Sinful Ella (Seven Ways to Sin 6)

I laughed. “You’d feel right at home where I come from. We love the banjo in West Virginia.”

Jason laughed. “I’ll have to visit sometime. I hear the mountains are beautiful.”

I nodded. “They are.” Jason shot me a quick glance.

“Homesick?” he asked.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat. My conversation with Howie had brought up feelings I hadn’t even been aware of before. I’d been so excited before I left; excited by the prospect of setting out on my own, of supporting myself with my music, being self-sufficient. I hadn’t expected the reality of jealous bandmates, an alcoholic manager, and old, breaking down tour vans. I remembered the concern in my dad’s face as we’d said goodbye. I’d thought he was overreacting, but now I wasn’t so sure.

“A little,” I said. “I’ve never been away from home for this long.”

Jason nodded. “I understand. Family is very important. Are your parents supportive? Of your music, I mean?”

“It’s just my dad now,” I said quietly. “And he is, in his way, but . . .”

“But it’s not what he had pictured for you,” Jason supplied, and I glanced at him, surprised.

“No,” I agreed. “It’s not. He knows it’s my dream, and he’s supportive, but I think that he would prefer if I wanted something more . . . stable. I’ve been helping him out in the garage since I was a little girl, and I think that on some level, he’s always assumed that I would just keep doing that, until eventually he passed the shop on to me.”

“But that’s not your dream,” Jason said.

“No.” I sighed. “I love helping my dad, especially since we lost my mom, but music...nothing compares to the way singing makes me feel. I wish my dad understood that, but he can’t. Not fully, anyway.”

“I understand,” Jason said. “My parents are both immigrants. Armenian. They’re wonderful people, but I know this isn’t the life they pictured for me. They would be happier if I came home, went back to school, settled on something—as you said—more stable. Sometimes I wish—” He cut himself off suddenly.

“What do you wish?” I prompted.

Jason’s dark eyes met mine. “I just want to make them proud,” he said simply. “But I don’t want to have to sacrifice my dreams in order to do it. I wish they could see that.”

“I’m sure they’re proud of you,” I said. Without thinking, I reached out and grasped Jason’s hand in mine. It felt easy, the most natural thing in the world, to offer comfort this way. “They’re your parents.”

Jason smiled, a little sadly. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Do you speak to your parents?” I asked.

Jason laughed under his breath. “Oh yes. Once a week, on Sundays, we have an exactly fifteen-minute phone call. No more, no less. They tell me what my siblings are up to, and I don’t tell them anything about the band. It’s easier that way.”

“Is it?” I asked hesitantly. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. I know we don’t really know each other. But maybe . . . if you tried to talk to them about your music? Then they could see how much it means to you.”

“Perhaps.” Jason gave my hand a little squeeze. “Anyway, here we are: your dressing room.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. I had been enjoying our conversation and didn’t want it to end so soon. “Thank you,” I said. “And good luck.”

Jason grinned. “Thank you, and good luck to you, too. Come find us after the show, if you want. I’d like to keep talking to you.” My heart did a little somersault in my chest.

“I would like that, too,” I said, a little breathlessly.

With a little wave, he skipped off. I glanced at the time. Shit. I didn’t have much time to get ready. I ducked into the dressing room, where Susanna and Liz made a big show of ignoring me. I didn’t mind; I preferred to be alone with my thoughts right now.

7

Grant

God, I hated weekends.

Hated Friday and Saturday nights, when I had to return to the scene of Bernadette’s death, the place where I had tried and failed to save her, and pretend that it didn’t affect me. Pretend that I couldn’t still smell the smoke, feel it sting my eyes, hear the crackle of flames around me.

I felt my bandmates’ eyes on me, when they thought I wasn’t looking, watching me for any sign of weakness, of distress. I knew that if I asked, they would break our contract immediately, that we would never again come back to the Ball. But I couldn’t do that.

I sat at the bar and motioned to Rosa, the bartender. I wouldn’t get drunk, not before a gig, but just a little, to take the edge off, couldn’t hurt. Rosa passed me two fingers of whiskey and backed off, as if sensing my black mood. I appreciated that. There might have been a time, once, when I would have encouraged her to stay and chat, would have enjoyed flirting with her, the way her dark eyes lit up when I made her laugh. But tonight, I just wanted to nurse my whiskey, do the gig, and get the hell out of here.