The Pool Boy (Nashville Neighborhood 2)

When he finished the song, the crowd cheered much louder and longer.

“I love you, Pool Boy!” a female voice screamed from somewhere near the front.

The sound picked up Troy’s nervous laugh, but it came off like he was bashful and not uncomfortable, which only added to his appeal. He put his hand around the microphone, and there was something surprisingly intimate about it. As if he wanted to invite the audience closer.

Only, he turned to look directly at me offstage.

“This final song was written by someone very special to me. I hope y’all enjoy it as much as I do.”

Heat tingled across my skin, drawing goosebumps.

I’d written ‘Power’ for him, but also about us, so this was the moment I’d longed for, ever since telling him I was all in with our relationship. I couldn’t wait for him to put our music out into the world.

When he played the opening chords, the key was wrong. The tempo was still slow, but faster than I’d intended it to be.

Wait a minute.

My anticipation had made my brain slow, and as I listened to the music, my mouth hung open in disbelief. Troy was playing a song I’d written all right . . . but it wasn’t ‘Power.’

“Only with you can I be reckless . . .” he sang.

I wrapped my arms around my body, holding in all my confusion and disappointment. Troy’s set list had been confirmed soon after he’d gotten the opening spot. When had it been changed? And, why? Had Ardy decided it was better if Troy didn’t perform an original and stuck to a song the audience would recognize?

Although this version of ‘Reckless’ was strikingly different from the one that had been a hit years ago. Alan’s single had been upbeat and backed by a band, and he didn’t have the vocal range Troy possessed.

Despite my surprise at the song change, my heart still warmed and fluttered at hearing Troy sing my lyrics and play the music I’d written. And his arrangement was so unique, so fresh, it felt like an entirely new song. The vocal runs he put at the end of his phrases gave me chills.

I couldn’t tell if he had the rest of the crowd in the palm of his hand like he did me, but I had to assume. How could they witness this and not want to burst inside? It was like he’d boiled the song down to its essence, giving it ten times the power of the original.

Or maybe it sounded so incredible to me because he’d told me he imagined he was singing it just for me. As the song entered the final refrain, my body filled with so much emotion, it couldn’t be contained, and tears welled in my eyes.

He stroked the strings one final time, like a musical exhale, and the crowd breathed right along with it, before breaking out into thunderous applause.

“Thank you so much,” he said, sounding in awe. “I’m Troy Osbourne, and it’s been a pleasure. Stick around. The Red Door Band will be up here in a few minutes and they’re going to keep y’all entertained.”

The stage lights faded to black to more applause, and Troy’s shadowy figure remained at the microphone until it was over, soaking it all in. Then he turned toward me, took off his guitar, and strode slowly in the dim light to the edge of the curtain. He handed off his guitar to an equipment tech, passing it with care, but also urgency.

It was because as soon as his hands were clear, he scooped me up into them, lifting and spinning me in a half-circle, making me squeak with delighted surprise. He was high from his performance, and he planted his lips over mine long before setting me back on my feet.

“I don’t want to wake up from this dream,” I whispered.

“Me neither.” God, his smile. He kissed me again, threw his arm around my shoulder, and started walking us toward the stairs. “Did you like it?”

I laughed at his ridiculous question, and I wasn’t sure if he meant his rendition of ‘Reckless’ or the performance in general, but the answer was the same for both. “It was incredible.”

His chest rose as he took in a satisfied breath and the arm around me squeezed me closer.

When the cart delivered us back to the bunker hallway, Ardy stood in the open doorway to the suite at the other end, and waved at us to come in. As I walked toward the room that was undoubtedly Stella’s dressing room, Troy wove his hand through mine.

Ardy watched this, but his expression didn’t change, as if he wasn’t bothered in the slightest. The stage manager hadn’t been fazed by our hand holding earlier, either. Maybe it was because music folks had seen it all and generally were easy-going. It wasn’t their business how the music got made; all that mattered was the show went on.