I don't usually write in this format, so it's something new for me….Let me know what you think
Rayna stares at her reflection in the vanity mirror, frowning at the 16- year old who stares back at her. She knows she has her mother's eyes. Where all this red hair came from, nobody in the family seems to know that.
When she was younger, her mother used to say it made her special, and it made her stand out. She'd always been proud of being able to stand out, but lately it is not as fun anymore.
The girls at school don't like her. The "normal" kids think she's a snob because she lives in Belle Meade and her daddy owns half the town. The country club daughters that Lamar wants her to be friends with, they don't like her either. They think she's weird because she doesn't hang out at the mall, or giggle like idiots over clothes and football players.
She thinks she'd rather be alone, anyway, and she thinks those girls are stupid. She'd rather be writing songs. Thinking. Listening to the old records of her mother's she'd fought Lamar to keep. It keeps her from feeling alone. She misses her sister.
Tandy is in college now. Sure, she's just across town- Lamar refuses to pay for her to go anywhere else but Vanderbilt, Tandy has her own apartment. Their father wouldn't let her live in the dorm with boys. You can come visit any time, Tandy says every time she calls. But Lamar doesn't know Tandy spends her weekends filling that apartment with people who drink things and smoke things that Rayna doesn't really have much interest in.
She is lonely. She is always lonely.
I just want someone to get me, she thinks.
It's been four years, but times like this is when Rayna misses her mother the most.
She sighed, vigorously runs a brush through her thick hair. She goes to the closet and pulls out the white and gold cowboy boots her daddy says make her look too "redneck", and goes downstairs.
##########################################
The house is huge, and wide open, and always bustling with activity of her father's staff in and out. Lamar is nowhere in sight, probably at a business meeting.
And Rayna lies. She tells the nanny- who really at this point in her life is pointlessly being paid by her father to watch television and do crossword puzzles- that she is going to study at her friend Susie's house tonight and will be home promptly by 11. Tandy and her wild ways might have needed a nanny after their mom died, but Rayna finds it indignant. She is the good, dutiful, daughter. She does not need a nanny.
She walks outside, retrieves her mother's guitar from where it's been hidden in the garden shed, and walks three blocks. Watty picks her up.
They talk easily on the ride, about the music execs that are going to be there tonight, about the song she wants to sing. It's one she wrote herself. She's never performed in front of anyone except Watty and the guys in his studio. She is nervous, but excitement wins out.
This is her chance, Watty says. This is when she gets to show them what she can do.
Watty is like an uncle to her. He's always been around. He helped her mother find her voice, he says. And now he's gonna help her. He promises, like he always does.
She is nervous and excited, and a whole bunch of things she can't quite put into words.
"You don't think my father will find out, do you?" She asks worriedly. They both know Lamar will probably lock her room for the next 20 years if he finds out that the "Susie" she'd been spending time with for the last two years didn't exist, how she'd been taking the afternoon bus downtown twice a week to spend time in Watty's studio.
"It'll be fine," Watty says, not even the least bit concerned. "It'll all be fine."
She wishes she could believe him. Because all she really wants to do is sing.
##################################
Watty takes her to the Bluebird Cafe. It's open mic night.
Rayna has never been inside, but she knows the legendary stories. This is where they all started, all the big names. It's a big deal, to get a chance to be on this little stage.
"Are you sure you want to play?" Watty asks as they walk inside, her awkwardly carrying the guitar case. "Because we have plenty of guys here on standby."
"I wrote the song," she insists. "I should play it."
He doesn't look too thrilled at the idea.
She's not a guitar player. She never will be and he knows it. Her fingers are too clumsy, and she can't seem to find a way to hold it without looking as awkward as hell. Just like her mama. And just like her mama, Rayna's skills aren't in her hands. They're in her voice.
He smiles at the memory of Virginia. Her daughter has that same stubborn tilt of her chin, that same determination in her eyes.
"Okay," he sighs.
##################################
Watty gets her a room in back to practice while she waits.
Rayna plucks at the strings, frustrated when she hits a wrong note and the guitar screeches.
She momentarily considering tossing it halfway across the room, but it's her mama's, and that will never do.
Resigned, she puts the guitar away, and walks down the hallway to tell Watty she changed her mind about the playing part.
Watty is standing in the back, listening to the guy who is currently on the stage.
So she listens too. He has dark unruly hair, and sort of a….reckless way of playing. It seems like he is just up there giving it hell and not caring much if anyone likes it or not.
Rayna is definitely impressed, listening to him cover a Johnny Cash song.
She isn't the only one admiring him. Every female in the room seems to be trying to catch his eye or get a smile tossed in her direction.
"Whose that?" She asks Watty, never taking her eyes off him.
"Deacon Claybourne. He's a bartender here." Watty say. "Plays around town a lot."
"He's good."
