Have Mercy: A Loveswept Contemporary Erotic Romance

The first time Tom heard Emme’s voice, he dropped a bottle of gin.

Having heard and played with a lot of bands over the years, he’d never seen anything quite as entrancing as Emme. She looked like she’d walked out of a 1960s wet dream, all teased blonde hair and dark eyeliner and curves. The bass groove of her first song had Tom ignoring his customers even before she opened her mouth.

Her voice damn near melted his spine. It was big and dark, full of longing so fierce it brought tears to his eyes. Her phrasing was meticulous. He heard desire in her voice, and he longed to give her whatever she wanted. By the time the first song was over, he ached to play in her band. More than that, he halfway wanted to crawl inside her songs and live there.

Once the first song ended, he pulled himself together enough to pay attention to his bar, but he still found himself staring at her every moment he had the chance. His fingers absently shaped chords and played notes against the polished wood of the bar, and he hummed harmonies as he poured drinks for his customers.

At the break, all Tom wanted was a cigarette and a chance to talk to Emme, but the rush never slowed. He did talk to Andy, the bassist and a friend he’d played with a few times.

“She’s good, huh?” Andy grinned. “Told you.”

“I believed you or I wouldn’t have booked you without hearing her first. I trust you.” Tom poured a vodka tonic for a thin brunette as he talked. “But damn.”

“Yeah. She gets that reaction a lot. Writes all the songs, too.”

Tom shook his head in disbelief before he made change for a guy in a non-ironic trucker cap. “I’d love to sit in sometime.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You may get your chance. They’re going on tour in two months and there’s no way I can keep my day job and go. They’ll need a bassist. Want me to recommend you?”

“How long?”

“Two months. Mostly through the Southeast. College towns.”

Two months away from the bar. Ouch.
Tom opened a Sam Adams for Andy.
Two months away
from Katie
. “I don’t know, man. I’ll have to think about it.”

“It’s a good gig. She pays well. Dave and Guillermo are pretty cool, too.”

For the rest of the set, that was all Tom thought about. That, and how to get a chance to talk to Emme, even though he suspected he’d sound like some high school kid asking the prettiest girl in school to the prom. He was considering bringing her a glass of the two hundred and fifty-dollar scotch that had been gathering dust under the bar as a tribute when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

COME GET ME, the text message read.

Tom sighed and rubbed his temples. He’d offered to pick up his sister if she ever had too much to drink, but that had been when she was sixteen. She was twenty-five now. She knew Tom was working.

CALL A CAB, he texted back. He slid his phone back into his pocket and closed out the tab of a couple who were pulling on their coats. They’d barely signed their credit card slip when his jeans vibrated again.

NO MONEY. WILL JUST DRIVE.

Shit
. Up onstage, Emme was making magic with the piano. Drink orders had slowed a little and the crowd had thinned as the night grew later, but there were still all the closing duties to complete.

WAIT FOR ME, he texted back. WHERE ARE YOU?

He motioned for the barback to take over. There was nothing else he could do. He shrugged on his jacket and slipped out the back, the music cut off abruptly as the door shut behind him.

Emily Hayes was nothing like Emme.

That was Tom’s first thought when he walked into the audition. He wasn’t sure what he had expected when he walked into the living room of the unassuming ranch house in one of Louisville’s older subdivisions. Mirrors, gilt, marble, and velvet fainting couches, maybe, or fluffy white cats and champagne fountains everywhere, Emme lounging in a silk-and-marabou dressing gown. Instead, he walked in the open front door and found amps, guitars, a couple of keyboards, a tangle of wires spread out over the carpet, a case of microphones open in one corner, contents spilling over the floor, and a giant, incredibly ugly green couch that looked like it had been picked up off the curb.

The diva was sitting on the floor wearing yoga pants and a hoodie and untangling a cord of
some kind. She stood up when she saw him, brushed dust off her butt, and held out her hand. “Tom! Nice to meet you,” she said with a smile.

Onstage, she’d been all teased hair and false eyelashes and voluptuous curves. She definitely had those; even the baggy hoodie couldn’t hide her shape, and those yoga pants were downright obscene on her, but her brown eyes were friendly and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. As he took her much-smaller hand in his, she said, “Call me Emily.” The girl-next-door name didn’t match her, somehow. He couldn’t shake the image of her onstage, hair haloed by the lighting, holding the crowd mesmerized in the palm of her hand. And even here, sitting on the floor, when she looked at him, she radiated authority. Like when he’d had a pretty, smart teacher he wanted to impress, he nearly called her “ma’am.”

