Got My Name Changed Back
A/N – Inspiration and influences: Susanna Clarke's 2020 novel 'Piranesi', the enjoyable browsing of stories on these pages and Miranda Lambert, Ashley 'A Life That's Good' Monroe and Angaleena Presley - AKA The Pistol Annies, who's song title I have re-appropriated here. Thanks to everyone who has clicked through.
If hotel rooms could talk then attorneys would be as wealthy as major league Country singers. Secured into one such wall, a king sized headboard, plush brown velvet complimenting the cream decor and inbuilt chrome light fittings with their recessed control panel. Propped against that, tasteful cushions and more pillows than were strictly necessary for sleep, then resting against the memory foam, the head of Rayna Jaymes, her face, like the bed unmade. Calmness and pin-drop quiet enveloped. The rumpled duvet kicked back, while wisps of air con caused goose bumps above and below the sleeve hem of her baggy tee. OK not just the air con. There was the faint click of a heavy door, as the only other person with a matching guest key card ignored the "Do Not Disturb" sign facing out onto the twelfth floor corridor. Inside, so effective were the black-out curtains, that the room in which Rayna lay could have been floating within any hour of the day. In reality it was a shade past 9 am.
He had breakfasted downstairs with the boys from the band. Not the musicians who actually played on the record, but the guys the label had drafted in for this promo. Then after stopping by his own room, two floors down, to splash water and mess up his allocated bed, he was back. Rayna played out the scene in her mind. After taking his boots off just inside the door his feet would melt into the silver-grey carpet. Next he would have to cross the length of her suite, passed the remains of a breakfast tray for one, skirting the desk where her neatly printed schedule lay, and on until his shadow cut out the chink of light seeping through her barley open door. Plenty of time to pull his shirt open before he reached the bedroom. When Deacon entered Rayna's sanctum he was smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
"Room Service?" he enquired.
Compared to last night their sex was fast and instinctive. Compared to last night when they had the time and space to fully indulge in each other's bodies. Silken, stolen time, alone together; many miles and states away from Teddy's whines, Daddy's sly barbs and the gentle tiller of Buck. Distance too from Rayna's precious girls, and that part hurt. To cope with her stardom Rayna had built a life of individual boxes. If the guilt of conducting an affair with her band leader gnawed, then outside of that indulgence Rayna compensated by completely giving herself over to her daughters as much as she possibly could. On the flip-side, she made sure that she scraped every last drop of lust out of the time she found clear with her lover. A naked Deacon joined her on the king. With a trust of hips her yoga pants and more were down and kicked away. There was no time for a seductive tease with her cotton t-shirt as Deacon was already pulling at it, up and over, her wrists butterflyingly vulnerably above her head as he brought his wet mouth and rough tongue into contact with her exposed breasts, then his teeth. It was a game of cat and mouse, spider and fly and she let out an earthy moan. His grip loosened as he moved to mount her and Rayna responded, instinctive muscle memory yielding to his touch. In the course of play wrestle she flipped him and straddled, hands on hips, breath coming in short pants as the hunter became the hunted.
"You like it ha?" Deacon was in too much of a trance to register how pointless her words were, only her noise, the husky drawl of her honeyed voice drilled into his brain.
"Ray."
Raya gyrated, her breasts free to sway, her tangled hair flickering in the shadows like flames. They were both close to the edge and as Rayan forced her rhythm, clawing at his chest, they exploded over it freefalling.
Basking in that afterglow was an unavailable luxury, so Rayna took the first shower. She always had been able to flick those mental switches, back in the day it was a talent desperately acquired to combat the effects of Deacon's alcoholism, now it was needed to hide her passion from the world. Deacon, motionless on the bed surfaced at a slower pace. When they came to swap over Rayna could not bring herself to look him in the eye, ironically this was always the point where she felt most like the married woman she really was.
When all too soon she was alone again in the suite, Rayna set about choosing between outfits for the upcoming broadcast, settling for tight white jeans and a gold sparkly top. Instinctively she had streamed a radio station through the hotel's entertainment console; a habit of childhood when her mother would hum along to AM transmissions of Tammy, Dolly or Karen Carpenter. Suddenly Rayna became aware that she was being confronted by the sound of her own voice, as the 21st century technology played out 'The Wrong Song,' her career reviving duet with Taylor Swift that now seemed to follow her about everywhere like eager puppy. A lucky break for her. It had been Taylor's representatives who first approached Bucky to do the co-write. The idea being to create bridge between the star's country centred roots and what would become her latest record 'Red.' The resulting number one smash gave Raya exposure to a new set of fans, the fully focused attention of her label's marketing department and the kudos of being the coolest Mom on the planet, when Taylor came to dine with her, Teddy and the girls. That little lot was worth a few wearisome repeats, and deep inside Rayna knew that without it she probably wouldn't be plugging her new single on a syndicated daytime talk show.
