Page 47 of The Girl with No Name

“Why would it make you insane?”

“To write songs when I know no one will ever hear them? Isn’t that insane?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know about that. I think that’s the definition of a true artist. You create for the love of creating, and not because you want to make some big show of it. I admire that.”

I’m about to respond when we see something extraordinary. Dunn comes flying out the window of the bar’s ground floor waiting area, and glass shatters everywhere.

“Uh oh,” I yell, standing up.

Now, Dunn is about 5’10”—though he’s larger than life in my mind. And he’s tough as nails. A big, burly, Luke Combs-looking guy with a trucker hat follows Dunn out as I rush over. It’s the same guy who was hassling me about not knowing that Kenny Rogers song.

“Get the hell outta here, Yank!” he yells. “Stop looking at my girl.”

“I wasn’t looking at your girl, bro! Relax!” Dunn shouts, dusting the glass off.

“Yes, youwas.” The guy takes a step forward. “I saw you looking at her. You callin’ me a liar? You’re a dead man!”

“I don’t know what you saw, but it wasn’t me.”

Luna and I edge closer. “Hey, hey, what’s the commotion?” I ask, attempting to step between the two of them. A few more people have come out of the bar, and a small crowd forms around us.

“That’s the guy!” someone else yells.

“This motherfucker was?—”

“Dunn, were you looking at his girl?” I ask, cutting off Luke Comb’s cousin. Let’s call him CC—Combs’ Cuz.

Dunn shakes his head. “Man, I’m eight shots in. I was sitting at the bar, and this girl comes over and starts chatting me up. I showed her my ring, and she grabbed my thigh.”

“So you’re saying my girl’s a floozy?” the big man grunts, grabbing Dunn’s collar.

“I don’t think you want to do that,” I tell him.

“Oh? And why’s that? Why shouldn’t I kick the spit out of you and your outta-towner friend right now?”

I turn to Dunn, and we exchange a knowing look.

Dunn is a West Point-trained fighter. Despite that, he’s not necessarily physically imposing to the untrained eye. He looks like a typical bro shmo right now, what with his camouflage cap that readsGodspeed, jeans, and a T-shirt. But he’s not. And Dunn doesn’t like to fight, but he has a temper, and if that gets unleashed, we both know it’s not good. Dunn putting some poor sap in the emergency room would not be good mojo for this trip.

Luna puts her hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. This is a misunderstanding. We’re all friends. We’re just in town to see Zach Bryan.”

“And the Red Lemons,” I add.

“Zach Bryan.” His eyes take a meandering path up to Dunn’s cap. The dude is shitfaced as hell. “Are you a real fan, or like a fake fan?”

“Bro, I love Zach,” Charlie assures him. “He’s my boy.”

“Really.” The big guy arches an eyebrow. “If you’re so into him, tell me. What’s his best album?”

Sweat glistens on Dunn’s forehead. This feels a little like that bridge of death scene inMonty Python and the Holy Grail. Like, if he says the wrong thing, it’s going to be us against this guy and his group of shady-looking friends in an all-out brawl.

Dunn and I lock eyes. “Tell ’em, Dunn. Tell him,” I urge.

Dunn clears his throat. “American Heartbreakis his best album, in my opinion. His self-titled was good too, but nothing beats the freshness of that one, before he’d actually hit it big. And maybe a few tracks off ofQuiet Heavy Dreams, too.”

CC has a puzzled look on his face now. Like he’s realizing the one he wanted to fight might actually be a cool guy. “What are your three favorite songs?” he asks.

Dunn thinks for a moment. “‘Let You Down’ is probably my favorite. ‘Heavy Eyes’ is a close second. Third…maybe… ‘’68 Fastback’.”

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