.
How will I know if He answers?
With my thumbs, I separate the Bible pages and let the book fall open on my lap. I jab my finger to some spot on the page and glance down.

“Jesus feeds the four thousand.” I laugh. Not exactly the answer I'm looking for except surely if He fed the four thousand with a few loaves of bread, He can take care of me, right?

“I'm going to trust you on this one, God.”

“Hey,” Piper's voice calls up the stairs. “What's the hold up? Let's go if you want to run drills.”

“Coming.” I slip Daddy's Bible back in the box and hurry downstairs.

Out on the court, Piper digs bright orange basketballs out of a canvas
bag. “Can you believe we never use this court? After all the trouble and expense to build it?”

I pick up the first ball. “We were going to have the old team over and play summer ball on Saturday nights.” My nice, easy jump shot hits the rim and bounces high and away.

“Wow, you are out of practice.”

“Keep the balls coming.” I run to the hoop for a layup. “How's your online boyfriend?”

“Not. He called and invited me for coffee at the Frothy Monkey the other night, then no-showed.”

“Pipe, I'm so sorry.” I lob up another ball . . . Miss.

She shrugs. “I didn't like him that much anyway.”

“You're just too special for these guys.” Shoot and miss.

Piper bounces me another ball. “That's the lie I keep telling myself too.”

I laugh. “How do any of us know a guy is right?” Dang, missed again. “Strange question coming from someone who is engaged.” She passes me another orange ball. “My new prayer is ‘God, if you have a man for me, let him come up and slap me.'”

Pausing with the ball, I make a face. “Kind of drastic, don't you think?”

“Well, if a guy slaps me . . .” She grins. “There'll be no doubt.”

“What if he's married?” I set up for a jump shot.
Boing
. The ball bounces off the rim.

“Married? Aubrey, please, it's kind of implied in the whole looking-for-Mr.-Right agreement that he's not married.”

“Just in case, better talk to God about a backup plan.” Another miss. Crud. I have no game. “I can see this slapping thing going way wrong.”