"Yes he is. Did you change your mind about playing yet?"
"Yes," she admits to Watty. "I need a guitar player."
Watty hides his smile. "Great. I'll go find you one."
Her eyes go back to the guy playing on stage, and something in her stomach starts dancing.
"I want that one," she says with determination.
Watty raises his eyebrows.
"I'll see what I can do."
###########################################
She waits in the back with Watty, getting in a little more practice, running through her scales.
A knock on the door makes her stop singing, and she looks up.
"Watty, you wanted to see me?" He is standing there, the guy from the stage, still with a Gibson in one hand and now a beer in the other.
"Yes, I did," Watty pushes her forward. "This is Rayna. She needs a guitar player for tonight, are you up for it?"
Suddenly she feels uncomfortable standing there as "Deacon Claybourne" looks her up and down. She knows how it looks, standing there with her expensive boots and her rhinestone jacket on. Most of these artists who do open mics are not well off at all, living off tips in a coffee can. He doesn't look too well off himself, she thinks. His boots are scuffed, and there's holes in the knees of his jeans, and the elbows of his flannel shirt too. There is definitely an aura of "I don't care" about him, and she likes it. She likes somebody who doesn't give a damn what anyone else thinks.
She wants to be more than way. She would be more that way, if Lamar Wyatt wasn't her father.
They are just stand there staring at each other, when Watty clears his throat, breaking the moment.
"Well, Deacon, what do you say?"
"Sure," he says with a slight drawl. "I guess."
"Good," Watty says. "She's got the song, I'll leave you two back here to figure it out. You got a half hour."
"Um, okay," Rayna says, suddenly all her confidence gone as Watty leaves them alone. "Here's the words and the chords."
Deacon reaches out to take the papers from her hands and their fingers brush.
She jerks her hand back at the tingle that runs up her arm, and raised her eyes to his again.
Something in his blue eyes has her forgetting to breath for just a minute. Amusement, mischief, but something else behind it. Maybe a little hint of darkness.
She lets her breath out real slow and even, and turns away. "Okay, let's uh…just do the song, okay?"
"You got it."
Halfway through her song, Deacon forgets to play and just listens to her sing.
This girl has it, he realizes. No wonder Watty's been talking for weeks about getting her on a stage. She has a voice like a stubborn angel.
"What?" Rayna pauses. "What's wrong? Why did you stop playing?"
"Nothing," he says, and he starts playing again. But it's still there. The feeling in his gut that this is different. He has played backup for more than one little princess trying to play musician to piss off her rich daddy.
This is different.
Something deeper.
Somehow he knows this instantly.
She has him already.
Ridiculous, he thinks. She's a 16 year old girl.
He's just about to hit 20. But it's an old 20. He's been in this town for three years now, and barely gotten anywhere. But anywhere is better than where he's been.
He can't shake the feeling away. It stays. He doesn't know it at that moment, but it will stay with him for a lifetime. Through the best and worst times of his existence, it will be the one constant. It will be the thing that keeps him going when nothing else can, and pulls him out of the darkest shadows. When he breaks her heart, when she breaks his, when he watches her walk away, and come back, and walk away again….
The feeling will stay.
#######################################
They are five minutes from going onstage, when the cellphone in her pocket rings.
She's embarrassed that she forgot to turn it off, so she turns away to answer it.
His eyes watch her.
Lamar's voice echoes in her ear like a foghorn.
"I want you back in this house in thirty minutes."
Her heart sinks all the way to the toes of her boots. "Daddy? But how did you…."
"It doesn't matter how. Do as I say."
Lamar never just asks. He commands. Of his employees AND his daughters.
She tries to reason with him. "Daddy, it's really important that I can sing tonight. Watty says there's some important industry people here and-."
But Lamar isn't having any of it.
Resigned, she ends the call.
Deacon is still listening, watching her, even if he pretends he is more interested in the guy that's playing before them. He can only hear her end, but it doesn't sound pretty. And hard as she tries to hide em, he can see the tears.
Before he realizes it, she's headed for the back door.
"Wait," he reaches out and puts a hand on her arm. "Where are you going?"
"I have to go home," she says quietly.
She looks defeated. Broken.
"Why?"
"Well, I'm not really supposed to be here," she finds herself saying.
"I think you're wrong," he says in a low voice. "I think this is exactly where you're supposed to be." He points to the stage. "And there."
She shakes her head slowly. "He said I can't come back. You don't know who my father is."
"Look," Deacon stands in front of her with his guitar in his hands. It's their turn. He has only a minute to change her mind. If she walks out that door, he knows he'll never seen her again. And neither will the Bluebird, or any other stage. "I don't care who your daddy is. You should never let anyone stop you from doing what you want."
They are calling her name. Rayna Jaymes. The Jaymes part is from her mother. It is Watty's idea, and she likes it. She likes the idea of making her own name, separate from Lamar and all the things that being a Wyatt means.
