Page 25 of The Check Down

The cool air that greets us as he ushers me across the black-and-white tile floor to buy tickets is refreshing. When I pull out my wallet to pay for mine, Griffin shoves it right back into my purse.

“Not-a-professors don’t buy their own tour tickets in Memphis.”

Lips pursed, I huff. “I’m going to be faster than you one day, Lacey.”

“We’ll see about that, Nelson. Speed is part of my job description.”

“Right. That wholeRacything. How silly of me to forget.”

“That’s one interpretation of the nickname. There are one or two more out there. Depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you, sir. Where’d it come from?”

Griffin takes his card from the cashier and slips it into his wallet. “That is a tale for another time, I’m afraid.”

We stake a spot off to the side of a bar to wait for our tour time. When a lady vacates the stool at the end, he gestures for me to take it. As I’m propping a hip on the black vinyl, someone behind us whisper-shouts, “That’s Griffin Lacey!”

He stiffens next to me, his eyes apologetic under the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry,” he mutters before he turns to the small crowd that’s now circling us.

Despite his initial reaction, he remains good-natured and professional while the throng clamors for an autograph or a photo.

One stocky man even has the gall to lean in and nudge Griffin with an elbow. “That your girl, Lacey?”

My cheeks flame, and my stomach bottoms out, but Griffin takes the invasive question in stride. With an arm thrown over my shoulders, he lifts his chin and addresses the crowd. “This is my friend and personal gherkin taster, Brynn. Her name actually translates to ‘lover of gherkins’ in Welsh. Did y’all know that?”

Various heads shake and murmurs ofnosound out around us.

“She thinks Coldplay is way overrated, but we won’t hold that against her, will we?”

Morenos ring out from the crowd, and a few dubious looks are cast my way, but the crowd eats up his every word.

My stomach dips as I watch him work. Gah, the ridiculousness of this man makes me like him even more.

A cute young guy with dreadlocks sporting a crop top appears in a doorway and calls for the group’s attention. He introduces himself as Josh, a local musician, and explains that he’ll be our guide as we tour the historic studio. As the group follows him upstairs, Griffin and I drift to the back of the pack.

I bump his arm with my shoulder. “Personal gherkin taster, huh? I need to add that to my CV when I get home.”

“I hear they’re in high demand these days.” He huffs a laugh, but then his smile slips. “I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable back there. The last thing I want is for your picture to be splashed all over social media. And for rumors to fly about who you are to me.”

Right. Because we’rejust friends.

He must see the glimmer of hurt I thought I’d masked, because he rushes to say, “I couldn’t care less what people think about me. But I would never want you or your relationship to suffer because of our friendship.” He pauses at the top of the stairs, so I do, too. “I’m assuming you’re still in a relationship…”

I force a swallow and nod. “I am.”

Lips pressed together, he studies me, taking in my expression like he can find a different answer there. “Listen, I’m the last person who should give anyone relationship advice, but…” He heaves a drawn-out sigh. “But I do know that settling for crumbs doesn’t fill you up. It keeps you starving.”

With a sympathetic smile, he shuffles toward the group, leaving me on the top step to process his words. The truth in them causes gooseflesh to ripple across my skin. But Josh has launched into the tale of Sam Phillips, and I don’t want to miss a second of this tour with my friend, so I shove his words and my reaction to them into a tidy compartment in my brain, to be unpacked later.

But those goose bumps remain for the rest of the tour. Not because of the icy blast from the AC. No, it’s the step back to a bygone era and the stories surrounding some of the most beloved musicians and songs in history that have chills peppering my limbs.

And when I stand in the same spot Elvis stood so long ago, when he auditioned for Phillips, and my gorgeous NFL friend poses me for a picture holding the icon’s microphone? Well,thosegoose bumps appear for a wholly different reason.

Chapter six

Brynn

Aquiet campus library is the last place most thirty-year-olds would choose to be on a Friday evening, right?

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