When Last We Loved (9 page)

“Remind me to check my aspirin supply,” she sighed. “He's so pickled that we could stamp dill on his forehead and peddle him at the city market.”

“Do you really think that Purdy guy can do us any good?” Scrappy fiddled with the knob of the van's radio until he located the station he wanted. A glimmer of excitement rode the edge of his question, and Cassie smiled in understanding. He shifted gears, gunned the motor, and pulled into the southbound lane of the Central Expressway.

“We'll just have to wait and see.” She yawned. “I'm not holding my breath for anyone.”

Dusk drew the curtain on a hectic day. Cassie's highs and lows had extracted a merciless toll and she wondered whether she truly possessed the stamina and drive necessary to see her ambitions through. Sheer physical exhaustion soon drove the thought of anything but sleep from her mind.

Lulled by the steady hum of the engine and the soft background music on the radio, she closed her eyes. Hovering in that twilight zone between reality and fantasy, Cassie mentally matched wits with a handsome blue-eyed demon who mocked her attempt to unwind after a grueling day.

When Scrappy shook her awake a block from the Stardust, she was jolted out of a restless nap. The knowledge that Hoyt still owned so much of her memory rankled her. She rubbed her eyes, stretched, and hopped out of the van when Scrappy stopped a few feet from her door.

“Are you coming down with something?” Scrappy asked, letting the engine idle. A worried look clouded his eyes as he studied the petite figure huddled in the dark alley behind the restaurant “You look a little peaked.”

“Don't worry about me.” She waved away his concern. “I'm fine. As a matter of fact, I've never felt better in my life.” Cassie flashed a grin that illuminated the empty street like a neon signboard. “I think I'm just coming down with another song.”

Chapter 7

“Where in hell have you been?” Allen paced like a caged lion when Cassie scampered up the stairs to her apartment the following Sunday. He ran an impatient hand through the thick shock of his hair and glared at her. “I've been pounding on this door for damned near two hours!” he roared.

Cassie winced when she caught the odor of bourbon on his breath

“I have to eat sometime, and it's too hot to cook,” she said in her own defense and glanced at her watch, seeking confirmation that she hadn't been gone nearly as long as he made it seem. “I was here all day, and it's only a little after seven now.”

Allen was wearing a hole in the cheap carpet outside her apartment door. The dim hall light played tricks on his sallow complexion and his scarecrow shadow climbed the walls of the alcove.

“You're going to have me jumping out of my skin if you don't light somewhere.” Cassie pulled the key out of her purse and unlocked the door. Allen hurried by with three giant steps and fell into the chair that she'd shoved into the corner.

“Look. I finished another song today.” She snatched the top sheet of paper off the stack littering the Formica table that was her dining room. Neatly penciled verses were triple spaced on the front and back, ready for the chords that Scrappy would add.

“Harlan Purdy called me this afternoon about five-thirty. He's got a couple of free hours tomorrow and he's going to stop by here about one o'clock.” Allen accepted the two aspirin that Cassie shook out of the newly opened bottle. He chased them with the glass of tepid water she handed him. “What I really need is another hair from the dog that bit me,” he grumbled.

“I
told
Scrappy that Purdy would come around if he was really interested!” Cassie exclaimed, ignoring Allen's hangover in her excitement about tomorrow's audition. “I wonder if we've got time to polish this up and rehearse it.” She studied the lyrics that she'd spent the entire week writing, and tapped her foot in time to the tune she imagined. “No, we'll stick to the standards.”

“Got another glass of water?” Allen's voice sounded like it had been scraped from the bottom of a gravel pit. He pulled a worn leather flask out of his jacket pocket; twisted off the lid, and held the container to his mouth.

“Did you call the guys yet? They'll have to come over early to set up their equipment.”

A groan of satisfaction followed Allen's second swallow.

“What should I wear?” Cassie made a quick mental review of her wardrobe. “He saw my best outfit at the barbecue last week. Maybe I'll have time to run over to Shepler's before he gets here. I saw a really cute outfit on sale.”

“It isn't going to be a fashion show,” Allen noted. He eyed the five-pocket jeans and the matching back-buckled vest she wore over a blue plaid shirt. “What you've got on is fine.”

