Lost in NashVegas (10 page)

“Right, you're on to me,” Skyler calls from the door. “I have to get back to work, but what are you doing tonight? Nothing? Great. Meet me at the Frothy Monkey at seven.”

“Frothy Monkey?” I poke my head out the closet door. “What's a Frothy Monkey?”

The Frothy Monkey is a coffee shop over on 12th Avenue South.
I arrive late after getting turned around on all the one-way streets and stopping briefly in a strip mall parking lot to fight an icky alone-in-a-crowd feeling.

I admit I'm a little homesick for Freedom. Right now, Momma and Daddy are cleaning up after dinner. The smell of roasted meat and potatoes lingers in the air. In a few minutes, they'll go upstairs to change their clothes for the Monday night prayer meeting at Ramon and Marsha's, chatting the whole time about their day.

Skyler waves at me. “Robin, over here.” She's standing on the deck with a raven-haired woman.

I wave back, bumping into a handsome man on my way to where Skyler is standing. “Oh, I'm so sorry.”

“Not at all,” he replies in a rich, melodic voice.

Skyler watches me with her hand over her mouth. When I get to her she says, “You just ran over Gerry House.”

I look back at him. “Who's Gerry House?”

“Mr. Controversy-pants,” offers the dark-haired woman.

“Mr. Controversy-pants?”

Skyler smiles. “He's a big on-air personality for The Big 98 WSIX. Also a songwriter and song publisher.” She tips her head down. “And
you
just ran him over.”

“Oh, man,” I look again to where we collided. “Sorry Mr. House.”

“Robin,” Skyler says. “I'd like you to meet my roommate, Blaire Kirby. Blaire, my cousin, Robin McAfee.”

“Nice to meet you.” I step up, holding out my hand.

“Same here.” Blaire's gaze flickers over my face but doesn't land there. She looks around me, behind me, but not at me. Who is she looking for? Mr. Controversy-pants?

I tug my Auburn cap lower on my forehead, feeling like a bloated tick next to the statuesque Blaire. She's the kind of woman classified as “out of my league” by 90 percent of the earth's male population. The other 10 percent simply lie to themselves.

Should've showered before I came, but after unpacking, leaving a quick message on the folks' answering machine, paying Birdie my first month's rent, and picking up Marc Lewis' phone number, I fell asleep face first on my new bed. When I woke up, it was time to find the Frothy Monkey.

“Come on, let's order,” Skyler says, walking toward the front door.

Inside the intimately lit Frothy Monkey, a low hum rises from the crowded tables. We wait in line next to the spiral staircase.

Blaire is first to order. “Café mocha. No, wait, skinny latté. Wait, do you have chai tea?”

The girl behind the counter grimaces and points her pencil toward the menu.

“Gee whiz, Blaire, you act like you've never been here before,” Skyler moans.

“Don't rush me.”

I hide my grin behind my hand. Blaire's the kind of woman whose beauty could command a thousand ships, but she can't decide between tea or coffee. Finally, she decides on tea, then Skyler orders a café mocha while I try one of the skinny lattés.

“Blaire,” Skyler launches the conversation as she leads the way to a table on the outside deck. “Robin's a songwriter.”

We sit at the last vacant table. The cool night is hosted by an array of stars twinkling down from a clear Nashville sky.

Blaire tips her head at me. “In Nashville? How unique.”

“Blaire.” Skyler pops her lightly on her hand, tossing me an I'm-sorry look.

Blaire offers no apology.

I sink down into my chair. Blaire and I size each other up while Skyler does most of the talking. A table of guys across the way are watching us like dogs on the hunt. Their fat textbooks are cracked open under their noses, but something or someone at our table is way more interesting.

And it ain't me.

Skyler rises halfway out of her chair and hollers across three tables. “Hey, dudes, tongues back in your mouth, noses back in your books.”

The boys jerk their faces back to their books, as amused by Skyler as they were captivated by Blaire.

I, the bloated tick, slide further under the table. “What do you do, Blaire?” I cuddle my cup to my chest for security and warmth.

She swings her long black hair over her shoulder. “I'm a freelance photographer.”

“She's fabulous, too, Robin. One of the best in Nashville.”

