chapter ten
Traffic on the I-440 West into Nashville was a nightmare and Katie started to panic, thinking she might miss the eight o’clock start of Clay’s show. She pulled into the unassuming strip mall where the Bluebird Café was located and found a parking space relatively close to the entrance. It surprised her that the famous club was situated in such a common area and not downtown where the tourists flocked. Quickly, she glanced in the vanity mirror of her car and smoothed her hair before exiting. She jogged to the entrance sheltered by a navy-blue awning with the white, cursive lettering of the Bluebird logo.
“That’ll be twenty dollars,” a large, grizzly-looking man muttered. She couldn’t see his lips because of the shaggy beard that covered most of his face.
“Yeah, I’m on the list. Katie Parker?”
The man grabbed a clipboard and scrolled the paper with his fingertip. “No, ma’am. No Katie Parker on this list.”
She blushed, totally embarrassed by what she was about to say. “Is there a ‘Hot Mama’ on your list?” He scrolled again, this time landing on the nick-name. His bushy eyebrow peaked with humor, and he chuckled. “Enjoy the show.” He motioned with his arm toward the front door.
Katie offered the man a polite smile and adjusted the straps of her purse over her shoulder, tilting her head high with dignity. “Well played Georgia Clay,” she muttered, touched by his teasing. She’d get him back, eventually.
The room was smaller than she had imagined. Tiny tables and rickety chairs were crammed into every nook and cranny around a small stage area flush with the floor, the room looking like it could only hold a few dozen people. The place was packed, the buzz of conversation and tinkling glasses prevalent. Faded, autographed posters of famous artists decorated the walls along with cheap, white Christmas lights haphazardly strung in a zigzag formation as if someone used a stapler to tack them up. The distinct smell of fried food wafted in the air and from the looks of the small plates on some of the tables, typical bar food appeared to be on the menu. Canned music was playing softly, and she noticed a trio of casually dressed musicians already set up and ready, but no sign of Clay. A couple of gorgeous guitars stood upright in stands making her wonder if they were his.
“Hot Mama…”
Katie jumped as Clay’s arms came around her waist from behind, his warm, husky voice floating over her ear. She wrapped her arms around him and leaned back into his embrace exhaling.
He turned her around in the dimly lit area of the club, his smile at one hundred watts. “You made it.”
His handsome, no-fuss looks took her breath away, and she could only nod in response, all thoughts of getting even for listing her as “Hot Mama,” gone. His eyes sparkled as he tucked her hair behind her ear, his fingertips sending prickles down her spine. “I have a special seat reserved just for you. It’s kind of near the back. The acoustics are better from there.”
“Okay,” she replied, her entire body reeling being in such proximity to him.
He looked to the left, then to the right before pulling her into the tiny hallway next to the bathrooms. Pushing her up against the wall, he rested his palms on either side of her head and stared into her eyes. She watched him lick his upper lip before moving forward and grazing his mouth against hers. A small moan escaped her lips as she closed her eyes, allowing him to kiss her in the shadows away from the crowd. His tongue darted in and out of the seam of her mouth, and she felt his hands cup her face. There was a hint of peppermint on his breath as if he had recently chewed gum or sucked on a mint.
“I’ve been dying to do that since I left you on Sunday,” he whispered. Katie nodded, wide-eyed and wanting from the kiss, aware that her knees felt rubbery. For some reason, she felt tongue-tied and couldn’t speak.
Clay hugged her quickly before stepping back and grabbing her hand. “Come on then. Let me show you to your table.” Leading her into the crowded listening room, several patrons eyed them curiously. One lone, tiny table with a reserved sign was vacant in the packed house. “Jeanette will take care of you. Order anything you want.” Katie nodded and sat in the rickety chair that he pulled out for her. “I hope you enjoy the show.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled down at her. She could tell he was excited.
“Break a leg!” she said exuberantly, finding her voice which made his grin wider. He kissed her on the head and ambled his way through the tables and chairs, his denim-covered backside a lovely sight to behold.