The door to her suite was politely knocked and through the spy-hole Rayna saw the outline of her PA, penny loafers and a laptop shoulder bag. Together they took the elevator lobbywards, which of course just had to stop two floors down to admit Deacon and his guitar case. Rayna made a joke of it.
"Well fancy us running into you, do you come here often?"
"Not on what you pay me," he replied, causing the PA to laugh nervously. This was mixed company so both of them knew they had to be so damn careful. Once on the last tour they had purposely staged an argument in front of the whole crew, Deacon deliberately turning up very late to sound check. Rayna bawled him for being unprofessional and screamed that if there was even the tiniest hint of drink on his breath, he would be off the tour with his bags on the street like that. He took it all God bless him and adlibbed retorts that still made her flinch. How could anyone ever consider her a sanctimonious know- it-all? Their performance had even fooled a concerned Bucky.
Streetside now and the horn-blare hustle, yells and constant movement of uptown New York. Flashing signs and billboards, sirens and the beat of a chopper above, the mingling smells of gasoline and hot dogs. The TV company had provided a seven seater which Rayna and Deacon were marshalled into, the rest of the band having gone on ahead with equipment. Rayna begun to get her breath back, as their driver muscled his way into the throng.
"Do you ever watch this show?" Deacon asked her?
"Sometimes, but usually when I've turned on expecting to see 'General Hospital,'" she admitted to him. As they rode across town they passed a venue etched in Rayna's photographic memory. A two night booking from the final tour they had completed together before his drinking became too big a problem, even for her. She doubted Deacon would recall it, that whole time was crazed enough for her, a period completely lost to him. Pain, causing rejection, blocked out by stronger boozing, causing yet more pain. A vicious spiral that had driven her deeper into the open arms and tasteful bed of a safe and secure, sharp suited Teddy Conrad. The first decision of hers which Daddy had approved of in years. Except of course nothing back then was ever totally black and white. Here in the now their driver swerved to avoid a taxi trying to cut them up, instinctively Rayna shot out an arm to brace herself, grabbing hold of Deacon's thigh. He smiled back at her, with his mouth and eyes and Rayna was grateful the PA was sitting alone on the forward bank of seats. Any small chance that their contact had been clocked was lost in a volley of swear words from up front.
"Excuse me ladies, but some so called professionals just don't know how to drive these streets."
The well-oiled schedule rolled around them, sign in, one brief rehearsal to check camera angles then to the make-up chair. When Rayna opened up her phone, the make-up girl cooed over its wallpaper, a picture of a smiling Maddie and Daphne. That shot always made Rayna laugh, because Maddie's growing vanity meant she had ditched her glasses and was squinting, half glazed towards the camera, pulling off an effect of coolness that was normally beyond her.
"How old are they?"
"Twelve and eight." A little over 13 years back she had made the final, final call to throw her lot in with Teddy. It had been the right one. For her sanity, Maddie's upbringing and later the bundle of fairy joy at was Daphne. Their sensible, stable family bubble had survived fully intact right up until Daphne started elementary school, when Teddy's priorities changed. His mind became solely fixed on work, personal success, and gaining wider power. Probably trying to outgun the heights his wife had achieved; at exactly the same time her career begun to dip. Then suddenly so it seemed, Deacon was back on the scene. A curveball temptation, between session engagements, years of stone cold sobriety chalked up, available and talented. After tentative rehearsals, where hand slipped so naturally and effortlessly into glove; there was a reunion tour to delight her reduced but loyal fanbase, that led to an album, that led to… them being oh so very careful. This time around at least. For despite what was stated in black and white on her birth certificate, if Maddie's antecedence was ever investigated, the truth would cut. That however was never, ever, going to happen, Teddy far too proud to doubt and Deacon too fogged to recall details. A damn good job too. For Country being Country just adored broken hearts, yet deeply despised a home-wrecker.
