Page 44 of The Making of Mila and Blake
“I have to be harsh, Mila,” Blake says. “You can’t enable someone who has a drinking problem, and letting him hang around in a place like this? It torments him.” He steals a quick glance at the silver watch on his wrist and his hardened expression breaks as he jolts into motion. “Crap, it’s time.”
Honky Tonk Central roars with the thumping of feet, whistling cheers and the clapping of hands as the band closes out their performance with a bow. Blake starts to take off through the bustling crowd, but I reach for his wrist and pull him back.
“Mila, I need to go,” he says with a panicked laugh, trying to shake his arm free.
Among the noise and beneath the dim bar lighting, I edge up close and bump my hip into his. My hand sneaks its way to the nape of his neck and I stretch up on my tiptoes. “After your set,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the edge of his jaw, “come find me.”
Blake swallows hard and is momentarily still as his dark eyes shine back at me, our faces mere inches apart, and his mouth curves with the sexiest of smirks. “Now how am I supposed to concentrate?”
I laugh and step back, gently nudging him forward. “Go, Blake.”
With a wink, he turns and makes a beeline through the crowd, his guitar whacking several people as he races toward the stage. The band unplug their equipment and hop off the stage as Marty takes their place, grabbing the mic and squinting through the blinding spotlights.
“Wow, wow, wow! Aren’t they just amazing?” his voice echoes through the speakers, garnering another round of applause. It’s Marty’s job to keep his customers as hyped as possible. “Up next we have a guy who’s becoming a familiar face around here. Young and destined for Nashville fame, let’s hear it for our local favorite, Blake Avery!”
The bar rumbles with energy that rises all the way to the roof. I cheer so loud my throat feels hoarse by the time my lungs run out of air. As people thump their hands against their tables, Blake confidently leaps up onto the stage with a cool, steady wave. I watch him plug in his guitar and make a couple mic checks, then I hunt down Savannah and Tori. They’ve already found themselves a prime spot on the dance floor.
“Sneaking off with Blake for some smooching, huh?” Tori teases, and I roll my eyes and turn to the stage. Iwishthere’d been some smooching.
Blake clears his throat and steps up to the mic. “How are y’all doing tonight?” he asks the crowd, and thewhoop-whoopsin response make it clear that everyone is in a damn good mood. He laughs, all breathy over the mic– his confidence has grown so much since the first time I saw him get up on this exact stage. He places his fingers over the fretboard of his guitar and his neon blue pick hovers over the strings. “Sorry, folks, but I’m still working on some originals, so tonight’s first cover is going to be a new favorite of mine by Canaan Cox. It’s called ‘When It Comes To You,’” he says, and through the haze of the bar, his glistening eyes find mine in the crowd.
My smile mirrors his and I blow him a kiss, an electric charge that kicks off his performance. He strums hard against his Gibson Hummingbird and the opening notes reverberate around Honky Tonk Central. Closing his eyes, Blake’s melodic, husky voice fills me with warmth as he sings the opening verse, the speakers so loud his Southern drawl echoes tantalizingly in my ears. Nothing can ruin tonight.
And as I lose myself in the euphoria of his performance, so flawless and bursting with happiness, my heart feels whole again.
17
The crowd totally laps Blake up, entranced by his gorgeous voice and his ability to smash a high note, and as the hour-long set draws into its final few minutes, Blake is exhausted. Sweat pours from his face from such exertion in this Nashville humidity and with the stage lights blazing over him, yet his performance never falters. The stage is where he belongs. Music is what he was made for.
Pride beats through me as I turn away from the stage to drink in the reaction of the crowd. The dance floor is packed with tourists enjoying a taste of Nashville and all its honky-tonk glory, and the entrance is a hub of commotion as people come and go. Now that it’s nearing eight, the bouncer has stopped allowing minors inside. The first floor is packed, standing room only, and every table is full of revelers enjoying their drinks, their food, and the music. Honky Tonk Central is like the heartbeat of Broadway.
As my gaze travels from table to table, something catches my eye. At a high table toward the rear of the bar, there is a peculiar sight– two older people with their attention fixed on Blake. And that wouldn’t be weird, except they are dressed. . . well, inappropriately. It’s like a hundred degrees in this joint, yet the woman has a silk scarf bundled around her neck with her face buried low into the material. The man wears an oversized coat that he sinks deep into. They both wear baseball caps.I squint harder through the hazy crowd, and gasp.
“What?” Savannah yells into my ear, tugging at my shoulder.
But I can’t bring myself to tell her. My eyes focused ahead, I push my way through the packed dance floor, then twist and turn around the tables toward the back of the bar. I recognize that incognito disguise.
“Dad,” I hiss, slapping my hands down hard on the edge of the table. I glare at him, betrayed that he came despite my clear instructions not to, and then glance at the woman by his side. She meets my eyes and my shock quadruples. “LeAnne?”
“Hi,” she whispers.
My brows raise high in confusion and I shake my head, not sure which of them to scold first. What is Dad doing here? What isLeAnnedoing here? And most importantly, why are they heretogether?
“What the hell? I told you not to come here, Dad,” I say, smacking my palm against my forehead. This can’t be happening again. Dad cannotbe at Blake’s gig. “You ruined it last time!”
Dad rests his elbows on the table, his body relaxed. “Look around, Mila. Am I causing a scene? No,” he says smugly. “If anything, you are, so shhh.”
I do look around, and the tension in my body eases when I realize he’s right. No one has noticed him; no one is stealing peeks over here or snapping discreet photographs with their cell phones. It’s amazing what an old Tennessee Titans cap can do.
I relax my posture and hop up onto the spare stool at the table, glancing back to the stage. I hope Blake hasn’t noticed that I’ve disappeared from the dance floor as he introduces his final cover of the night. He has no idea his mom is here. Or did he invite her?
My forehead creasing, I turn back to Dad and LeAnne and say, “I am so confused. Why are you both here together? And whydid you go for dinner at Jefferson’s last week? Tori saw you.” I tilt my head expectantly. Amid all the drama between Tori and Savannah yesterday, I almost forgot about that little tidbit of information she’d given me.
Dad chuckles wryly.
“I don’t understand what’s funny, Dad.”
“Did your friend also mention the other six people we were with?” he says with a challenging smile, and I bite the inside of my cheek as my face heats. “The old gang from back in the day were having a reunion, Mila. That’s all. We had dinner and then went out for some drinks.”
