Page 3 of Sweet Music (Sugarville Grove #7)

CASH

C ash Law belted out the last note of “Snowstorm Rock” and let the rough howl of his voice fade into the roar of the crowd.

The stadium was so big that he couldn’t focus on just a single face.

Instead, it was a boiling panorama of movement, screaming back at him with one voice.

Pure joy blasted through his veins. For Cash, there was nothing better than making music, and nothing like sharing the experience with thousands of people at once.

He gave one last wave to the fans and let the adrenaline carry him offstage with his drummer, bass player, and rhythm guitarist following behind.

All those bodies heated up the smaller space. Sweat dripped from his slightly too-long hair and made his t-shirt cling to his chest. He felt hollowed out inside from singing, playing, dancing, and basically leaving the best of himself out on the stage.

Cash loved performing, loved letting the rhythm of the music slide deep into his soul and then come blasting out through his voice and his fingers on the guitar strings.

But these days, the high faded faster and faster once the concert was over. And there was something about these big stadiums that left him feeling a little empty, missing the personal connection that he’d had with the fans in smaller venues back when he was coming up.

That’s not the only thing I miss about the old days.

But that didn’t bear thinking about. He could wonder over it for the rest of his life and he’d never have an answer to that mystery. So as usual, he pushed the thoughts of his past aside and did his best to live in the moment.

The local crew smiled and nodded to him as he passed, and he smiled back. His own roadies had started breaking down the backstage equipment as soon as the final note had been played.

“Cash,” Nigel said, jogging up with a hopeful smile. “Great show. There are some girls backstage, real fans.”

Nigel was Cash’s new drummer. He was in his early twenties, a real prodigy who hit the drums like they owed him money. But he still hadn’t figured out Cash’s deal.

“Nah,” Cash said lightly. “Have fun.”

Nigel’s face fell for a second, as usual, but he plastered a smile on right away.

“Will do, buddy,” he said brightly before practically sprinting off to wherever the crew had curated a selection of eager female fans.

Cash hadn’t done that kind of typical rock star stuff in years. Really, he’d only behaved badly for a very short period of time right after …

Don’t think about it.

“Let the kid go after the girls,” Hank chuckled. “Pete and I were thinking about drinks at the bar, or maybe having a couple of people back to my room. You want in?”

“No, thanks, man,” Cash said, patting Hank on the back. “Great set though. Cheers.”

Hank and Pete were Cash’s bass player and rhythm guitarist. They had toured with him for years, and he appreciated that they always invited him to party with them, even though he always said no.

The fans would probably be pretty shocked to know that rockabilly star Cash Law sang his heart out about girls and parties all night onstage, and then usually just went back to his hotel room alone to read, even after his biggest shows.

He grabbed his duffel from the green room, pulled a jacket on over his sweaty shirt, added a hat and a pair of sunglasses, and then ducked out the stage door, flanked by some of the crew who led him past a wall of screaming fans on his way to the car that waited.

Everyone said he ought to have bodyguards, or at least ride with his manager. But Cash found that if he moved quickly, he could usually escape without too much fuss. Most of the audience was still in the stadium, basking in the afterglow, or hoping for another encore.

“Mr. Law,” the driver said, nodding to him.

“It’s just Cash,” he replied.

As they pulled away from the curb, Cash realized that Bill Monroe was wailing “Blue Moon of Kentucky” from the car’ s speakers.

“Sorry about that, sir,” the driver said, reaching for the radio.

“Keep it on,” Cash said. “Please. That’s the good stuff.”

“Sure is,” the driver said, smiling at him in the rearview mirror.

He didn’t say another word during the drive, and Cash lost himself in the foot-tapping cries of the fiddles. This was the music that inspired the artists back in the fifties who mixed it with blues and rock. And those artists, in turn, had inspired Cash’s own music.

And this old-timey bluegrass was also the music his grandpa used to play on his guitar on cold winter nights.

All the Lawrence kids had loved the music, but little Charles Cash had been mesmerized, his eyes on his grandfather’s dancing fingers, his heart feeling like it would drum right out of his chest as he listened.

He wondered, as he often did, if anyone would be listening to his music a generation or two from now.

Too soon, they pulled into the hotel.

“Thanks, buddy,” Cash said, patting the driver on the shoulder on his way out.