“Did you say that you'd already called the guys? If not, that's okay because I need to tell Scrappy to bring that new sheet music we bought last week, anyway.”

Dead silence answered her rambling comments and she threw Allen a quizzical look. He sat like a stone in the chair, staring at his hands as if he'd never seen them before.

“Have I missed something here?”

“You're the only one he wants to audition, Cassie.” Allen cleared his throat nervously. “That's the condition he imposed when he called.”

“You've got to be kidding!” She couldn't believe she'd heard him correctly.

“He's not interested in the Twisters.”

Cassie felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. “And pray tell me what he expects me to use for a backup,” she demanded. “It's kind of hard to hum the tune and sing the words at the same time.” She stamped her foot in exasperation. “Besides, the guys and I have worked together on all the songs. I wouldn't be comfortable without them.”

“Purdy is bringing a tape of instrumentals that he wants you to use. It's a standard procedure.”

“You told him that the Twisters and I are a package deal, didn't you?” Something funny was going on and she was going to get to the bottom of it. “Didn't you?” she asked persistently.

“He's looking for a girl singer, not a quartet.” Allen's hangdog expression didn't fool her a bit. He'd committed her to the audition without the courtesy of consulting her first.

“How could you do this to Scrappy and Mike and Jess? You know how long and hard they've worked for a break like this.”

All those months of planning, their eager excitement to take Nashville the way Grant had stormed Richmond, to cut their first album together— the dreams they'd shared were crumbling like day-old doughnuts.

“Why didn't you tell Purdy it was all of us or none of us?” she choked out, unable to swallow the bitter pill of Allen's betrayal. “I don't believe what you've done!” she fumed.

“We don't have much of a bargaining position, if you want to look at it realistically,” Allen argued. “Musicians are a dime a dozen, but good singers— marketable singers— are few and far between. Maybe you can give the Twisters a boost if you get your foot in the door.”

“You actually expect me to go through with this, don't you?”

She was rooted like a tree stump to the spot. “And just what am I supposed to tell the guys about this? ‘Excuse me, fellows, but if you don't get out of my way, I'm going to have to stomp on you— it will only hurt for a little while.'”

“You're making a mountain out of a molehill, Cassie.”

“And you've made a serious mistake if you think I'm going to sneak around and stab my friends in the back! I can't break this kind of news to them.” She waved her arms in frustration. “It's not worth it to me, Allen. We're an act.”

“I'll think of something to tell them.” He stood and put a placating hand on her shoulder. “They've kicked around long enough to know how the game's played, and they'd be the first to wish you luck.”

“Is that intended to make me feel better?” Cassie tried to shrug his hand off. “I can't do it, Allen. I won't do it.”

His grip tightened on her shoulder and the pressure of his fingers pinched her collarbone.

“Like hell you won't,” he muttered. “Don't try anything stupid, Cassie.” It was the first time he'd ever used that menacing tone on her. “I've worked too damned hard for too damned many years, and you're not going to blow it because of some silly, half-baked notion that you owe anything to the Twisters. You owe
me,
baby. And don't you forget it.”

Cassie's stomach rolled. The dilated pupils of his bloodshot eyes probed her face, dared her to argue with him. An evil tension flooded the room. She shuddered.

“I'll be downstairs about noon tomorrow.” Her words were quiet, compliant, but she was seething inside. There was more than one way to skin a cat, and she was going to plug the Twisters, come hell or high water. Hoyt's accusations echoed in her mind.

“Allen, how much did you charge the Temples when they hired us for their barbecue?” Although her question was casual, she kept her gaze riveted to his face. Hoyt's suggestion that she become more involved in the financial side of her career was a good one.

“What's that got to do with anything?” Allen blustered but his face was whiter than a wedding gown. “You got your share.”

“Did I?”

“What made you think of something like that?”

“Well, when we were sitting in the van that day, you said that we'd just earned our biggest fee to date. I started thinking about it and realized that I don't have the foggiest idea of what I'm worth. Then Hoyt and I were talking and— ”

“I thought you didn't want anything to do with him.” Allen cocked an eyebrow. “You sure cozied up to him in a hurry, considering how you reacted when you found out who was footing the bill.”

