Jace (Kings of Country 1)

A few more hours in the studio and he headed home to change for the mixer.

Luke was there. With Calvin Laramie.

“No,” he said. “No offense, Cal, but you and I have a different notion of how I should look.”

Calvin was definitely offended.

“Studio sent him.” Luke crossed his arms over his chest. “The team is upstairs, waiting to get to work on you. Don’t fight it, man.”

Jace glared at Luke and headed upstairs, Calvin trailing behind.

The good news was the stylist had learned from his last visit. This time, he embraced Jace’s clean-cut, low-maintenance vibe. He didn’t say a word over the jeans Jace picked out. They were grey, not black, but they’d do. Jace was partial to his well-worn boots but Calvin handed him a pair of hand-tooled black Luccheses that made his mouth water. He wasn’t sold on the black rodeo-cut shirt with stitching, but he let it go. When his hair was sprayed to hell and back and his stubble was deemed groomed enough, he climbed into his truck and headed to the Grand Old Texas Opera House off the famous Sixth Street in downtown Austin.

Crowds of cameras and folk armed with microphones lined the dark blue carpet leading into the Grand Ole Opry recreation. Luke had drilled him with questions to and from their luncheon, hoping to prepare him for the questions he’d likely be asked a couple dozen times or more.

He didn’t miss a beat. Smile in place, lots of handshakes, a few awkward hugs. He could do this. And, yes, questions. Most were things like “How does it feel to be here tonight?” or “Who are you most excited to meet?” or “Where is Krystal?” That last one came up a lot. He was beginning to wonder the same thing. He found himself scanning the arriving vehicles, looking for a flash of sparkle and long blond hair.

Inside, the pace slowed.

It wasn’t the first time he was struck by how out of place he was. He had the clothes and the hair and boots that cost more than his bills for six months. That didn’t mean he fit. A sea of faces he knew through the albums and singles he’d played for hours straight. Clint Black. Tammy Wynett. Dierks Bentley. George Strait. Willie Nelson. Some good, some legends, and others he’d never quite figured out how and why their records were made.

Luke handed him a cold beer and helped guide him around the room. About an hour into the evening, same bottle in his hand, he was ready to call it a night. But he waited, knowing the Kings would show. She was worth the wait.

“Jace? You’re Jace Black?” Tig Whitman approached him. “Good to meet you, son. Nothing makes an old dog like me happier than seeing someone young and talented rise above the crowd.” He was shaking his hand with a mighty grip. “Pure talent, son, pure talent.”

“Thank you, sir. Good to meet you, Mr. Whitman.” He nodded, torn between flattery and suspicion. If Hank King wasn’t a fan of the man, there was a reason.

“Aw, now, my friends call me Tig, son. And I’m hoping we’ll be friends. This here is my latest discovery. Becca, come say hello.” He waved the teenager forward, draping his arm around her shoulders.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Becca smiled, her voice pitched low. “I’m a real fan of the show. And you.”

“I hear you’ll be singing?” he asked, leaning forward to hear her better.

She nodded. “Uncle Tig has this way of getting people to give him what he wants.” But her tone was flat. Like maybe, that wasn’t a good thing. “I’m so happy and excited to be here.”

“You deserve it, sugar.” Tig patted her head, beaming at her with pride.

There was something about her expression that made Jace ask, “You had a chance to check out the stage yet?” He paused. “They’re setting up the stage out back.”

She shook her head.

“I can take you.” He glanced back and forth between Becca Sinclair and Tig Whitman.

“I’ll be back?” It was a question, like she was asking permission.

“Sure, sure.” Tig patted her. “You two go on and have some fun.”

Jace wasn’t sure what made him more uncomfortable, the relief on Becca’s face or the slight narrowing of Tig Whitman’s gaze.

“Water,” he said, sliding his still-full beer back across the counter.

“Scotch on the rocks.” Becca shrugged.

“Aren’t you a little young for that?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’m not that young.” She knocked back her drink and slid her glass back across the counter. “It helps, you know? With nerves.”

He didn’t know. He’d never been much of a drinker. After Nikki and Ben, he’d never thought to take up the habit.