July 22nd, 1988

Rayna stood on the small stage, staring out at the crowd while Deacon grabbed a stool and set it down next to her. Over the past week, they'd been rehearsing non-stop, spending nearly every waking moment with each other, trying to find the rhythm of their sound together. At Watty's suggestion, they'd turned No Way Out into a duet, and they'd be closing with it.

Tonight was the first time they'd play it for anyone but Watty, and Rayna felt the audience's eyes on her as Deacon perched on the stool, slinging his guitar across his chest. He glanced at her, she gave a slight nod, and then he started playing.

She'd noticed a strange phenomenon in the last week with Deacon; whenever they sang together, they couldn't look away. She wondered if it was because they were in an intimate setting—Watty's living room—or if it was something else, something deeper. As they sang together tonight, with over thirty pairs of eyes trained on them, Rayna learned that it apparently didn't matter where they sang together, they simply couldn't look away from one another.

When Deacon played the last note, there was silence through the crowd as they stared at each other. Rayna finally registered the lack of noise, and breaking eye contact with Deacon, she turned to face the crowd. The crowd was staring at them, some of them had their mouths open, others were wiping tears from their faces; Rayna felt panic rush through her body, she wondered if this was perhaps a mistake. She felt herself growing embarrassed, acutely aware of the focus directed her way, when suddenly in the back, someone started clapping. Someone joined in, followed by more, and then half the crowd was on their feet for them.

She turned to look at Deacon; he gave her a small smile and shrugged one of his shoulders, but his eyes held the same intense gaze they did when they were singing together. Rayna turned to find Watty in the audience, and when she did, she felt the tears burn the back of her eyes—he was looking at her with such pride, pride she hadn't seen reflected on anyone's face since she was 12 years old.

After they greeted Watty, and he'd congratulated them and said his goodbyes, and as the next performer moved to take the stage, Deacon leaned down and whispered in her ear, "You want to get outta here? Maybe get a drink to celebrate?"

She smiled and agreed, and as they left the venue, he guided her through the door with his hand on the small of her back.

He took her to a bar on the other side of town—she was worried she wouldn't get in, but he just smiled, "They don't care much about IDs here," He said, opening the door for her.

It turned out he was right. As they took their place at the bar, the bartender slid two cocktail napkins in front of them. "What can I get you?" He asked, looking at Deacon.

Deacon held his fingers up, "Two shots of whiskey, please." He looked at Rayna, "What do you want?"

Rayna bit her lip—she'd only started having wine with Tandy this past year, sneaking it when their father wasn't home. Sometimes, she'd sneak a glass by herself, when she was trying to write a song. She'd had tequila in a margarita at a party once, and she didn't hate it.

She smiled shyly, "Tequila?"

Deacon nodded, "And two shots of tequila."

When the bartender returned, and slid the 4 glasses in front of them, Rayna noticed a group of girls in the corner of the bar staring at Deacon. She rolled her eyes when she caught one of them sneering at her. The bartender placed two glasses of water in front of them.

Rayna looked back at Deacon, who was picking up a shot glass. He raised it slightly to her. Following suit, Rayna picked one of hers up and did the same.

"To an amazing show," Deacon said, thrusting his glass towards hers.

She nodded as their glasses clinked, and she watched Deacon tip his glass to his mouth, downing the shot.

She followed suit, but as the alcohol hit her tongue, she sputtered a bit, eventually swallowing, and trying not to gag. Her eyes were watering, and when she looked at Deacon his shoulders were shaking with laughter.

"Shut up!" She eked out, her breath still nearly gone from the alcohol.

His eyes were shining as he looked at her, "Don't do this very often, huh?"

"What gave me away?" She said, clearing her throat. Her belly felt warm, even as her throat burned.

Deacon chuckled, "You don't have to take that second one if you don't want to." Deacon smirked a little, "You know…If you can't."

Rayna narrowed her eyes at him, but she was smiling. "Oh, is that right?" She asked, picking up the second shot glass. She lifted it to him briefly, before bringing it to her lips. Knowing what to expect now, she tipped her head back, taking it in one swallow. She set the glass on the bar, turned to look at Deacon, and licked her lips, the alcohol there burning her tongue.

"Impressive," He said, raising his own glass to his lips. After he finished, he set his shot glass on the bar, and folded his arms over his chest, swiveling on the stool to face her properly.

Her throat still burning from the alcohol, she swallowed, and then she cocked her head to the side, "How'd you meet Watty, anyway?"

Deacon chuckled, "He didn't tell you?"

Rayna shook her head, laughing a little, "He didn't tell me anything about you, really."

Deacon smiled, "Watty saw me busking. Dropped a dollar in my guitar case, then told me I was the next Johnny Cash."

Rayna raised her eyebrows, "Did he now?"

Deacon laughed, "No. Not quite. But he did say I knew my way around the guitar, and that I should come by and see him." He shrugged, "So, I did."

"So you did." She chuckled, "Luckily for me." She bit her lip a little, and then smiled.

Deacon cleared his throat, swiveling slightly on the barstool. "So, Rayna Jaymes," He asked, "What made you want to be a singer?"

Rayna ran her finger along the edge of her empty shot glass. She shrugged, "It's one of my earliest memories, actually—or just one of my best ones, I guess. Listening to Rose Colored Glasses with my momma when I was six years old. I would sing along, and she'd just smile at me with this…" Rayna squinted her eyes a little bit, remembering, "Look on her face. A combination of wonder, awe… and pride. I just knew right then I wanted to spend the rest of my life chasing that look."

Deacon tilted his head, "From her?"

Rayna nodded, "From her… from everyone, really. I just… wanted to make people feel something." She laughed, "Does that sound dumb?" She noticed how her tongue felt loose grabbing onto her words.

He shook his head, "It really, really doesn't."

She lifted the glass of water to her lips and took a sip—"What about you? Did you always know you wanted to play guitar and sing?" She asked, setting her water back down on the bar.

Rayna watched as something passed over his eyes as he grew quiet, then cleared his throat, "No. I mean, not really." He paused, "I mostly spent a lot of time thinking about what I didn't want to be when I grew up."

Rayna reached out and played with the condensation on her water glass, "What do you mean?"

Deacon considered her before taking a sip of his water, "You ever just see someone… see something and think… that is exactly what I don't want to be?" He looked down at the bar, tapped his fingers on the surface.

Rayna thought about her father—she'd spent years craving his affection, only to realize it was something he couldn't really give her. Not the way she needed him to, anyway. She remembered thinking she would never withhold her love like that, not from her children, not from anyone. Rayna thought about Tandy—about how, as much as she loved her sister, Tandy embodied everything Rayna was fighting so hard against.

Rayna's head felt light, as she reached her hand out and placed it gently on his arm, "I have, yes."

Deacon looked down at where her hand connected with his bare arm, and Rayna felt her stomach jump a little when he brought his eyes to meet hers again. He was looking at her so intently she felt the heat rise to her body, and she prayed it wouldn't make it to her face. She'd never felt like this before, so on edge and nervous around a man.

"That's what I spent my time dreaming about," He said, his voice low.

"In Natchez." She said, removing her hand from his arm.

He watched her fingers trail across his skin, and then he stared at her, "Yeah. In Natchez."

Rayna thought back to their first conversation together—remembered how she got the distinct impression that he was running from something. She got that impression again talking with him now, that he was running from something. She longed to tell him that he didn't need to run anymore. Though, if she was honest, she was running from something too. We can run together she wanted to tell him, from Natchez, from Belle Meade, from everything.

TBC