Behind the Strings Read Online Free PDF Page A

to remember is something your dad would do. guilty random body parts for endless girls at the end of every show instead of calling his daughter to say goodnight like he said he would is something your dad would do. Not being able to call you because the tour bus died along with my cell phone just outside of town, asking my band mates to wait with it so I could walk two miles here to make sure I could at least see you for a few minutes, that isn’t something your dad would do. But it is something I would do, something I just did because I care about you and you should damn well know that by now."
    I'm pretty sure the words “royal bitch” were stamped on my forehead by the end of his declaration.
    “Not everyone is like him, Celia. You’ve gotta believe that.”
    "You sound like Mama," I said.
    “Smart woman, she is, I knew I loved her for a reason.”
    He reached over and pulled me into him. I gently wrapped my arms around his moist and sweaty skin.
    “I'll never let you down. You should know that by now. You have to stop thinking that,” he said as he placed his lips on the same spot of my forehead as the last time I saw him.
    “I’m working on it.”
    I squeezed him a little tighter. We stood there in the foyer rocking back and forth in each other’s arms for some time before Logan had the idea to grab a drink downtown. He wanted to make up for missing dinner. I let him rinse off the obliterating August heat in my shower before we left. As if things in my life weren’t already blurred enough, a night out in Nashville was about to make it a whole lot more complicated.
     

 
    7
    The one thing I love the most about Nashville is that it doesn’t matter what time of day it is, music is always playing. But when the sun goes down, that’s when the city really comes alive. The neon lights of marquees glare at every corner with music coming out of every bar you pass. The undiscovered talent you get to see on a nightly basis is exhilarating.
    Shotguns was Logan’s bar of choice when we arrived downtown. It was a dimly lit, mellow bar best known for its impressive collection of guitar picks that covered every tabletop. The owner had glued each one down himself. If you look at the table by the window, closest to the bar you may even see one from Logan Kent himself. He played there often on his rise to country music stardom. I knew that from his mother. When still living at home I used to eavesdrop on conversations between my mom and his so I could stay up to date on the happenings in his life. She used to tell my mom all the time that Shotguns pulled in their best business on the nights Logan played that stage.
    Tonight we had to squeeze our way through close to a hundred people, Logan shaking pretty much all of their hands on our way up to the bar. The live music hadn’t started yet, but from what I was told on the ride over, Shotguns had found themselves another pretty popular up-and-coming band by the name of Jackson’s Soul. The lead singer was one of Logan’s good friends here in Nashville.
    “Your usual,” Logan said as he handed me my gin and tonic. “I’m right, aren’t I? It’s still your drink of choice?”
    It’s a secret I’ll never tell my mama, but Logan and I had spent many high school nights while she was at work watching marathons of The Godfather and Rocky in my living room. He’d supply the tonic and coke and I’d scour through the liquor bottles in the kitchen cupboards to see what was full enough for her not to notice our sampling.
    “You are correct. I’ve never wavered.”
    Logan turned away once I grabbed my drink and raised his hand over his head. I followed his gaze to a door in the corner of the bar. A dark-haired guy was peeking out of it, waving back at Logan.
    “Here, follow me,” he said.
    He grabbed my hand and guided me through the crowd to the open door. From the looks of it, I had guessed this was what you would call the dressing room. A couple of guys sat on worn-out