He exhaled loud enough for Ashley to hear it through the phone. “We’re about to go on soon.”
“Oh, you’re playing a show? A paying gig?” Not that Ashley cared that each show they played got them closer to their dream of making it big.
Truman glanced at his friends. “I’ll send more money when I can.”
“I need more than your word, Tru. You need to do better for your son.” Her voice rose to an annoying screech that made Truman pull the phone away from his ear.
“I’m doing the best that I can.” He spotted Charlie shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the floor.
Truman wondered how many times Charlie had had this conversation with his wife.
“Do better.” Ashley damn near growled her request. “Or I’m going to have to move to North Carolina.”
“What?”
Ashley hadn’t pulled this Carolina stunt before. Actually, she’d never threatened to keep Gage away from him.
“My grandmother lives there.” Ashley popped her gum three more times in quick succession like a popgun. “Her place is paid off. She can put us up.”
“Don’t take my son away from my family in Tennessee. I’ll do what I can to get you some money to get you by.” Truman leaned back on the counter. He felt like a ton of bricks had been dumped on his back and shoulders. Even though he couldn’t be there, his parents lived close to Ashley and could check up on his son at any time.
“I know you’ll get me the money. And don’t tell me what to do with my son. I’ll take him wherever I want.” The shrieking returned, and so did Truman’s headache.
He could almost see Ashley with her chin jutted out, her blond hair with its dark roots spiked up like a rooster and smoke swirling around her.
Tired of Ashley’s self-centered nature, Truman decided to let her have it. “You are a piece of work, you know that? It’s always me, me, me. Did you ever think that maybe you need to get in there and earn a living for yourself? What do you have to say?”
Silence.
Truman had never known Ashley to be tight-lipped about anything.
So he continued. “And I’m telling you now. If you ever threaten me with taking my boy to some trailer park in Charlotte, I’ll—”
“Daddy, what’s a trailer park?”
Silence.
This time Truman had to stop himself. Thank God he didn’t forget his manners and call the mother of his son anything but a child of God. The woman always fought dirty like a female version of his lead guitarist, Sully. He should have known that she would use their son as leverage in their argument.
“Hey, big man.” Truman took some deep breaths away from the phone to compose himself. “Aren’t you up late?” He would have to talk to Ashley about keeping Gage on a regular bedtime schedule. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. I drawed you a picture of you and your guitar.” Gage’s voice sounded less babyish than Truman remembered.
Truman hated missing out on these important years in Gage’s life. As his father, he wanted to be by him and teach him how to be a man. He heard rustling through the phone.
“See? Can you see it, Daddy?” Gage’s excited tone pumped up Truman.
He smiled. “I wish I could, big boy. We’re not on Facetime right now. Are you being good to your mama and grandmama?”
“Yes, sir. Just like you told me to.” Truman imagined Gage’s big hazel eyes, a combination of his brown eyes and Ashley’s green ones, sparkling as he talked to him.
Thanks to Ashley’s daily social media posts, Truman noticed how his child’s dirty blond hair had turned brown like his.
He loved hearing his son’s voice. His heart pounded a solid rhythm. His shoulders relaxed. More than anything, he wanted his boy by his side.
“I wish I could be there to tuck you in at night.” Truman saw Charlie wiping his hand under his nose before the big man stood and walked outside.
Truman should have taken the call somewhere else. Charlie missed his kids as much as Truman missed Gage. Yes, something needed to happen for them soon.
“Would you sing lullabies?” Gage’s voice sounded jittery like he talked while jumping up and down.
“Yep. All the ones you like.” Truman blinked and a tear almost escaped his eye. Only his son could draw out a reaction like that out of him.
“Daddy, can you sing me one now?”
Before he could sing a note, Truman heard Ashley in the background screaming. “Daddy will need to send more money before he can sing to you over the phone.”
Truman gritted his teeth. “I love you.”
“I love you, sugar.” Ashley chuckled. “But you know we’re no good for each other. I’ll be waiting for more money.”
Ashley disconnected the call. Truman slid his phone back into his pocket. So among everything else going on in his life, he had to find a job so that he could send more money to Ashley.
Screams from kids riding on a nearby Ferris wheel filtered through the trailer walls and broke his concentration. He adjusted his baseball cap on his head and took in a deep breath. Ordinarily, he liked the scent of freshly made popcorn and cotton candy. Now it all smelled like defeat.
“I thought we were done with gigs like these.” Sully kicked his boot against Truman’s.
“This gig is better than some.” Truman picked up his guitar. “It’s a county fair and not a dive bar.” When he noticed his friends starting to get ready to argue about the types of shows they’d been playing, he barreled through with his statement. “We get an album out, I think we’ll be done with shows like these. Consider this as us paying our dues.”
“Are we ever going to record in a studio?” Tony, their fiddler, chewed on his lower lip.
Truman held up his hand. “We’re a hard-working group. We’re going to get picked up.” At least he hoped they did. He understood the ruthlessness of the music business. It would be nothing for them to never get a deal.
His one hope rested with a recording studio in Virginia Beach with an owner who sounded like she cared about him, his band, and the music. Then he heard Fatima Evans had passed away six months ago. With his champion gone, what chance did they have?
“I need some air.” Truman sat his guitar back down and walked out of the trailer.
As soon as Charlie spotted him, his friend went back inside the trailer. Great.
Truman paced to work out some anxiety. His cowboy boots sank into the lush green grass. As the leader, he didn’t want to go on this music journey without the guys he considered to be like his brothers.
Truman’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and answered it when he saw that the number came from a Virginia phone. He crossed his fingers, hoping for something good to happen.
“Mr. Woodley?”
Truman heard an unfamiliar gruff voice. “Yeah?”
He looked toward the stage. It looked like the last band had finished their set. Truman Woodley and the Sliders would be next.
“My name is Craig George. I’m a music manager, and I’m helping with the transition of Charisma Music Studio. I believe you signed a contract with the late Fatima Evans.”
Perfect. They had this guy call Truman to politely tell him that he and his friends wouldn’t be able to record their album. He knew he had made the right decision not telling the guys that he had a development deal with Charisma.
“Why