Tori
I hate country music. I hate the way the music is arranged with its combination of violins – fiddles, banjos, and whatever else is thrown into the mix. I hate the voices that intentionally twang with every word. I hate the way they fucking harmonize. I really, really fucking hate the lyrics.
But every time I walk into this place, it is a damn country song that comes to my mind. Why, you ask, would I have a country song in my head if I hate it so much?
There are several positively logical answers to that question. One because even when you hate a song, it can get stuck in your head. Kind of like the theme song toBarney and Friends. See? You’re humming it right now, aren’t you?
Reason number two is Pete. God how I love that man. Not many would take in a runaway foster kid like he did, but I am so incredibly grateful that he did. I was already a survivor, even at the tender age of thirteen, but Pete taught me to be a fighter in every sense of the word.
Pete’s only downfall is his love of country music. He was born and raised in Texas. I suppose you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.
The third reason that I will never admit to out loud is that the damn song is catchy and says everything that I have felt about Lucky’s since Dane brought me here.
I love this bar.
When you walk in, you feel like you are no longer surrounded by the incessant need to hurry. As soon as you open the door, if feels like time just slows down. The hustle of the city doesn’t apply in here. You can literally feel the stress of the day falling off as you walk in. You almost expect to hear everyone yell “Norm” when you come in.
Pete watched a lot of “Cheers” reruns too.
The theme song in your head now?
Thought so.
I take my spot on my usual stool. Ryder walks over with my usual club soda when he knows I’m working. “What brings you in so early tonight, love?” he asks in that British accent that makes every woman within a fifty yards swoon.
“In between sessions,” I tell him.
“So, you walked over to support the house band?” he nods toward the stage where Maddox is picking up his guitar and Dane is grabbing his drumsticks, taking his place behind his kit.I give a shrug. “What can I say? I’m nothing if not loyal. Why aren’t you up there?”
“Somebody’s got to keep the drinks flowing. Need the voice more than the extra guitar,” he glances down the bar to two men waving him down. “Be right back, love.”
I smile as a flock of women follow him to the other end. I can see why. I’d have to be blind not to see why. The man is eye candy on a bad day with those pale gray-green eyes and light brown hair. Throw in the accent and he is a recipe for sex, and I may or may not have taken him for a test run. The sex was great, but there was no chemistry. Didn’t take long to figure out we’re great together as friends but nothing else.
I listen to Maddox’s tenor voice wail as he sings a beautifully powerful original song I know he’s been working on about letting go of the idea of a person and accepting the reality of who they really are. I’m not sure if it can be called a ballad or not, but it is a great song. They play a few more of their originals and a couple of covers before ending the set.
I have to say they are pretty great. Sons of Sin is real, the musical talent is insane, and Maddox and Ryder’s songwriting is some of the best I’ve heard. But they play the kind of music that resonates with me. And my brother is in the band. I’m probably biased.
I watch as another flock of women follow Maddox, Angel – the bass player, and my brother from the stage. They pay particular attention to Maddox, who I notice is sporting some decent bruising on his face.
Again, I’d have to be blind and deaf not to understand the appeal even with the black eye and swollen nose. Between his megawatt smile and that stupid crazy voice, it’s no wonder women are practically throwing their clothes at him.
But that one, I have not ridden. From the moment I met Maddox, I was nothing more to him than Dane’s sister. He and Dane met a few years ago at NYU. Dane was a senior. Maddox a freshman. Dane was majoring in graphic design while Maddox double majored in business and music. I heard that was the only way he could get his father to pay for school. But they bonded over tattoos and music pretty fast.
Dane walks behind me, pulling on my long braid. “Who’s watching the shop?” he asks as he runs his hand over his blond mohawk.
“Jasper and Stitch,” I tell him as I sip my drink. My brother owns the tattoo shop across the street. In between playing, he’s the best tattoo artist in town, but he says music is his first love.
“You left dumb and dumber in charge?” he asks with mock anger.
I can’t help but chuckle. Those two have been his best friends since he was in junior high. At least, that’s what I have been told repeatedly. I’m actually touched that he trusts me with his shop so much. “When I left, they were both with clients, and I’m clear until eleven.”
“That should, at least, keep them occupied long enough until I get back over there.”
I laugh a little more. My brother the future rock star, tattoo artist is a control freak to the ninth degree. Sometimes I wonder how in the world he tattoos since most customers have the final say with the design.
I have always loved tattoos. A few years ago, I stumbled into Stuck on You – cheesy I know – looking for someone to give me a tattoo. I had no idea I would meet my brother. I didn’t even know I had a brother, but Dane recognized me right away. The resemblance between us is too strong to miss. Apparently, he’d been looking for me and our little sister Cara since he turned eighteen. He found Cara first. She was living in foster care like me. She was thirteen. It took a lot of paperwork, but he managed to get custody of her. She’s eighteen and finishing her first semester of college soon at Loyola in Chicago.
Yeah, my brother is amazing. I wish I could’ve known him when we were kids. He says I wouldn’t have like him back then, but I don’t know many twenty-three-year-olds who would fight for custody of a sibling they never even met.
