When Last We Loved by Fran Baker Page B

we'll stick to the standards.”
    “Got another glass of water?” Allen's voice sounded like it had been scraped from the bottom of a gravel pit. He pulled a worn leather flask out of his jacket pocket; twisted off the lid, and held the container to his mouth.
    “Did you call the guys yet? They'll have to come over early to set up their equipment.”
    A groan of satisfaction followed Allen's second swallow.
    “What should I wear?” Cassie made a quick mental review of her wardrobe. “He saw my best outfit at the barbecue last week. Maybe I'll have time to run over to Shepler's before he gets here. I saw a really cute outfit on sale.”
    “It isn't going to be a fashion show,” Allen noted. He eyed the five-pocket jeans and the matching back-buckled vest she wore over a blue plaid shirt. “What you've got on is fine.”
    “Did you say that you'd already called the guys? If not, that's okay because I need to tell Scrappy to bring that new sheet music we bought last week, anyway.”
    Dead silence answered her rambling comments and she threw Allen a quizzical look. He sat like a stone in the chair, staring at his hands as if he'd never seen them before.
    “Have I missed something here?”
    “You're the only one he wants to audition, Cassie.” Allen cleared his throat nervously. “That's the condition he imposed when he called.”
    “You've got to be kidding!” She couldn't believe she'd heard him correctly.
    “He's not interested in the Twisters.”
    Cassie felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. “And pray tell me what he expects me to use for a backup,” she demanded. “It's kind of hard to hum the tune and sing the words at the same time.” She stamped her foot in exasperation. “Besides, the guys and I have worked together on all the songs. I wouldn't be comfortable without them.”
    “Purdy is bringing a tape of instrumentals that he wants you to use. It's a standard procedure.”
    “You told him that the Twisters and I are a package deal, didn't you?” Something funny was going on and she was going to get to the bottom of it. “Didn't you?” she asked persistently.
    “He's looking for a girl singer, not a quartet.” Allen's hangdog expression didn't fool her a bit. He'd committed her to the audition without the courtesy of consulting her first.
    “How could you do this to Scrappy and Mike and Jess? You know how long and hard they've worked for a break like this.”
    All those months of planning, their eager excitement to take Nashville the way Grant had stormed Richmond, to cut their first album together— the dreams they'd shared were crumbling like day-old doughnuts.
    “Why didn't you tell Purdy it was all of us or none of us?” she choked out, unable to swallow the bitter pill of Allen's betrayal. “I don't believe what you've done!” she fumed.
    “We don't have much of a bargaining position, if you want to look at it realistically,” Allen argued. “Musicians are a dime a dozen, but good singers— marketable singers— are few and far between. Maybe you can give the Twisters a boost if you get your foot in the door.”
    “You actually expect me to go through with this, don't you?”
    She was rooted like a tree stump to the spot. “And just what am I supposed to tell the guys about this? ‘Excuse me, fellows, but if you don't get out of my way, I'm going to have to stomp on you— it will only hurt for a little while.'”
    “You're making a mountain out of a molehill, Cassie.”
    “And you've made a serious mistake if you think I'm going to sneak around and stab my friends in the back! I can't break this kind of news to them.” She waved her arms in frustration. “It's not worth it to me, Allen. We're an act.”
    “I'll think of something to tell them.” He stood and put a placating hand on her shoulder. “They've kicked around long enough to know how the game's played, and they'd be the first to wish you luck.”
    “Is that intended to make me feel better?” Cassie