Page 17 of A Country Kind Of Love
The bursts of laugher grow louder as Jesse introduces her individually to each of his friends. There’s a short guy leant against the piano; he’s solid and muscly. His arms are covered in tattoos, and the sleeves of his black sweater have been cut further up to allow room for his biceps. His eyes peek through narrow lids; his jaw is taut, and his hair is rigid. He looks like an Army boy, a far cry from the rest of the peoplein the room.
“Peyton, this is my best friend Marvin.”
“Nice to meet ya, Peyton.” He extends his hand. His accent is more deep-rooted thanthe others.
“Marvin is a music producer.”
“Oh really?” Hereyes widen.
“You sound surprised,”Marvin says.
“No, I just had you down as an Army guy.”
Marvin scowls at Jesse. “Did you put herup to this?”
“Nope.” Jesse hunches over in a fitof laughter.
“Have I missed something?” Peyton is confused, which seems to be a regular occurrence of late.
“He comes from a long line of serving military officers, hence his style sense. We call him Big Mac the Army brat.” Jesse chuckles and swiftly dodges a punch from hisbest friend.
“You didn’t want to be in the military?”Peyton asks.
Marvin shakes his head. “Hell no.”
Peyton looks to Jesse for some explanation.“He’s gay.”
“Oh,” Peyton says, “but, you’re permitted to serve in the military now.”
Marvin shrugs. “Now, yes. My old man has different views.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Marvin sips his drink. “Anyway, I hear you’re a singer.” Swift subject change.
“Oh god, no.” She shakes her head. “I write songs, and I play the piano a little.”
“She’s being modest.” Jesse nudges Peyton. “Stop selling yourself short.”
“Well, I’d love to hear a song one day,” Marvin states before signalling to an unknown figure in thebackground.
“Oh, erm, yeah sure.” Peyton can feel the vein that pops out on her forehead whenever she feels uncomfortable. It’s pulsating.
“I have a couple of artists I’m working with who are looking for new music...” He waves someone over. “One of them happens to be here tonight.”
Peyton can sense a presence on her right as an individual comes into her peripheral. Soft brunette curls spill out from a trucker cap. Her posture oozes confidence as she saunters into view—
“Peyton this is...”
Cleo.
4
Cleo.
Peyton can’t believe her eyes.
She’s ditched the checked bottoms for a pair of black leather trousers and a brown tank top. Her tattooed arms are fully exposed. Peyton’s eyes wander up and down; she takes in each piece of artwork; there’s a music sheet on her upper left arm that wraps from one side to the next and an old-school unravelled tape on her right arm with the word,Revolution,written at the top. She’s a MirandaLambert fan.
