Page 1 of Whispered Southern Secrets

Chapter One

Honey

Everyone has a guilty pleasure. Mine is karaoke nights at this tiny honky-tonk on the outskirts of Birmingham, away from Magnolia Grove. Though I’m not from the small town of Magnolia Grove, everyone knows me because of my grandparents. “That’s Minnie and Millard’s girl,” is my unofficial name to most people. Or they know me as Honey, even though my name is Harper. My pepaw, Millard loathes the name Harper so as far as any of the good folks of Magnolia Grove are concerned, my name is Honey.

I’m not dressed appropriately for a bar atmosphere. But that’s okay, I know I’m rocking my bright blue “Knit Happens” shirt—with the font written in purple yarn—and favorite pair of ripped jeans that hug my ass like a glove. I give a confident smile to the bar patrons, not that I can see them with the stage lights glaring in my face. I close my eyes and allow the music to seep through my bones. The familiar chords of “Silver Wings,” by Merle Haggard begin. My lips part and the words flow freely.

Sweet memories of summers with my grandmother, Minnie, whom I call Mimi, filter through my mind. She’s the one who taught me to knit and got me this shirt. We’d sing this song everyyear at the end of the summer before I’d have to leave and return home. Right now, in my mind, I’m only singing to her on their wooden front porch swing as Pepaw sits across from us rocking back and forth in his chair. The memory is so vivid that I can even smell the flowers that surround the porch, sweet tea, and cinnamon from her hard candies she always likes to eat.

I’m leaving again. Instead of taking the flight I’m driving twelve hours. Honestly, I’m not even sure when I’ll be back. The ach in my chest has my tone turn slightly shaky from the painful thought. Which is why I made this was a last minute stop to clear my head and release some tension before the long drive. I knew this day was coming. Already my visits to Magnolia Grove were already getting to be fewer and father between. Becoming an official adult with an actual career means I won’t have summers off.You would if you became a teacher,my Mimi’s voice replays in my ear.

I end the song and give a bow to the generous applause. Before exiting the stage on the side, I put my name down for “Stand By Me,” and opt for the Florence + The Machine cover. A few hands pop out for me to give a high five as I pass by them on my way to the bar. A few with callouses. Some are sweaty.Gross.Some soft. I like the variety of patrons we have tonight. Peanut shells crunch beneath my feet. The air is a mix of wood, warmth, and liquid courage. It’s not a bad smell. This place isn’t anything fancy, but it has a homey and cozy charm about it.

The best part is nobody knows me as Millard and Minnie's granddaughter. I’m simply the young red head that comes in on occasion to sing a few songs, eat my weight in loaded cheese fries, and drink two girly cocktails, ending my night with a Shirly Temple. Then I vanish. All they know is my initial, H., which is what they call out when it’s my turn at karaoke. I wonder if anyone has given me a cool nickname? The mysterious red head? The lone red head? Maybe it has nothing to do with myhair color. Hopefully it’s not Shirly… The bartender does like to tease me about my ritual of getting a Shirly Temple in a martini glass.

It has sentimental value and it’s something I can’t stop doing. Mimi doesn’t drink any alcohol, but she liked the look of cocktails, so Pepaw would get her a Shirly Temple but ask them to put it in a fancy glass for her. I felt special when he’d do the same for me, but he’d always wink and in a firm voice say, “Now don’t go getting any ideas. This is the closest you need to come to drinking. The stiff ones don’t even taste half as good. You’re better off with this right here.”

Hopping up onto the barstool, I give the bartender my drink order, which is for a fruity cocktail. I do say the words, “a fruity cocktail.” We’ve done this dance before; he knows to surprise me with something that has alcohol but tastes sweet.

I barely register the body that sits next to the stool beside me. “Hello,” a deep voice asks. Inwardly I groan. Rule number one: this is my happy place, so no complications. I never give out my name or phone number. The way that man saidhello,I know the tone. He’s interested. I’m not. It’s about to get awkward.

When I turn I find the man is very attractive, but not enough for me to sabotage what I have going here. He’s the traditionally handsome type. He’s older than me, early thirties perhaps. Clean appearance. Bonus points, he does have teeth. But this is my Zen. I’m not looking for romance, and I absolutely do not do hookups.

“Hello,” I force out.

“You have a lovely voice. Nice to see a young person singing one of the classics. Surprised you didn’t sing Taylor Swift.”

Before, it was polite disinterest but now I hate him. I give him a tight closed mouth smile and nod. I may not be a full-blown Swiftie, but I resent everything he just said. In fact, I’m putting myself down for one of hers after my next turn.

His voice lowers. “How’s someone as pretty as you sitting here alone?”

“Genital warts.”

He stares like a deer in the headlights. The bartender places my drink in front of me, and I thank him. I hold my drink in my hand and turn back to the guy next to me.

“I’m as baffled as you are.” The man rolls his shoulders and I can tell he is trying to convince himself he didn’t hear me correctly. So I continue sweetly, “It always goes the same for me. A nice man, like yourself, comes to sit next to me. He usually ends up buying me a drink. We chat. But every single time we get to leaving together, they run.”

He scoffs. “Nah. I doubt that.”

I take a sip and then nod as I swallow. “It’s true. I warn them that they have to use a condom because of my STDs and it’s like that’s a deal breaker.”

Hiding my smile behind my drink, I watch as all color drains from his face and his eyes become wide. He loudly clears his throat and slowly stands. As he walks away, I call out. “Come back!”

I take a sip of my drink but almost choke when the bartender begins humming, “Another One Bites the Dust,” by Queen.

“It’s been a while since you’ve told the STD bit. Still not as creative as you being an alien. Or you pretending to be excited that they can see you.” The bartender snickers.

“I need to come up a new one.” I say thoughtfully. “Do you have any suggestions?”

He shakes his head and walks down the bar to check on a customer. I’m bringing my drink to my lips when I hear the beginning of “Stand by Me.”

I didn’t even hear them call my initial. What the heck? When I turn around there’s someone on the stage. A very large someone. He has a nice tan and even from here I can see he’ssolid. Tall. Muscular. The man is built like a mountain. His dark hair is short, military style. His face has sharp masculine features. This guy is the epitome of masculinity.

And he’s taking my turn.

Except maybe not. As the music continues I hear that he’s definitely performing the classic Ben E. King version. Solid choice. His voice is low, strong, and warm. There’s an intensity to him. It’s not fair that a man who looks like he does should also be able to sound so smooth. I find myself being drawn to the stage. I’m sipping my drink as I weave through the tables and bar patrons. The son-of-a-bitch even sings “darling” as “darlin’” with a sexy as hell southern accent. Of course, we are in the South. But he doesn’t have a twang. His darlin’ doesn’t sound cheesy but comes out as a caress. He’s so darn handsome. Am I struggling to breathe right now? Oh. My. Gosh. I’m breathless. He’s so gorgeous he leaves me breathless.

Right as the music stops I down the rest of my drink. I’m one step away from climbing that mountain when they call for me to approach the stage. What a horrible twist of fate. Actually, no. This is an intervention. Thank goodness. I bite my lip as I hurry to the stage. Not going to make eye contact with the gorgeous man with tan skin, hard muscles, and who is extremely talented. Nope. Not looking that way.

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