“Hey darlin’, what can I get ya? Anything you want, on the house.”
Katie looked up and smiled at the waitress named Jeanette who would be taking care of her during the show. She was a pretty little thing dressed casually in faded jeans, a Bluebird Café t-shirt, and cowboy boots. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
“Ginger ale if you have it, please.”
“You got it, girlie.”
Katie didn’t want to drink any alcohol. She wanted to concentrate fully on Clay and his music, uninhibited and totally focused. She watched him banter with the other musicians as they tuned their instruments. All of them seemed relaxed and totally in their element. A big guy wearing a distressed trucker cap grabbed a microphone out of the stand and started to speak. Katie couldn’t help but notice that he wore cowboy boots too. As she looked around at different patrons, it seemed like everyone was wearing boots. She randomly thought that maybe she should re-think the whole shoe situation while in Nashville…
“Welcome everyone to the Bluebird Café. How many first-timers we got out there?” A few hoots and hollers echoed in the space among a smattering of polite applause.
“Well then, y’all need to remember this is a listening room. Talking is strictly discouraged. We want y’all to focus on the music and connect with the emotion of the song and its creator. This is a songwriter’s mecca, and you are in the presence of greatness tonight.” The whole room suddenly erupted in applause as the big man was about to introduce Clay.
“Back from his recent Grammy award and Oscar-nomination for his hit crossover song, “Forever in Love”, the Bluebird is proud to introduce to you, two-time ASCAP Country Songwriter of the Year and recent Nashville Songwriter Hall of Fame inductee—Mr. Georgia Clay!”
The audience went nuts as the house lights surrounding the performance area dimmed. Clay didn’t miss a beat, immediately strumming an up-tempo tune on his acoustic guitar. The crowd noise dissipated as a fiddle, second acoustic and banjo player joined in the melody. Katie had a perpetual grin on her face and had to remind herself to breathe while taking it all in. Clay’s jaw clenched as he concentrated on an intricate riff going into the first verse, his reverberated voice catching her off guard when he started to sing into the microphone. The pureness and tone of the sound echoing in the room surrounded her like a warm embrace. When she had arrived at the Bluebird, she seriously thought she was going to watch a handsome, award-winning guy perform a few of his original songs on a Thursday night with a backup band. She had no idea he could play an instrument or sing like that, and hearing him now, in real time, his effortless singing and playing blew her mind. He was the star of the show, no doubt.
Watching his long fingers move along the frets of the neck of the guitar and listening to his deep, sexy voice made her entire body tremble. She couldn’t take her eyes off him or take it all in fast enough. The way he tapped his left boot while sitting on a chair, his legs open wide with the body of his guitar resting on his right thigh. The way he and the other musicians tapped in time, as if they were in the center of someone’s living room having a jam session. The way his strong jawline naturally moved as he sang about picking up a girl in his truck wearing dirty boots and a smile, the memorable tune making her bite her lower lip so she wouldn’t break her face with an enormous, ear-splitting grin. The way his dark curls bounced over his ears as his entire body got deeper into the pulsing, country rhythm. This wasnotwhat she expected. The announcer was correct—she was in the presence of greatness. Why Georgia Clay Watkins wasn’t on the road in his own sell-out tour was beyond her comprehension.
When the song ended, the entire room erupted in a frenzy of applause and vocal adulation. Katie clapped her hands together as fast as she could and looked around at the fans who must have realized they truly lucked out on this random Thursday night at the Bluebird. Her hand shook as she brought her drink up to her dry mouth to take a sip, reeling from the live experience of a single Georgia Clay song.
Clay performed several more familiar songs without any banter in between. She recognized radio hits made famous by Keith Urban, Tim McGraw, and Blake Shelton. Clay’s success as a writer was unfathomable. Katie drained her beverage and began to wonder if he was ever going to speak to the crowd. As that thought crossed her mind, he started to talk.
“Thanks so much…for being here tonight,” Clay slowly said into the microphone, his voice deep and smooth. He was much more reserved when he spoke as opposed to his singing. This took Katie by surprise.