“He speaks kindly of you, too.” She had no desire to defend Hoyt, but she couldn't resist the slam.

“I'm sure he does.” Allen's smile was as cold as ice. “Sounds like you two are thicker than thieves, what with this money talk and all.”

“I used to work for him, remember? He just wondered how I was getting along. And for your information, we weren't cozying up.”

“The farther you stay away from that outlaw, the better off you'll be,” Allen advised.

“You booked the barbecue,” she reminded him hotly. “Maybe you should consult me first from now on about where I'm going to appear and for whom I'm going to audition. That way there won't be any more of these embarrassing mix-ups.”

“Embarrassing?” A gleam of belated understanding flickered in Allen's eyes. Cassie's cheeks blazed. “Another image bites the dust,” he mused with a smirk. “I was curious as to why you were so uptight about performing for the Temples.”

Cassie could have kicked herself for letting the cat out of the bag. Why had she ever let him steer the conversation in this direction?

“If Purdy gets the right impression tomorrow, you can kiss the two-bit barbecues and political picnics good-bye.” Allen knew he'd evaded the money matters that Cassie had wanted to discuss. He chuckled softly as he headed toward the door. “You know, Cassie, getting all riled up like this will make you old before your time, put bags under your eyes. You'd better get some rest.”

She wasn't positive, but it seemed to her that Allen closed the door a little more forcefully than necessary.

* * * *

When she came downstairs shortly after noon on Monday, the bar was empty of customers. Allen was fooling with the tape machine he'd set up for the recorded music that Harlan Purdy would bring. A tall glass of amber beer sat on the curved mahogany bar, and the air conditioner hummed a cooling melody against the scorching, late August heat that hung over the city. It didn't seem possible that a year had passed since she'd set out from Coyote Bend to pursue her pot of gold.

Cassie drew a soft drink from the spigot behind the bar and climbed onto a stool, waiting for Allen to finish.

“I'm going to leave that air conditioner running night and day until this heat wave's over. It was hotter than Old Billy Hell when I came in this morning.” He wiped his brow and sighed as he fiddled with the knobs that controlled bass and treble. “It's ready.” Allen grinned, rubbed his hands together in anticipation, and then reached for his beer. He acted like yesterday's confrontation had never even happened. His glass was emptied so fast that Cassie wondered if there was a hole in the bottom of it

“I still don't feel right about this, Allen.” She wanted to set the record straight while they were alone. “Something— call it a premonition or intuition, whatever you want— tells me this isn't going to work out quite the way you're planning.”

She'd lain awake half the night, too upset to sleep. Every time she'd closed her eyes, the soulfully accusing faces of Scrappy, Mike, and Jess had chased her through the long, dark corridors of a bad dream. How could she even consider auditioning without them? It went against everything that the four of them stood for.

“Don't start dishing up that baloney again. We don't even know yet what Purdy's got on his mind.” Allen scowled and wiped his brow again. “For all we know, you might not even be the kind of singer he's in the market for.”

Cassie traced an idle pattern with the tip of her fingernail in the dripping condensation on the side of her glass. Allen tapped another beer.

“Did he tell you what songs he wants me to do?” She wasn't really even curious, but they had to talk about something.

“No, but that shouldn't be any problem. Hell, you know almost everything that's ever been written.” Allen waved his hand and the foamy head of his beer slopped over the side of the glass and dripped onto his fingers. “Can I get you another cola?”

Cassie shook her bead, rebuffing his attempt to buddy up. The two of them nursed an uncomfortable silence on opposite sides of the bar until Purdy arrived.

If the promoter's appearance had repelled her at the rodeo, it nauseated her today. From the reluctant fit of his flashy pink suit to the gleaming tips of his peanut-butter-colored ostrich boots, Harlan Purdy was a caricature of the drugstore cowboys who hung around the Stardust hoping some gullible woman would be content to go steady for one night.

“Is the machine ready?” Purdy had dropped the homespun facade and was ready to get down to business. A cloud of blue cigar smoke hung over the ten-gallon hat that sat cockeyed on his twenty-gallon head. “Ain't got all day, you know,” he said, reminding them again of how important he thought he was. “Those producers in Nashville keep me hopping like a toad eighteen hours a day and more.”