"Okay," she says, her voice shaky. "Let's do it."
"Okay," he says, shooting her a smile.
I get one of those smiles, she thinks. No wonder the girls like him so much.
She doesn't think about later, or consequences, or anything else except this guy named Deacon who is taking her hand and leading her onto that stage.
######################################
It's easy to sing with him there next to her, she realizes. She doesn't even remember the crowd is there, hardly notices the execs in the front row.
"Don't get nervous," he says to her just before they start. "Don't look at them. Just look at me, okay?"
"Okay," she nods.
So she does.
Trouble is, when they somehow get through the song, she can't stop looking at him. His eyes are pulling her in, and butterflies are dancing in her stomach.
This is crazy, she thinks. I don't even know him, but I think he gets me.
The congratulations when they come off are the best feeling she's ever had. They like her, Watty says. More than that, they love her.
"We need to cut some demos ASAP," Watty says. "This is it, girl. You did good."
"Sure," she says. "Whatever you think, Watty."
But she is already scanning the crowd for Deacon.
She's disappointed to see he's already back behind the bar. Back to work.
And now, she has nowhere to go.
################################################
Deacon is surprised when they close down at midnight to realize she's still there. Sitting in a back booth in the corner by herself, watched the last musicians pack up.
"What are you still doing here?"
"I wasn't kidding," she says, her eyes looking uncertain. "He said I can't come home."
"Aw, he was probably just mad. Nobody would really do that."
She shakes her head slowly. "You don't know my father. He always says what he means."
"Who the hell does he think he is, God?"
"No," she says. "Lamar Wyatt."
Shit, he thinks. Lamar Wyatt's little girl.
Everything suddenly made a whole lot of sense.
And a whole lotta trouble.
With a sigh, he gestures towards the door. "C'mon. Let's go."
"I told you. I don't have anywhere to go."
"We'll worry about that tomorrow."
###############################
Deacon drives.
They're in his crappy old truck. Rayna is a little afraid the wheels might roll off at any minute.
But secretly, it's a thrill. She's never even been alone with a guy her own age, let alone one like this one, who wasn't so much a boy at all, but a man.
Something about him makes her want to ask him so many things, but he doesn't seem like a guy much likely to talk about himself.
He has old eyes, she thinks, watching him as he stares straight ahead at the yellow line on the highway like its gonna disappear or something. He's seen things. She wonders what they are. She wonders where he came from, how he ended up here. Everyone has a story, Watty always tells her. The best kind of people are the ones who can turn em into a song.
Deacon takes her to the one room apartment where he lives in the less well-off part of town. It's small. Small enough that you can sit on the arm of the couch and put your feet on the end of the bed at the same time.
"It's not much," Deacon says. "I just moved in about six months ago. Just temporary til I can get something better."
It had taken that long. Lots of nights sleeping in his truck, sleeping on couches, sleeping in cheap motels before he could even afford this. Lots of days going hungry.
He's not one to care about what people think.
But this one time, he cares.
"It's yours, right?" She says. "Nobody tells you what to do or where to kick off your boots."
"This is true," he says, unable to keep the grin off his face. "You can have the bed."
"Oh, you don't have to," she looks embarrassed. "I can sleep on your couch. Or the…floor, or…whatever."
"Not a big deal," he says easily.
She sits on the edge of the bed gingerly, and watches as he stretches out on the couch with his boots still on.
"I have nothing," she says, her pretty face suddenly looking so alarmed. "No money or anything. I don't even have any clothes."
He wants to say he knows how that feels. Because he does.
"Don't worry about it. You can figure it out tomorrow."
"I have nothing," she repeats, looking stricken. Scared.
He supposed the way she'd grown up, it really was terrifying.
The way he'd grown up, well, you couldn't lose nothing you didn't have in the first place.
With a sigh, Deacon rises to his feet again and grabs a clean tshirt off the ones piled up in the laundry basket nearby. "Here, you can wear this one, bathroom is around the corner."
"Thanks."
She had been on private jets with bigger bathrooms, but she wouldn't complain.
When she comes out, the lights are out, except for the tiny 19 inch tv that sits on a wooden crate in the corner. So she climbs into his bed.
"Hey Deacon?" She says softly, her voice echoing out toward him from the shadows.
"Yeah?" He's laying there on the crappy-ass uncomfortable with his eyes closed, trying to get the picture out of his mind of her in that shirt, the legs that went on for days, the hair that brushed her shoulders. She has some legs, alright.
God, you're an idiot, he thinks. She's sixteen.
"Did you think I was…good?"
He laughs. Can't help it.
"Yeah," he says. "You were good."
He can't see it, but she smiles.
"Goodnight, Deacon."
"Night, Ray."
She likes the way that nickname rolls back to her in the dark. It sounds good. Right.