Waiting to be called from the greenroom as the first cut of opening credits rolled. "Hi, so this Jenifer, still sitting in for the lovely Katie, who's currently taking a well deserved vacation. On today's show I'm talking to Doctor Marc Crossman about at the daily struggle millions of Americans face with back pain, and there's music and chat too, with the Queen of Country herself, Rayna Jaymes…"
TV lighting always felt warmer to her face than the stage and the air drier. The stalls of audience further back with overhead cameras swooping, and more tripod monoliths to the side. 'This Time' was played in, the band miming to their pre-recorded backing tack, though Rayna sang live. Deacon, as was his custom plucked at his unplugged strings and above the monitor Rayna's well-tuned ears could pick out his metallic twang, a beat she always thought was just for her. At the song's conclusion Rayna noted with pleasure there wasn't really the need for an applause cue card. She and Deacon had turned that song out in an afternoon, half of one more like, between sodas on his cabin porch and ruff and tumble on his creaky bedstead. Certainly Country had witnessed the gestation of more profound songs, but what they had concocted was a genuine earworm, with this TV studio audience the final proof. Job done and with a Southern smile she was off the stage podium and heading across the set as an add break dropped.
Jenifer flashed teeth at the camera and patted Rayna's crossed knee. "Tell us what is was like to work with Taylor. So much talent in one room going on there" It was a question that tracked Rayna almost as doggedly as the song itself. As always she reached for her stock answer, with marketing spin; producing a thumbnail of Swifts professionalism and bubbly personality before dragging the conversation back onto herself. "Now this time y'all must put up with just my singing." The subtle self-deprecation and even more artful subconscious name check of the single was a trick she and Bucky had cooked up, Dr Marc picked up the baton by saying that listening to Rayan's voice was always a pleasure.
"What do you do to relax?" Jenifer asked.
"Well, I have two wonderful girls, who I thank the good Lord for every day (another tick on Bucky's checklist) and we try to be a normal family. My eldest is learning guitar and her sister is a whizz at glow in the dark bowling like you would not believe."
"Do they have a Nanny?"
"No not full time, we want to be hands on parents" Song, Church and family, she so had this.
"Amazing, because you husband has a pretty important job- right?"
"You could say that. He's the city Mayor of Nashville."
"Now of course," continued Jenifer, "What we all want to know is… have you caught any of ABC's Country music drama Nashville, airing Wednesday nights?"
Rayna affirmed she had.
"Because the main character Reba, that's you isn't it?"
Back came her icing sugar laugh, with just a hint of lemon. "Oh I don't know about that, that kitchen Reba has is way more swanky than mine, and a whole lot tidier!"
"Do you enjoy cookery then Rayna?"
"I love making cookies with my girls, through the mixture always gets (turn to audience) everywhere." The mostly female daytime studio audience tittered in sympathy.
"But going back to the show, a little bird in our research departments tells me you had a hand in its making?"
"Yes, that' right, my guitarist Deacon and I wrote a couple of songs that are in the show. Reba's song 'No One Will Ever Love You' and 'If I Didn't Know Better' that's sung by the characters Gunnar and Chrystal."
"What was that like?"
"A real honour to be asked, but also quite scary for me to write specifically for someone else. I don't normally do that. But Connie English is such a fantastic actress that I think it works brilliantly.
"Well let's take a look at a clip now of Riba singing that song at Nashville's famous Bluebird Café along with her bass player, who is also her ex- boyfriend. A character who's recovering from an addiction to opioids. Then we'll bring Dr Marc back into the conversation to talk about this very real problem and how it's affecting our nation."
Rayna stabbed at a remote, the TV turned black and all was quiet in the suite. Page 2 of the schedule told her there would be press tomorrow, then the flight back to BNA, her girls, her husband and her normal, extraordinary life.
"I think that went well," she said to Deacon. "Wanna celebrate?" Rayna unsnuggled herself from Deacon's loose hold, got off the coach and lightly pulled him up with her. She threw her arms about his sturdy frame, tiptoeing kisses across his stubble and onto his forehead. They waltzed, stop start about the space before Rayna crashed onto the bed, gaining a fine view of Deacon's groin. She reached towards him.
"Bucky is bound to call you at any moment," Deacon reminded her.
"Then you had better do a good job sucking my pinkies and kissing my feet while he does," she told him with mock stern, scrabbling around the king, one sling-back dangling provokingly. "We can sort out that, er, not so little issue of yours afterwards." They were being greedy now, but Rayna knew how it went. Put her and Deacon alone in a room for any length of time, the sparks always flew. It was the power that gave shape to their song writing, their instinctive knowledge of each other that could totally blow them apart, then rebuild from the ashes, however much time later. For better or worse Rayna could not live with Deacon, but equally could not live without him.
"You know," she continued, "I really hope the Nashville writers let Riba get her man. 'Cos then no-one will ever believe anything they hear about you and me babe." Deacon's soft, life-scared, upturned dark eyes pushed into her.
"Hey, did I tell you to stop big boy?" she chided as her iPhone buzzed and Bucky's name flashed accusingly.