Good Time Bad Boy by Sonya Clark

wondering how she was going to keep a lid on her attraction to this man all summer long.

Chapter 9
    W ade retrieved his hat from Randy’s office and hurried up to the front. Ronisha gave him a speculative look as he came through the doors. He winked and she smiled back. Butterflies churned in his empty gut, weaponized and on a mission. He’d already barfed up everything he’d eaten all day. There wasn’t much more the nerves could do at this point. All he could do now was ride out it until, as he’d told Daisy, everything fell into place.
    An image of her blond hair curling around her face insinuated itself front and center in his mind. He didn’t bother to try forcing it away. Instead, he let the image drift as his focus skipped around the room.
    Jeff and Jillian Travers waved from a table near the stage. Other familiar faces called out to him. Some he could put a name to, others not. Randy Tucker offered a salute from the table where he held court and his wife smiled and waved. At the table next to them sat his mother with a couple of ladies from her bridge club. His brother and father were nowhere to be seen.
    A smattering of applause broke out as he stepped onto the stage. Time folded in on itself as memories of the very first time he stepped on this stage shimmered in his mind. Eighteen years old and scared to death, he’d used his guitar and hat to hide behind. That was a long time ago, hundreds of shows, probably thousands.
    He picked up his guitar, awed as always by its beauty. He ran his fingers over the painted hummingbirds before touching the strings.
    Somebody in the audience hollered his name. Whistles and claps followed. Randy had wanted to introduce him but Wade asked him not to. He could no longer remember why, but he’d had to introduce himself that first night, too.
    He took a deep breath and stepped up to the mic. “Good evening.”
    The crowd answered him with applause. His heart thudded in his chest, so hard he could feel it all over. Find that one person and focus on them, that’s what he needed to do. He wiped his clammy hands quickly on his jeans and scanned the audience.
    “My name’s Wade Sheppard, some of y’all might know me.”
    More applause, and it hit his nerves like nails on a blackboard. It had been a damn long time since he’d been this nervous about performing. He sought friendly faces in the audience, pleasantly surprised to find more than a few. His mother beamed, proud as always to see him on stage. Focus on your mother, Daisy had advised. Start with some of her favorite songs.
    There was no question what was his mother’s favorite song. The fact that it wasn’t one of his songs made him smile. “I got my start right here in Rocky Top years ago, singing other people’s songs and sometimes helping to bus the tables. I’d like to start tonight with one of those songs that always went over well when I sang it.” His smile melted into a self-deprecating grimace and back. “I hope it still will. This is my momma’s favorite song.”
    A chorus of awws rippled through the bar. Wade nodded at his mother, who smiled and waved. With a shake of his head, he launched into the opening notes of George Strait’s Amarillo By Morning . From there he went right into I Can Still Make Cheyenne and then a few others he remembered playing a lot in those early days. No patter between numbers, no band behind him, very little distance between him and the front tables. Nothing to rely on but his guitar and the nearly endless catalog of songs he knew how to play.
    Music bubbled up from the recesses of his memory. Songs he hadn’t played or even heard in years sent their first notes to fingers that danced over the strings. Turning on the radio first thing in the morning, listening to the country countdown on the weekends with his fingers poised to record his favorite songs on a blank cassette tape. His first guitar, a Christmas gift from his grandparents. Oh God, how his fingers had ached as