Page 42 of Trusting Blake
“No! I can’t sing.”
Blake turns his head to pout his lips sweetly at me. “C’mon, it’s just me. I bet you’re not that bad.”
Rolling my eyes, I begin to sing as eloquently as possible, trying to pull off a low Southern tone. I get a mere few seconds in when Blake cuts to the next song on his playlist.
“Never mind,” he says. “You do suck.”
I gasp and whack his arm, mortified, then we both burst into laughter. We can’tallbe performers like him – some of us aren’t blessed with perfect vocal cords. He cranks up the music as if to drown out any further attempts at singing from me, but I only raise my voice, belting out the now-familiar lyrics. Blake competes against me, singing so loud he’s practically yelling at the top of his lungs, and then as the song comes to an end, we catch each other’s eye and collapse into laughter.
“So, what are we doing?” I ask once we’ve settled down. “Where are we going?”
Blake leaves the highway and I gaze out the open window as Memphis slowly begins to unravel around us. The buildings around us seem a lot older, more historic, and there’s not much in the way of glamorous modernization. I’ve never been to Memphis before – or maybe I have as a kid, but I can’t remember.
Blake gives me a sideways glance of disapproval and shakes his head. “You really are bad at this whole Tennessee thing. We’re going to Beale Street. Where else?”
It may be Friday, but the streets are fairly quiet as it’s still early – just after five – so the night hasn’t quite started yet. We continue downtown and the volume of pedestrians begins to multiply on the sidewalks once we start passing hotels and restaurants, arriving at the heart of the city. We drive under a large, arched sign that reads “BEALE STREET” in electric blue letters, then Blake turns into a parking lot.
We’ve been in the truck for a few hours, so I’m relieved to get out and stretch my legs. It’s a sizzling hot summer evening here in Memphis, with only a slight breeze to cool things down, and like in Nashville, already I can hear the alternate clashing and harmonizing of different music from nearby bars and am, of course, enveloped in the smell of freshly cooked food. I glance back to the Beale Street sign and realize the reverse side reads “HOME OF THE BLUES.” People stream underneath it, headed in one direction to where all the action begins.
“So, was this always your plan?” I ask Blake as he locks the truck. “Drive all the way to Memphis to. . . listen to music? Why didn’t you just go to Nashville?”
“I need some breathing space,” Blake answers. “Mom’s staying in the city tonight, but I really needed to put a few hundred miles between us. I’m so glad you’re with me,” he whispers and leans in for a kiss.
I meet his lips and mirror his smile while I slip my hand into his, interlocking our fingers, and we follow the crowd.
Beale Street, at first glance, seems like an older, more run-down version of Nashville’s Broadway. It’s more rustic and perhaps in need of rejuvenation, but in an old-school sort of way. The low brick stone buildings are brought to life by colorful store fronts and funky signs that jut out over the pedestrianized street, which I imagine will electrify the area with bold neon colors once the sun sets and night rolls in.
I don’t imagine blues music being that popular among younger generations, so it’s no surprise to see that Beale Street attracts an older crowd that’s a bit rough around the edges. The street is kind of seedy with a definite party vibe, and between the panhandlers and the police presence, I find myself gravitating closer against Blake.
“Are you sure this is safe?” I whisper, hugging his bicep.
Blake tilts his chin down to look at me, holding back laughter at my tight grip on him. “We’re going for food, Mila. We’ll be out of here before the real nightlife starts. Relax!”
“I didn’t know you liked blues music,” I think out loud, gazing at all the different bars with their live music spilling out onto the street.
“I don’t. That’s why I’m not taking you to a blues bar,” Blake says, his stride confident as he continues to lead the way. “I’m taking you to the Tin Roof! They host country performers there.”
“Have you been before?”
“Yeah. Me and Lacey found it last year,” he tells me, casually. “Best place on Beale Street!”
Ugh.Lacey. . . the apparent ex-girlfriend. Obviously no thanks to Blake for that knowledge.
My stomach knots and I bite down hard on my lip to suppress the urge to ask him about her.
Don’t sayanything, don’t say anything, don’t say anything.
“There it is!” Blake announces, pointing ahead.
And I’m not even surprised that this is Blake’s venue of choice. The Tin Roof is basically the Memphis version of Honky Tonk Central back in Nashville. They are both right on the corner of the block with wide-open windows on the second floor, showing off the irresistible atmosphere that waits inside.
“You aresopredictable,” I say. “But in a good way.” I squeeze his arm a little tighter, pushing all thoughts of Lacey away.
As it’s still early, there isn’t a line yet and there’s no one manning the door, so Blake and I go straight through. Excitement fizzes in my stomach, the same way it did when Blake took me to Honky Tonk Central for the first time. Bars like these in cities so far from home are just so out of my world. All those swanky, five-star restaurants with perfectly aligned silverware and suited waiters that my parents always choose to dine at seem so stale and stuffy in comparison. The finer things in life aren’t necessarily the most fun.
The Tin Roof is, honestly, a bit of a dive bar. There are old bicycles hanging from the rafters, multicolored Christmas lights wired all around the ceiling, Americana memorabilia all over the walls. There’s a guy playing keyboard up on a rickety stage in the corner, and people are crowded around the bar, already tipsy and in high spirits as they order their next round. The second floor is a mezzanine level with balconies that overlook the stage below.
“Here,” Blake says, pulling me across the cracked concrete floor to an empty table with red and blue retro-leather diner chairs. He pulls one out for me. “Let’s sit down, Miss Mila, and enjoy a taste of Memphis freedom.”
