Page 14 of Wingwoman
She pressed her lips together, looking around the bar. “Typically, first I try to get a feel for the sort of women you’re interested in. Who do you find appealing, just from a first glance?”
Who did I find appealing?
Hope. I found Hope appealing.
Everything from the way she bit down on her straw as she took her first sip of tea to her keen eye and attention to her surroundings to the way her jet black eyelashes framed gorgeous brown eyes. Her sexy pouty lips and quick wit. Fuck, the next eight weeks were going to be a bitch.
I never wanted to fall in love again. Never thought I would have to. And if I did, I especially didn’t want to have to end it.
I swallowed hard, slugging more of my whiskey than I should have. The problem was, no one cared about music when the artist was happy and fulfilled. People loved the pain. They loved anguish and broken hearts. Happy music didn’t win Grammys and that was the damn truth. And this numbed man I’d become wasn’t inspiring any form of greatness.
Ruined women were my specialty. And fans came to expect these songs from me.
Ask any of the great artists… the best muse is one that’s complicated.
The best artist is one that’s heartbroken.
The best paintings, the most widely diverse sets of art, take the viewer on a journey of emotions. No one wants to look at a series of pure happiness. People want the heartache.
Do you think anyone would have cared about the Mona Lisa if she had been laughing in that painting? Hell no.
Except my producers were right. It was tired these days… still harping on the same heartbreak from ten years ago?
It wasn’t like I’d been celibate since Jenn. But the supposed heartbreak of a woman I had known all of two nights didn’t quite land with my audience either.
My usual stand-by music wasn’t working anymore. I needed a revamp of my career; my passion. Or maybe I needed to find a new career altogether if this muse plan didn’t work.
My throat grew tight at the thought of giving up music.
While rationally I knew that might be an option, I couldn’t stomach the thought. I needed music. It fed my soul in a different way than the ranch did. And they were interconnected.
The music career helped pay for the ranch. Helped keep my mom’s legacy alive. The fundraisers helped, but they weren’t enough. Not for all the horses that needed our aid and rehabilitation.
One of my favorite songs by the legendary Willie Nelson started playing. Several people around us shouted, throwing their hands in the air and rushing to the dance floor. I gripped my whiskey, taking a sip, ready to let his music take me on a journey. It was quickly broken by Hope’s voice cutting through his soulful crooning.
“What in the hell is everyone so excited about?” she muttered. I opened my eyes and peered at her as she glanced around the bar in utter confusion.
Laughing, I stood up, taking her hand and dragging her toward the dance floor. “C’mon, Yankee. Lemme give you a little dance lesson.”
She leveled me with a gaze that probably would have worked on most men. But I wasn’t most men.
“I studied ballet for twelve years,” she said. “Don’t think I need a lesson from you.”
“I’m not talking about ballet. I’m talkin’ the two-step. Around here? Willie Nelson is legendary. His song doesn’t come on without you getting on your feet and moving. It’s sacreligious.”
“Wait… you mean that old guy who wears bandanas?”
I chuckled. “Yep, that’s the one. You ever stopped to listen to his music?”
“I’m sure I’ve heard some of his songs before,” she said, shrugging. “I mean, everyone knows On the Road Again.”
I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes and instead, placed my whiskey in her hand. “Close your eyes,” I instructed.
She sighed, but did as I told her.
“Now, sip this whiskey and feel his song. Feel that slow, but toe-tapping beat with each pulse of your heart.” I placed my cool palm over her heart and tapped my fingers gently in rhythm with the music. Her chest hitched beneath my hand and I had to swallow a groan as my fingers brushed against the silky skin of her clavicle.
Slipping my other hand around her waist, I rocked with her to the slow beat and drawl of Willie’s voice.