“It was an honor,” the man said.

Cash jogged to the elevator, feeling uncomfortable as usual at that kind of praise.

The teamsters who drove for these big arenas were regular people who did real work.

Cash was still just fooling around doing the thing he’d done in all his free hours as a kid.

If he hadn’t been playing in the right place at the right time for the right person to pluck him out of obscurity, he’d still be working back on the farm in Vermont, and noodling on his guitar in some dive bar someplace on the weekends.

He tapped his card to the touchscreen and the elevator slid upward all the way to the penthouse, allowing Cash to finish his night without interacting with another human being.

His manager Aimee had the other keycard that let her in as far as his foyer, but she wouldn’t use it.

The woman understood that Cash valued his quiet time at night.

If she wanted to harass him about opportunities, that would happen in the morning.

It was just one of many reasons he was glad every day he had hired her.

When the doors opened, he stepped out into his foyer, then tapped the card once again, and entered the vast suite.

No matter how many of these swanky hotels they stayed in, he never got used to it. Every comfort was waiting for him, both the ordinary luxury that places like these offered daily, and the special things his team set up while he was onstage.

The old, faded denim quilt Mom had made him for his tenth birthday was folded neatly at the end of the pristine white comforter on the king bed.

His current read, a thick paperback that was wavy from being shoved in and out of his duffel and crammed into the seat of the tour bus, waited on the bedside table.

A paper sack, its bottom stained with grease from the cheeseburger and fries it held, sat on a plate on the elegant mahogany dining table, and he knew without looking that there would be an ice-cold Coca-Cola waiting in the fridge to wash it down, along with a bowl of cut fruit and the garden salad Aimee always had them bring him, even though he never ate it.

He had to hand it to her, the woman was optimistic.

I want you rocking until we’re both in our seventies, she liked to say.

The idea always made his stomach twist, even though it really shouldn’t. He was living his dream, after all.

Wasn’t he?

From the desk in the office nook, the case containing his grandfather’s old acoustic guitar caught his eye, as it often did when he was looking to wind down.

He forced himself to shower and eat before he picked it up.

The water pressure was incredible, and the burger was delicious, as always.

He always asked for it to come from a local spot, and if he liked it, he left behind a signed headshot to be delivered back.

He knew from his family’s own ice cream shop back in Vermont that sometimes the mom-and-pop places got a kick out of stuff like that—and that they got an even bigger kick out of the tip he sent along with it.

He gazed at the view outside the glass wall as he ate. The city was glittering. It was hard to imagine so many people were behind those bright windows, laughing and arguing, some comfortable, some scraping by and doing without.

And here was Cash, in the absolute lap of luxury. But he didn’t want to watch the massive television or soak in the big tub. And though he could pick up his phone and have just about anything that popped into his head delivered right to his bedside, the whole idea left him empty .

Lately, the only thing he felt when he walked into one of these places was restless .

Once he was done eating, he cleaned up the wax paper from the burger, washed his hands, and padded through the thick pile of plush carpet to the office to pull the guitar out of its case.

It was an old instrument, but it was of good, solid quality, and Grandpa Lawrence had taken excellent care of it. The mother-of-pearl inlay on the neck was still one of the most beautiful things Cash had ever seen, and he always took a moment to appreciate it before he started playing.

He walked back to the bed and sat on the edge, his fingers feeling at home the moment they touched the strings.

He started off with some of the old classics, hoping his conscious mind would slowly fade away, like in the before days, and the familiar melodies would melt into songs that were all his own.

But that didn’t really happen much anymore, and it didn’t take long to realize that wasn’t happening tonight.

After a while, he put the guitar aside and just paced, letting his mind drag him back, back to the past, when things had been simpler and he imagined his big dreams would be more than enough for him if they somehow came true.

A sudden knock at the door roused him from his wandering memory.

What in the world could be important enough for this?

His first thoughts went to his family, and he said a silent prayer that they were all safe and sound as he jogged out to the entry.

“Hey,” he said, opening the door to find his manager standing there.

Aimee’s normally professional expression was gone. Her eyes were wide and she was panting slightly, as if she had sprinted just to get to his elevator. She looked like she had seen a ghost.

“Have you seen this?” she asked, pushing her phone toward him.