Amazing Love. Mae Nunn
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he walked toward her he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a faded brown wallet. He plucked a twenty-dollar bill from the folded leather and held it toward her.
“I saw a taco stand up the road. How about getting us all a hot meal and giving Freeway a quick walk around the parking lot? I can send one of the boys with you if you’re afraid to go alone,” he challenged.
If being the gofer gave her a reason to stick around, so be it.
“Sure, I’ll be glad to do that. But when I get back I thought we might be able to collaborate.”
“Collaborate?” One dark eyebrow arched skeptically.
“You know, offer one another assistance based on our musical backgrounds.”
He cracked that lazy grin again and there was no denying it. Her heart definitely thumped double time.
“I’m glad you brought up the subject of assistance, because you could use some work on that piece you were rehearsing. That arrangement is all wrong for your voice but I can give you some suggestions to get you through it if you want to stick around a while longer.”
She snatched the twenty from his fingers and stuffed it into her purse.
“Thanks, I’ll think about it,” she muttered as she spun about-face and stomped up the aisle. She heard the rumble of his laughter just before she pushed through the security door into the muggy night air.
A Harvard MBA sent to fetch burritos. Miss Texas being asked to walk the dog. A guy she didn’t know from Adam criticizing her musical arrangement. If she weren’t so tired she’d indulge in a self-righteous hissy fit. She settled instead for slamming the door of her coupe a little harder than necessary.
As the pony car approached the late night drive-thru, the mature businesswoman in her toyed with a teenage prank. Claire’s huffy mood evaporated and a grin crept across her face. If the newcomer was going to treat her like one of the kids he’d better be prepared to suffer the consequences.
Chapter Three
“And put extra jalapeños on those two super tacos, please.” Claire smirked at the giant piñata head that returned her grin blindly and bobbed its approval of her diabolical plan.
“I have to warn you, ma’am. The super taco already comes with enough peppers to heat Minnesota in January,” the night manager of the restaurant replied.
“I know, but I’m just relaying the order. The man specifically said he wanted his meal ‘hot.’”
“Okaa-aa-aay, but he’s gonna be miserable tomorrow.”
“That’s the plan,” she muttered under her breath as she eased the car forward to the carry-out window.
With a sack of fragrant Tex-Mex on the bucket seat beside her and the warm evening breeze whipping through the open windows, Claire made the short drive back to the church. Determined to see this guy’s true colors, she crept inside the sanctuary to a seat in the shadows. The less she disturbed the more she could observe. If anyone noticed her arrival they didn’t acknowledge it.
Luke was taking the group through one of the numbers they’d played for the evening service, stopping them frequently as he’d done Claire during her practice run. Like a professional coach who insists a championship team start every drill with the basics, Luke singled out each boy and went over the fundamentals of his instrument. Though they reviewed familiar territory, the newcomer seemed to give each student a fresh sense of timing or tuning or the history of the instrument before moving on.
A series of high-pitched beeps emanated from Eric’s backpack. He cradled his guitar in the upright stand and reached for his cell phone.
“Unless that’s your mother, don’t answer it,” Luke commanded.
“Nobody calls him but his mother,” Zach sniped and the others snickered.
Eric gave a sidelong glance at the caller ID and punched the ignore button. Luke held his hand out and the cell phone was deposited into his open palm.
“Any others?” Luke’s tone left no doubt about what was expected.
Pockets were emptied and four flip phones ended up single file on top of an amplifier. Her Blackberry was set on vibrate but, unwilling to risk being discovered, Claire reached into her purse and silently depressed the “off” key.
“This is as good a time as any to spell out expectations.” Luke lowered his lean frame to the stage floor, folded long legs beneath him and motioned for the guys to do the same. They sat cross-legged in a circle like silent scouts around a campfire.
“Well? Speak up,” Luke snapped, then waited for a response. The boys cast one another unsure glances.
“Shouldn’t you tell us your expectations, sir,” Zach asked, as he nervously rolled a drumstick between his palms.
Luke shook his head. “Let’s get this straight. This isn’t about me or Praise Productions. It’s about the Harvest Sons. If you don’t know what you want, how can we move you to the next level?” Luke waited through several seconds of silence. “Talk to me,” he insisted. “Just share what’s on your minds.”
“The sound is pretty good in here,” Zach said, glancing at the high ceiling, “but I have to hold back. My dream is to rock an outdoor stadium before I’m in my thirties like you and too old to enjoy it.”
Teenage heads nodded agreement and Luke grimaced, “Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.” Zach studied his drumstick, clearly chagrined by his tactless admission.
“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” Luke grumbled, but winked at the others to let Zach see no offense was taken.
Chad spoke up. “Since I was seven I’ve been at the keyboard ten hours a week, twenty in the summer. I can mimic any style, but I wanna be known for a sound of my own. I want the Sons to play more than cover tunes and jazzed up hymns.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Luke nodded at Chad, then turned. “How about you, Eric?”
“The only good thing our dad ever did was name me after Eric Clapton. He’s a triple inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.” Eric’s eyes lit as he warmed to the subject of his rock hero. “I learned most of what I know by playing along with his CDs. I’d love to have a reputation like Clapton’s one day,” Eric admitted. “But only on the guitar,” he quickly added. “I’d never be stupid like he was with coke and heroin. Musicians who blow their careers over drugs are so lame.”
Luke brushed his palm across his short-cropped hair, before dropping his hand back into his lap.
“You’d be surprised how easy it is to fall into that trap, Eric.”
Claire caught the slightly defensive note in his voice.
“Are you saying what he did was okay?” Chad asked.
“Absolutely not,” Luke insisted. “But you should have some compassion for what drove Clapton down the road he chose.”
“Nobody deserves compassion for making such stupid choices,” Eric insisted. “His drug abuse will label him for the rest of his life.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments as Luke seemed to think about the judgmental comment.
“Good point, Eric. All a man really has to call his own is his reputation, and once that’s damaged it’s just about impossible to make repairs.”
Then he moved on. “And what do you want from this experience, Brian?”
The young bass player slumped, exhaled a pent-up breath and fiddled with the plastic guitar pick between his fingers.
“Brian wants to make it in the business so he can get away from our old man,” Eric offered on behalf of his kid brother.
“Forever,”