“I’m glad you’re here with me.” Corrine nudged her elbow, a quintessential Corrine gesture. The closer they got to Peyton’s Place, the more whatever had been bothering her friend took a backseat to her excitement.
They continued walking along the four-block section of street, the crowd thinning exponentially until Clay Dillon’s bar came into view. The building had a brick facade with bay windows flanking the doorway, over which green neon letters spelled out Peyton’s Place.
The interior of the establishment was long and narrow, with a bar featuring green rails and corrugated steel running half the length of one mirrored wall. Photos of jazz and blues legends hung on the opposite wall above a series of green vinyl booths. A smattering of tables filled the space between bar and booths. Fans and lights on chains hung from a ceiling that had been painted the same shade of green found in the green-and-black checkered linoleum floor.
At first it seemed as though the raised stage was at the very rear of the place, but Jenna spotted a corridor lined with more booths that probably led to the kitchen and restrooms. She couldn’t decide whether Peyton’s Place really was bigger than it looked or only seemed that way because it couldn’t have been more than one-quarter full.
“Let me guess. You two are Two Gals.” A petite woman with long, curly red hair and the tattoo of a butterfly on her upper arm approached them, gesturing at Corrine’s guitar case. “I’m Vicky. Clay asked me to tell you to get started whenever you’re ready.”
“Where is Clay anyway?” Corrine asked.
“He went to pick up a friend of his he just hired to tend the bar.” Vicky shook her head and muttered, “As though giving the guy a job when he knows nothing about mixing drinks wasn’t doing enough.”
“Why’d he hire him then?” Jenna asked.
“The guy needs the paycheck. But, geez Louise. We need a bartender who knows what he’s doing.” She made a face, perhaps realizing she’d said too much. “Anyway, Clay’ll be here soon.”
Jenna followed Corrine onto the stage, then excused herself to find a restroom while Corrine tuned her guitar. Only two stalls occupied the small space, both of which were empty, so she began her vocal warm-ups. She used the same ones she’d learned as a child, hissing like a snake and buzzing like a bee. She was midhiss when she emerged from the restroom.
“I hope you’re not directing that hiss at me.” Clay Dillon suddenly appeared in front of her, heading the opposite way down the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms.
She’d been sitting when they met so hadn’t realized how tall he was, probably a good six inches taller than her five-eight. Too tall, she thought. He was dressed similarly to the other night, in jeans and a collarless shirt, this one in black. The shirt wasn’t so tight that it showed off the definition in his chest, but she noticed how powerfully built he was all the same. Too muscular.
“No, of course not,” she said. “I was just warming up my voice.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Once word gets around about how good you are, we’ll start filling up this place.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and she felt silly for suspecting him of God only knew what. He was a bar owner trying to increase business, and she was a means to that end. “How’s the Peabody? The room okay?”
“The room’s beautiful.” She itched to get back to the stage, but guilt over her previous mistrust of him caused her to prolong the conversation. “I hear you have a new bartender.”
“Oh, yeah. Nick. He’s a friend from high school who just got married. He and his wife had a baby a month ago.”
The new wife and baby vividly explained why his friend needed a job. She couldn’t help admiring Clay for providing one, even if his friend did lack experience.
“I should be getting back to the stage,” she said. “It’s almost time for us to start.”
“Of course.”
She moved to pass him but the hallway was so narrow that her body brushed his. Their eyes met, and awareness washed over her, as surprising as it was acute. She took a breath and caught his scent, a pleasant blend of soap, shampoo and warm male skin.
“Sorry,” he said, continuing past her as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
She moved to the stage without looking back, telling herself she’d imagined the moment. She drew her share of male interest, but she was hardly a femme fatale who knocked men dead with her stunning looks. And he certainly hadn’t done anything to indicate he’d hired her for anything more than professional reasons.
Clay Dillon, by all indications, was a stand-up guy who gave jobs to friends in need and thought Two Gals could improve his bar’s bottom line.
Jenna disregarded her lingering suspicion about the gig being too good to be true. In a very short time her temporary singing career would come to a screeching halt. She intended to enjoy her good fortune before it did.
CLAY STOOD BEHIND THE BAR, his arms crossed over his chest. The rich texture of Jenna’s voice washed over him as she sang an Aretha Franklin song. Her dark slacks and button-down shirt were only slightly less casual than the clothes she’d worn in Little Rock. She again seemed like a different woman on stage than off: more spontaneous, less guarded and lit by an inner passion he couldn’t detect while talking to her.
He felt the unwelcome pull of attraction, but pushed it aside. It could only lead to complications in a situation already complex enough. She finished the song, acknowledged the applause from the light crowd, then sipped a glass of water while Corrine took center stage with an instrumental version of a Ray Charles song.
“Clay, did you hear a word I said?”
Vicky Smith, the best waitress in Memphis, stared up at him from across the bar, her elbows perched on the wooden surface. She stood about five feet nothing, but what she lacked in height she made up for in personality.
“You need a couple drafts?” he guessed.
“Not right now, I don’t. All my customers have what they need.” Her gaze challenged him to try again.
“You were complaining about Seth?”
“That doesn’t prove you were listening,” she rejoined. “I always complain about Seth.”
“I was listening. You said he accused you of having an affair.”
“He always does that, too, the big jerk. He’s gentle as can be with me but swears he’ll tear apart the guy I’m sleeping with. As though I’d fool around with one guy while dating another. You know I’m not that kind of woman, right?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Then why doesn’t he?”
“He’s got a jealousy problem.”
“You think?”
“I know.” With difficulty he tore his attention from the stage and focused his full attention on Vicky. “Guys like Seth, they don’t change, Vick. If he’s this jealous now, it’ll only get worse if you marry him.”
“If? You’re saying I should rethink the engagement?”
Hell, yeah, except he would have used the word “break” instead of “rethink.” This was a conclusion Vicky needed to reach on her own. “I’m saying I want you to be happy. Since you started dating this guy, I haven’t seen a whole lot of smiles from you.”
She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, he saw resignation. “I knew there was a reason I go to you with my problems. Sometimes you’re pretty smart.”
“Sometimes? Mensa would be lucky to have me,” he teased.
“I said sometimes, and I meant sometimes. You hired Nick, didn’t you?” She nodded toward the new bartender, who