“I know you hate it when I beg. So you leave me no choice: I’m going to have to pray,” he said. The sound on the call was terrible, full of bar noise and cell static. “Oh, Ruthanna,” Ethan went on, “Saint of Southern Sopranos, will you take pity upon this poor wretch and get your divine, sublime self to your hole-in-the-wall drinking establishment, such that you may hear the dulcet tones of one AnnieLee Keyes? Please, oh rare, remarkable Ruthanna, hear me in my time of need—”
She clicked off, smiling in spite of herself. His prayer would’ve sounded a lot more convincing if he hadn’t been choking back laughter the whole way through.
Ethan was funny, though, and Ruthanna had quickly developed a soft spot for him, partly because he thought he was so tough. One of these days she was going to tell him that a bullet wound and a Purple Heart didn’t make him hard as nails. They made him just like everyone else. Sometimes you could see the scars and sometimes you couldn’t. But everybody had them.
Her phone vibrated again, and she nearly threw it out the window. He wasn’t ever going to leave her alone, was he? She could be undressed and lying on her Beautyrest Black, listening to the meditation app Maya had downloaded for her, and he’d still be pinging her about that girl, no doubt some fresh-faced, wide-eyed little idiot with a decent voice and the ability to string three chords together.
Of course she’d be beautiful. But as far as Ruthanna was concerned, all young people were beautiful. They just had all that collagen.
You should see her, he’d texted.
Not kidding
Voice like a celestial being
Bar sink’s overflowing
She sighed and tucked her phone back into her bag. Billy could obviously handle the plumbing issue, if there even was one. She wouldn’t put it past Ethan to use any weapon in his persuasive arsenal, including outright invention.
She was tired, but the champagne she’d drunk still fizzed pleasantly in her head. How awful would going to the bar really be? Billy made a mean martini, and she could treat herself to one.
She leaned forward. “Actually, Lucas, take me to the Cat’s Paw, please.”
“You got it, Ms. Ryder,” he said. After so many years, he still insisted on calling her that.
When Billy saw Ruthanna come in, his eyes went wide, and his mouth fell open like a trapdoor. She held her finger to her lips and quickly slid over to a small empty table that was almost hidden behind the bar. She didn’t want to make a scene if she could help it.
The smell of the Cat’s Paw—the funk of old beer, fryer grease, and Bar Keepers Friend—worked like a time machine, and for an instant Ruthanna was her younger self again, cocky and scared at the same time, aching to take Nashville by storm. The Cat’s Paw was the first place she’d ever sung. Five years later, when she hit number one with the gut-punching “Don’t Lay the Blame on My Pillow,” she’d bought the place in celebration. She’d kept it exactly the same.
But she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been here. Like her other properties, the Cat’s Paw seemed to run itself—which meant, in fact, that she had responsible people taking care of it for her. Ruthanna simply signed the checks and deposited whatever meager profits there were. Though she well knew the value of a dollar, money was far from her primary concern. She had more than she could ever spend.
Billy hurried over to her table, still looking like he thought he might be hallucinating. “Are you gonna sing?” he whispered. “You look like it.”
She kicked her shoes off for the second time that night, thinking she just might leave them there under the table for good. “They asked me that at the last place. The answer is a most emphatic no.” She paused. “Is the bar sink working okay?”
“Huh?” Billy said. Then, “Um, yeah. Far as I know.”
“I figured.”
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“Tanqueray martini,” she said. “You can glance at the vermouth if you need to, but don’t bother touching it. Lemon twist. Please.”
“You got it,” he said, and practically sprinted away.
The bar was crowded, but the stage was empty and ready for its next act. Maybe it’d be Ethan’s angel, or maybe it’d be some other hopeful—it really didn’t matter to Ruthanna. She wasn’t here for the music; she was here, however reluctantly, for Ethan Blake.
She couldn’t see him from where she sat, which was just as well. He’d sniff her out eventually, but she wasn’t ready to admit he’d won this round.