She introduced him to the drummer, Guillermo, a big guy with an even bigger beard, and Dave, the lead guitarist, who barely looked up from tuning his guitar when Tom greeted him. “How familiar are you with our music?” she asked.

I’ve been listening to your album over and over again every night since you played in my bar. Wait. That sounds creepy
. “Pretty familiar. I’ve worked out most of the bass lines, and there are a few that I might want to try tweaking just a bit.”

Emme nodded. “Good to hear. Any particular musical influences?”

Tom thought for a moment. “I’d say I’m mostly a fan of blues and soul,” he said finally. “More modern stuff I like—I’m pretty into that dirty southern sound in alt country. My dad owned McKinney’s, and I grew up there, hearing blues bands play. J. R. Wilbur used to play on Wednesday nights, and he felt sorry for this kid who was always in, you know, a bar. So he’s the guy who taught me how to play.”

Emme whistled. “Learned to play guitar from J. R. Wilbur? Those are some credentials. Let’s hear it.”

Tom got out his bass. They worked through the tune-up as a group, Dave fiddling with knobs on the soundboard, Emme alternating between keyboards, checking microphones. The level of professionalism and comfort both of them seemed to have around what had to be tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment made Tom’s heart beat a little faster. This was serious. He’d known when he heard them play, had known from the quality of the album, that this wouldn’t be like hopping onstage at the bar after the musician had had too many free beers. If they let him join, going on this tour wasn’t the only thing that would change for him. Doors would open.

He’d sat in with so many bands, had played on so many friends’ albums, but touring had never, ever been an option. His dad had been too sick. Katie had needed him too much. The bar had to be rescued from the brink of bankruptcy. But he’d gotten the bar under control, his dad had been gone for over a year, and Katie was doing so much better, and if this audition went well, maybe his life could look the way he’d always wanted it to. Tom’s hands shook, palms sweaty. He felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it.
Please wait. Just give me an hour
.

“We’ll start with ‘Walking Away,’ since that’s our biggest download,” Emme said.

Tom nodded and swallowed hard.
You’ve got this. You listened to it a thousand times before now
.

The song was one part mournful breakup croon and one part ditch-the-bastard anthem, a little bit Diana Ross, a little bit Stevie Wonder in the instrumentation, and a whole lot of retro Motown bass. It wasn’t easy to play, but it was a hell of a lot of fun.

Tom’s nerves coalesced into adrenaline as he played, the sheer joy of making music with a talented group of people. He could hear them—including himself—through the monitors, and god
damn
, they sounded good. Emme’s voice soared over the bass groove, while Guillermo kept the beat without overwhelming the tune. Dave was seriously talented at guitar, adding blues licks that Tom hadn’t heard in the studio version and improvising without needlessly showing off. By the time the song ended, the notes had wound around them all, the tiny communications coming as second nature; slowing the tempo when Emme nodded, holding a note a little longer with a look from Dave.

They played together for two hours, long enough for Tom’s phone to buzz at least five times, but his high of belonging glowed warmly around him as he packed up his instrument. The way the three of them interacted, the seamlessness of their partnership, felt like family. He hadn’t realized how much he’d longed for that until he’d had a taste of it, and now he had. Everyone in the living room was smiling by the time he checked his phone to see the list of missed texts from Katie. Thank god none of them had been emergencies in any real sense of the word.

Dave offered Tom his hand. “Nice work, man.”

Guillermo nodded, and Emme looked up from the notebook she’d been scribbling in. “I’ll see you out.”

Tom thought he saw Dave narrow his eyes at Guillermo when she spoke, but Tom shouldered his case and turned toward the front door, Emme at his side. As she opened the door into the fading evening light, she smiled at him.

“So? How’d you think it went?”

Tom cleared his throat.
Please let me in
. “Pretty well.”

“Pretty well?” Emme scoffed and aimed a light punch at his arm. “Dude. It was awesome.” She looked back over her shoulder, as if checking to see if Dave or Guillermo had followed them into the hallway, and lowered her voice before she spoke again. “If you want in, you’re so in. I’ve got to talk to those two about it so they feel like I’ve consulted them, but seriously? Give me two hours and we’ll make it official.” She winked at him as he stepped outside.