The Other Woman's Son

The time of reckoning upon her, Jenna positioned herself behind one of two microphones on the stage. She grabbed it and gazed out into the maze of people. The sprawling bar featured dozens of tables, banks of big-screen televisions on two of the walls, a circular bar in the center of the main room and a billiards room off to her right. The stage seemed almost like an afterthought.

“Good evening and welcome to the Blue Mockingbird. I’m Jenna Wright, and this is Corrine Sweetland. Together, we’re Two Gals.”

Nothing. None of the patrons indicated they’d heard her. Panic seized Jenna, causing her lungs to feel like something was sitting on them. How could she have let Corrine talk her into this? She hadn’t sung in public since college. A spot under her eye twitched, the way it did when she was nervous.

Her gaze darted to Corrine. Her friend nodded, her expression encouraging. You can do this, she mouthed. Jenna inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly and faced the disinterested crowd. She’d intended to explain their repertoire included blues, jazz and soul and that most of the songs were new renditions of old favorites. But nobody was listening.

“Our first song,” she spoke into the microphone, “is ‘Today I Sing the Blues.’”

Corrine strummed her guitar, and the bluesy beat seemed to penetrate Jenna’s skin and sink into her. Singing had come easily to Jenna from the time she was a small child and the church choir director noticed her big voice.

Others had noticed, too, eventually leading to invitations from various bands to join them. She’d been confident enough in her voice back in high school that she’d been a natural performer, but doubts crept up on her now.

She drew in another deep breath to guard against the shaky, uncontrolled sounds nerves caused, then determinedly launched into the song, a mournful ballad about the loser in a love affair.

Despite the precaution, she felt her neck muscles contract and her blood pressure elevate. Signs that her voice was about to start trembling unless she did something quick. An old trick came back to her, and she swung her gaze wildly around the bar, searching for friendly faces.

A blonde with a spiky haircut who would have fit in at a punk-rock concert set down her glass and swayed to the music, a contented smile curving her lips. Jenna’s shoulders relaxed.

A craggy-faced man with deep lines bracketing his eyes and mouth nodded as she sang about walking the darkest avenue. Jenna’s blood pressure fell back to its normal level.

She lowered the pitch of her voice to wring out the full effect from the song, probing the crowd for somebody else to provide unwitting encouragement.

Her gaze collided with a pair of dark eyes attached to one of the most interesting faces she’d ever seen. She wouldn’t label the man handsome, exactly. But high cheekbones, heavy brows, a long nose, a sensuous mouth and eyes she could tell were coal-black even from this distance made it impossible to look away.

Not until she tripped over a lyric she’d practiced a dozen times did she muster the will to wrench her gaze to the opposite side of the room.

Who was he?

Somebody distracting her from the song, an internal voice warned. A grave error for a singer. If she didn’t feel the music, how could she expect the audience to?

Avoiding the man’s gaze, she finished the song, heartened by the applause. Now that she and Corrine had captured the audience’s attention, she recited the spiel she’d originally intended to open with.

“Now that we know each other better, what do you say we get down to earth with some…” She paused, lowering her voice a full octave. “…‘Downhearted Blues.’”

Despite her resolve not to look at him, a quarter of the way through the song her gaze swung to the dark-haired man. And found his eyes locked on her.

She couldn’t say for certain why she’d picked him out of the crowd. Even though he was sitting down, she could tell he was a tall man. She preferred men who were less physically imposing and not so…intense.

She didn’t need to look at him again to know he still regarded her with that same single-minded concentration. She drew energy from that knowledge, pouring it into her music, infusing it into her voice. By the end of the set, she’d thoroughly captured the crowd’s attention.

“This is great. Did you hear the groan when you announced the break?” Corrine asked when they stepped off the stage.

“I did,” Jenna said.

“Keep it short. I like the idea of striking when the crowd is hot for us.”

The adrenaline that had fueled Jenna through the performance dropped off, and she collapsed into a chair beside the wooden table nearest the stage. Corrine sat down next to her.

“You knocked them dead.” Corrine reached for her hand, briefly squeezing it. “But next time, take pity on my nerves and show up on time.”

“I couldn’t help it. I warned you it’s tough to get out of the office Friday nights. I have a job, remember?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, but I have to say this. Singing should be your job.”

“Singing’s a guilty pleasure,” Jenna said. “Accounting pays the bills.”

To bolster her position, Jenna could have pointed out the struggles Corrine endured to be a musician: Low pay, irregular bookings and zero job security. Before Corrine had married personal trainer Maurice Sweetland, her friend had worked on and off as a waitress to supplement her income.

“So you keep saying,” Corrine said, but her attention wasn’t on Jenna.

Following Corrine’s gaze, Jenna spotted the dark-haired man navigating the labyrinth of tables. She guessed his age at about thirty, his weight at maybe two hundred pounds, his height at six feet two. Too tall, she thought. His lean, hard body hinted that he worked out with weights. There was nothing soft about him except, perhaps, the texture of his thick hair, the ends of which nearly reached his collar. Too long. He wore jeans and a collarless, short-sleeved knit shirt in a deep shade of brown that hugged his chest. Too casual.

It quickly became clear that the man was headed for their table. Jenna’s heart took a leap worthy of Dwyane Wade, her oldest nephew’s favorite NBA player.

“Do you know that guy?” she asked Corrine.

“Never seen him before. But even us married ladies can enjoy the view. Besides, you’re the one he’s coming for.”

He stopped shy of the table, standing there for long seconds, drinking her in with those midnight eyes that complemented brown hair so dark it verged on black. Jenna’s cheeks grew warm, a puzzling response. She never reacted this way to a man, especially to a man who was so not her type.

“At the risk of telling you something you’ve heard before, you, lady, can really wail.” He delivered the line in an understated southern accent with a charming half grin that softened the angular planes of his face.

“She has heard it,” Corrine interjected with a friendly smile. “From me. About thirty seconds ago.”

“Then you’re as smart as you are talented.” The man smiled back at Corrine. “You play a mean guitar.”

He wants something, Jenna thought. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the suspicion it might be her. She dated semiregularly, but usually she met the men through work or friends. She didn’t let herself get picked up in a bar.

“We appreciate the compliments.” Corrine included Jenna in her reply. “You know, with a tenor like yours, you can probably wail yourself.”

His half grin become full fledged. “You’d be the one wailing if you heard me sing. In pain, I’m afraid. I’m Clay Dillon.”

The name seemed vaguely familiar but Jenna would remember if she had ever encountered this man before. She was closer to him than Corrine so she was the one to whom he offered his hand.

“Jenna Wright.” She fought off her reluctance to touch him and shook. His skin was warm, his touch firm, the feeling it elicited uncomfortable. He might not be her type, but he’d managed to get her to notice him. “And this is Corrine Sweetland.”

He let go of Jenna’s hand, turning to shake Corrine’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. You ladies mind if I join you?”

“If it’s okay with Jenna, it’s fine by me,” Corrine said, obviously charmed.

When her friend stated it that way, Jenna could hardly refuse his company without seeming rude. “Sure.”

He settled into his seat with long-limbed grace, aiming his dark gaze at Jenna. “I confess I have an ulterior motive for coming over here.”

“Oh?” Jenna had already made up her mind to refuse should he proposition her, but her pulse rate still rocketed. “And what is that?”

“I’d like to hire Two Gals to play at my bar in Memphis.”