She lays her head on a pillow that smells like cigarettes and cologne.
And she sleeps.
##########################################
Rayna wakes in the morning to the smell of bacon and eggs.
"Wow, you cook?"
"Well, I have to if I want to feed myself," Deacon says, somewhat amused at this, and somewhat distracted by the fact that she's sitting at his tiny kitchen table in a shirt and bare legs.
Rayna has lived in a staffed mansion her whole life. She could probably boil water if she tried. But she'd never really tried.
He watches her as she eats.
It's unnerving, the way he's always watching.
"I called Watty," he says. "He's gonna come and get you."
She looks a little disappointed. "Okay."
"You can't stay here," he says. "You should probably be in school or….something."
Rayna gets a sour look on her face at that. "There's gotta be something else I can do, cuz I'd rather burn in hell than go back to school with that bunch of snobs."
She makes him laugh. "You're sure not like any rich princess I ever met."
Rayna doesn't like the sound of that too much. "Don't ever call me that. Princess. And how many have you met?"
"A hell of a lot, around here."
"Well that's not me," she says again, determined.
"I know," he says, unable to keep that feeling that was building in his gut again. Watching her as she sat at his table. In his place. In his shirt.
She looks so goddamn cute in that shirt, that he leaves his position leaning against the sink and grabs a notepad off the counter nearby.
"What are you doing?" She asks.
"Just gotta write something down that came to me."
Rayna's blue eyes light up. "Is it it a song? It is, isn't it? I do that. All the time. Isn't it funny how lyrics jut pop into your head like that."
He looks down at the paper in his hand and the words he'd just written.
And maybe it's a little too early
To know if this is gonna work
All is know is you're sure looking
Good in my shirt
"Yeah," he says. "Something like that."
########################################
When Watty picks her up an hour later she is waiting near the curb outside. Her feet are bare, her white boots stacked neatly next to her mama's guitar case.
He lets her keep the shirt. It's the one with Merle Haggard on the front.
And It's his favorite but he won't tell her that.
"Thanks," she says. "For everything.
She goes to hug him, and it should be awkward, but it's really not. Somehow they fit together perfectly. She is tall even without her boots on, and somehow she fits right under his chin like she belongs there.
"Take care," he say gruffly. "And don't back down. You do that and you'll be fine."
"Right," she tries real hard to force a smile across her face.
Watty gets out of his car and leans against the hood. He watches them with raised eyebrows.
She is a little embarrassed, and backs away from Deacon quickly to collect her stuff and climb into Watty's car.
"It's there," Watty says to Deacon. "You and her."
"I gotta go to work," Deacon says, avoiding his eyes. "See you around, Watty."
Everybody knows Watty White. He is the stuff in this town legends are made of. If Watty thinks you've got it, you've probably got it.
"I know talent when I see it," Watty says mildly, leaning over to shove a card into his front shirt pocket. "I want you in my studio by the end of the week. She needs a guitar player, and you need a break, kid. Take it."
"I don't think that's a good idea," he says. "Me and her working together. She's too young."
And too tempting.
He doesn't do attachments of any kind, to people or places. There's a reason for that.
Watty just claps him on the shoulder, and then gets into his car and drives Rayna away.
###################################
A week later, Deacon unwillingly finds himself driving downtown to the studio address on the card in his hand.
He's been thinking about her way too much. Wondering how she's doing. Hoping she hadn't decided to give up after all and head back to the mansion.
Rayna is surprised and happy to see him walk in.
"What are you doing here?" She asks.
"Watty didn't tell you I was coming?"
She shakes her head. "He just told me he got me a permanent guitar player."
Dammit, he thinks. He's got me now.
"So….is that you?" She asks cautiously.
"I guess it is," he says with a smile that is a little bit forced.
Not because he doesn't want to play with her, and write with her, and sing with her.
Because he does.
A little too much.
"He taking care of you, then?"
"Yes," she says. "Got me all fixed up staying with him and his wife. Watty's gonna get me a tutor so I don't have to go back to school. This is it…what I wanted for forever. Just writing and playing all day every day. I wanna play at the Opry some day. My mama always wanted to do that."
She's wearing his shirt, he notices, his eyes traveling.
She looks a little embarrassed. "I washed it. Do you want it back?"
"Nah, it's yours."
Rayna feels it again, that tingling in her toes, the butterflies in her stomach.
She wonders if this is how it starts, if this feeling is the stuff that all these great songs get written about.
You'll know, Tandy always tells her. Don't worry about it so much. You'll just know.
If it stays, I'll know, she thinks.
And it does. She can't see their future at that moment, but it exists. Through ups and downs, love and heartbreaks, and hurting each other, forgiving each other, and doing it all over again, and sometimes trying to put it in an invisible box and push it away…..
It's always there. And it always stays.