“My knowledge of photography starts with
point
and ends with
click,
” I say with a lilt. No one laughs. Tough crowd.

Skyler turns to Blaire. “You can shoot Robin's publicity photos when she needs them, right?”

Blaire responds in monotone. “If she'd like.”

Very chilly Blaire breeze. What's her problem?

“She used to be a model,” Skyler informs me.

Blaire regards Skyler with her chin in her hand as if she enjoys letting my energetic lawyer cousin talk for her.

“What made you move behind the camera?” I ask, pushing myself up in the chair.

“She got saved,” Skyler answers.

“I'm not sure the God thing took very well, but—” Blaire looks away “—I try.”

At last, common ground. “It's a journey, like everything else. We're not perfect, but love the One who is.”

Skyler whams the table with her hand. “See, I told you she was cool. Don't you just love her?”

Blaire shrugs. Skyler apparently kicks her under the table or something because she winces. “I'm sure we'll become good friends.” She offers me a half smile.

I see. She's nervous I'll use cousin privilege to squeeze her out. “I'm sure we will,” I say, giving her a whole, wide smile.

Skyler launches into a tale about one of her artist-clients, “Who shall be nameless but her initials are L. Y. Nothing, I mean nothing, makes her happy.”

Blaire laughs at Skyler's imitation of the high-maintenance artist, peeks at me, and exhales a little.

In the next breath, Skyler shifts the conversation. “We should do movie night at your new apartment.” She turns to me with big eyes. “Break it in with a few chick flicks.”

“Chick flicks?” Guess my cousin doesn't know me as well as we'd like to pretend. “I hate chick flicks. Give me Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, Mel Gibson, but no chicks, please.”

Skyler flicks her hand at me. “Blaire, meet my redneck cousin.”

Just then, a skinny dude with floppy hair and baggy jeans stumbles into the middle of the deck, his arms spread.

“She said yes! I'm engaged. Me!” He dashes from table to table. “I'm getting married!”

I peek around to see who said yes. A blushing blonde on the upper deck. Her left hand sparkles as she covers her shy laugh.

Her fiancé runs inside. “I'm engaged!” seeps through the open windows.

Blaire sighs. “Can we clone him? At least
this
part of him?”

He runs back out, hands on both sides of his head like he's holding the “freak” together. “I need a song. A song. Does anyone have a song?”

Skyler bolts out of her chair. “Over here.” She dances her finger over my head.

“No, no, no, no. Skyler, what are you doing?” I grab her hand. “Sit down. I don't have a song. I don't even have a guitar.”

Skyler jerks her hand from mine and cups it around her mouth. “Does anyone have a guitar?”

Oh my gosh! We're in freakin' Nashville. Of course, someone has a guitar. If you spit into the wind, you'll hit someone who owns a guitar.

I slide down in the chair so only my hat is showing. Surely where there's a guitar, there's a singer or a songwriter. Lord, please, get me off the hook. Just this once. I promise to face my fear another day. Tomorrow. I promise.

“Here,” a scruffy voice says beside me.

I peek out from under my cap to see who's talking. It's a wide-brim cowboy hat with a square chin.

“No, thanks. You go ahead,” I manage to whisper, though my tongue is clinging to the roof of my mouth.

The voice under the black hat croaks, “Can't. Laryngitis.”

Of all the rotten luck. I wonder if now would be a good time to exercise my faith for healing and pray for this guy.

“Come on, cuz.” Skyler pulls me from my chair by the crook of my arm. “The lovers are waiting.”

“Graham Young,” the guitar player says, handing me a nice Yamaha. “It's tuned.”

“Yippee.” I take the guitar. Please, Lord, right quick send a tornado or a bolt of lightning.

“Strap it on. Let's go.” Skyler shoves me to the center of the outdoor deck.

“You always were the bossy cousin,” I mutter.

“And you were always the one with a guitar.”

Every limb trembles. Fear whispers for me to run. The deck is filling up, closing in around me, as people move out from the inside.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Skyler steps into the center of the outside deck. Blaire whistles through her fingers.
Now
she comes alive. “I'm happy to present to you a wonderful new songwriter in town, Robin McAfee.”

