Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, indirectly answering the question on my mind.
“If you want”—I dug my teeth into my lower lip for a few seconds—“I mean, it’s not fair that—”
“Sarah, I’m not having sex with you because you feel obligated to return the favor. I’ll sneak a cigarette later and call it good.” The door clicked shut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JACKSON BROWNE, “SOMEBODY’S BABY”
Nashville was more than my small-town heart could take. It exceeded all expectations. The raucous bars and vibrant nightlife blew my mind. Isaac didn’t need a cigarette because the honky-tonks were filled with smoke, laughter, music, and dancing.
I felt so grown-up in my dress, boots, and new hat. Throngs of people filled the streets, wandering from place to place and gathering around the telephone poles to check out the stapled flyers to see where everyone was playing that weekend. Isaac kept a protective arm around me everywhere we went that night, popping in and out of little dive bars to listen to a few songs and grabbing a beer (soda for me) and a quick sandwich before landing at Leonard’s Lounge in the rock block. I felt like a real aspiring musician alongside Isaac in his hat, boots, and guitar in hand.
“This doesn’t feel real,” I said when we entered the back of the bar.
“What’s that?” He lowered his ear closer to my mouth.
I shook my head and mumbled, “Nothing,” just as a tall guy with an orange mustache and thick biceps charged toward us.
Isaac released my hand and set his guitar on the floor before hugging the guy.
“How the hell are you?” he asked Isaac.
“Good, man. God, it’s great to see you.”
His friend released him and eyed me. “And who do we have here? Wife? Girlfriend?”
My eyes widened, looking to Isaac for help.
“My preacher’s daughter. I kidnapped her. She sings in the choir but secretly loves songs about sex.”
I fought my usual reaction, which was to turn ten different shades of red and avert my gaze. This was the start of my favorite dream.
I wasn’t Sunday Morning.
I was the girl who planned on making my way onto the stage and showing the audience I was really the one they came to see. So I acted like that girl because she was more fun than the one who rarely missed curfew and knew every song in the hymnal.
“I’m Sarah. Isaac said I can sing while he plays the guitar,” I said with my head held high. I followed Isaac’s instruction by sliding my arm around him and tucking my fingers into his back pocket while holding out my right hand.
“I’m Lenny.” He shook my hand and chuckled. “Sorry, sugar. Isaac misspoke. I can’t let you onto my stage if I haven’t heard you sing, even if you are sucking his dick.”
I stiffened while fighting to keep my smile. That’s what adults did. Haha! He made a sex joke. So what. I had a sense of humor.
“I didn’t tell her she could sing, but I am responsible for her. So when nine o’clock rolls around, and you kick the youngsters out, I need to let her stay perched in the front row.”
“You’re babysitting. Got it.” Lenny winked. “I gotta get back out there. Y’all help yourself to food and drinks; it’s on the house.”
After Lenny disappeared through the doors, I faced Isaac with my hands on my hips. “So you just let him think I’m sucking your dick, and you’re my babysitter?”
“Baby, he was my boss for four years, and he’s letting me sing here for the next two nights. He can think whatever the hell he wants. You sucking my dick is optional, but it won’t get you on that stage. Sorry, house rules.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, but who was I kidding? Nashville was my Disneyland. Just walking through the throngs of people milling around that night was beyond my imagination.
“You’re cute when you pout.” He chuckled, taking his guitar out of its case and slipping the strap over his head. “Do you want something to eat or drink?”
“How about a beer?”
“You’re not old enough to drink,” he said, glancing up from his guitar to give me a quick grin. “I wouldn’t feel right about letting my pastor’s daughter drink a beer.”
“What? Are you totally serious? After you fing—” I clamped my mouth shut.
Gah!
Why did I lose all bravery and momentum when it came to sex talk?
“Fingered you?” He strummed his guitar.
I was such a priss for thinking he sounded crude. If I was willing to let him do it, then I needed to grow up and use my words.
“Do you think I should write a song about fingering the preacher’s daughter?” he asked.
I held my breath to keep from reacting as he waited for just that.
“Of course, I’d hide the meaning behind more poetic lyrics as all the good songwriters do.” He continued to pluck the strings and adjust the sound.