Dirty Laundry (Get Dirty 2)

After a round of laughter, Keith turns to me. “Elise, these are the guys. We’ve been playing gigs together for years. Guys, this is Elise. She’s a reporter, doing a couple of articles about me.”

One of the newcomers, a lean guy with long, shaggy blonde hair makes a whooping noise, grinning widely to show off perfect, square teeth that are almost a little too big, giving him almost a feral look. “Ooh, writing an article about our Country Star? Want me to tell you all of his dirty little secrets? I’m Jim, by the way. In my day job, I’m the lead singer in a blues band.”

I grin, my eyes jumping from Jim to Keith as I shake Jim’s offered hand, teasing. “Actually, that’d be great. Maybe you can give me all of his juicy secrets?”

Keith jumps in, his voice amused but still brooking no argument. “Shut your mouth, Jim. You too, guys.”

He looks at the other two. Slim, whatever his real name is, nods, and Keith continues. “She’s interviewing me. Got it?”

There’s a hint of possessiveness to Keith’s tone, and something else I can’t quite place . . . a warning, maybe?

But the three guys seem to catch Keith’s meaning loud and clear, whatever it is. They nod in unison, and Jim speaks up. “Got it, boss man. But maybe I could share some gig stories? Tell her about the time that chick crowd-surfed up to the stage and damn-near jumped your bones before security could snatch her off the stage?”

I’m grinning, already visualizing how that snippet is going to add some flair to my next article about Keith’s performances. “God, yes . . . tell me more about that!”

He glances to Keith, obviously silently asking permission, and Keith gives the approval, shrugging. “Well, you damn-near already told it, so you might as well go ahead.”

The next thirty minutes are spent listening to Keith and the guys banter, joke, and reminisce about past tours and shows. I finally figure out that Slim and Eric are one and the same, and it’s interesting to hear about their time on the road together as they obviously have a long history and a deep friendship.

“Wait, let me ask you one thing,” I interrupt Eric as he goes on about a time he was painted up on stage. “You guys talk about lots of different music. You’re not just country?”

“I prefer country,” Eric says, “but with us mainly working in the summers, we can pick up other gigs that sound interesting . . . or pay well. Besides, while Keith won’t admit it, he can do a pretty stellar Sweet Child O’Mine if you get him drunk, or sometimes if you just beg hard enough.”

I blush, thinking about begging Keith for anything, and say nothing. As I listen to another tale, Shane asks Keith, “Hey, remember that time Sarah brought us all chili dogs and we ended up puking ten minutes before the show? God, that show sucked.”

I wouldn’t have even caught the namedrop if the temperature in the room hadn’t just plummeted at the same time the tension in Keith’s entire body sprang tight. Shane cuts his eyes to me, wide and panicked. He looks like he wants to crawl into a hole and make sure someone’s hidden all the pointy things nearby.

I look at Keith, questioning. “Obviously, a story there?”

Keith glowers but finally relents, although her voice is ice. “Sarah is my sister. She comes on the road with us in the summer sometimes, kinda acts like my assistant. She’s not to be included in the article. She has her own life and doesn’t need mine fucking hers up.”

He gives me a hard look, daring me to disagree with his decree. I give him a tiny smile, acquiescing for now but knowing I’ll need to do a bit of digging to make sure there’s nothing hinky about the sister he was obviously hiding. I mean, if there’s nothing there, why not just say up it up front? “Fine.”

Before the tension in the room can settle, the kid with the clipboard pops back in without knocking. “Fifteen minutes.”

Keith hops up before the kid can leave, calling out to him. “Hey, can you take my guest out to her table? It’s reserved up front.”

The kid actually looks at his clipboard for a moment, and I have a split second where I kinda want him to say no, just to see what Keith will do.

But eventually, the kid waves at me with his board. “Follow me,” he blurts out before muttering something under his breath.

I glance at Keith, who is searching my eyes for something, his eyes narrowed like he’s analyzing me. I’m not sure what tell-tale sign of my possible dishonesty he’s looking for, so I smile warmly. “Have a great show! Break a leg . . . that’s what you say, right?”