Small applause. More folks wander out. I'm sweating, profusely. And an anchor has fallen on my chest and collapsed both lungs. I'm drowning. Jesus, help. What am I doing here? I'm insane. Moving to Nashville on a whim with a gallon or two of fear, following the yellow brick road that's haunted by my very own lions, tigers, and bears. Oh, my.

Skyler drapes her arm over my shoulder and addresses the young couple. “What's your song?”

I pretend to do something akin to tuning, but my hands are shaking so bad I think I untuned it. Graham shoots me a scornful look.

Did I ask for this?

People are getting comfy for the show, leaning against the railing, packing every inch of free space. Terror prickles across my chest and down my arms. Another anchor drops, forcing out the last bit of my air.

“Honey,” the groom-to-be says, bending to one knee, “we don't have a song.”

“How about ‘Love Me Tender'?” the bride-to-be suggests, gripping her hands with his.

Elvis? They want Elvis? I gaze around for the nearest escape route.

Skyler whispers, “You got any original love songs. Might as well launch your career tonight.”

I shake my head. The word “no” is trapped somewhere in my nether regions.

“What? No love songs?” She pats me on the back. “We'll work on that.”

Help me!

Someone shouts, “‘Making Memories of Us.'”

Another: “How 'bout ‘Breathe'?”

Elvis? Keith Urban? Faith Hill? They want a cover show. They're sadists. All of them. Cruel, cruel sadists. My hands are sweating, rusting the strings.

Skyler sticks me with her elbow. “Sing. Everyone's waiting.”

Purple dots. I see purple dots. A third anchor slams down on me. Suddenly, there it is. A light. A thin line between a hippy and a blue-haired Goth girl. I thrust the guitar at Skyler.

And run.

Skyler barges into my apartment with sultry Blaire in tow.
“What's the matter with you?” She points behind her at nothing.

Birdie pops her head in the door. “Robin, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” I fib with a dramatic flop down to the couch.

“You are
not
fine. What happened?” Skyler stares at me with her hands on her hips, tapping her toe. Birdie listens by the door, and Blaire picks at her manicured nails.

“I just didn't feel like singing, that's all.”

Skyler drops her hands to her side. “What? Since when? Last time I was in Freedom, your Granddaddy Lukeman shut off the porch light and locked the door to get you to end the show. Only ones listening were the dogs.”

I press my hand over my eyes. “It's not the same thing.” I lift my head, peeking at Skyler through my fingers. From the corner of my eye, I see Birdie quietly slipping away.

“I'm terrified to sing in front of people.”

Skyler screeches, “What? Kick-butt-and-take-names Robin McAfee? Does the family know this? How can a Lukeman be scared to sing in front of people?”

“Stage fright.”

Skyler and I crane around at the sound of Blaire's voice. “Stage fright. Happens all the time. Barbara Streisand. Donny Osmond. Judy Garland.”

“Yes, stage fright.” I waggle my finger at Blaire. “She's right.”

“I dealt with it when I started modeling.”

“Please.” I sit forward. “How'd you get over it?”

“Picture people in their underwear,” Skyler offers.

“Good grief, no.” Blaire rolls her eyes.

Skyler bites the tip of her thumbnail, thinking. “Picture them all facing the back of the room?”

Blaire responds, “What? No. Stop guessing.”

I agree. “Right, no underwear. Blaire, what can I do?”

She sits in the club chair and crosses her long legs. “Get plenty of sleep before a performance, cut caffeine, listen to soothing music, meditate.”

“Like transcendental meditation?” Skyler wrinkles her nose.

“Well, if you're into TM.” Blaire picks a piece of lint from her slacks.

“I'm not. What else?” I ask.

“Therapy and medication for really severe stage fright.” She studies me for a moment. “Seems you've got a severe case.”

“Yes,” Skyler answers for me.

Without a word, Blaire reaches down for her purse and dumps the contents. “I got herbs, vitamins, Lexapro, Zoloft . . .”

“You take all of these?” I ask, examining the pill bottles as she hands them to me. “This can't be good, Blaire.”

Skyler takes one of the bottles. “Her last boyfriend said it'd be like raising the
Titanic
to find the real Blaire Kirby.”

I laugh but I stop the moment my gaze meet Blaire's. “I'm sorry. Do you still have stage fright now that you don't model?”