Her Rock Star Mountain Man (Elken Grove Mountain Men Book 2), page 1
Her Rock Star Mountain Man
Elken Grove Mountain Men Book 2
by
Ella Braeme
Her Rock Star Mountain Man
by
Ella Braeme
© 2024 Ella Braeme
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher. For information, contact the author at: ella@ellabraeme.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. You will not find the town of Elken Grove, GA on any map—unless you draw it yourself.
Cover photograph: Andrei Bandarchyk
Editing: Susan Keillor
Chapter 1
The lights dim as the last stagehand vanishes into the wings. There is no music yet, but the audience’s murmur starts to quiet. I’ve never been to a concert of Tawpie Tantrum before, and hardly know anything about them, but for their music, which had been running almost non-stop on my stereo for weeks. I go to live gigs as often as I can. The hope for a great concert is making me giddy and I can’t help rubbing my hands together. I’m glad we’ve shelled out for first row seats in the side section, not too far from the stage.
Gradually, the lights on stage become brighter and illuminate the positions the band will take in a couple of minutes.
I love this moment. Everything is possible right now. This might very well be the best concert I’m ever going to attend. I might be blown away by the music. This might be a life-altering night.
I relish this anticipation just before the concert. And it’s not just me. Right now, it feels like the entire audience is with me on this.
“I’ll get myself a soda. You want any?”
Of course, a moment like this is wasted on Brittney. My sister-in-law is a good friend but has zero sensitivity for awe. Or whatever it is that I feel right now.
“Get me a water, will you?” Amanda asks. Today, she is wearing her hair in some crazy curls, like right out of a hair product ad. This should look terrible, but not with Amanda. Her confident smile makes me question my choice of clothes. Blue jeans, white shirt, and a brown leather jacket, my ash blonde hair undone—nobody would take me for a style icon. I have to look put together in my job. No way am I putting much thought into my appearance in my spare time. Only women like Amanda with their impeccable sense of style make me wish I was snazzier.
Just as Brittney squeezes past me to get to the concession stand, a member of the band appears on stage. The lights change color and start swirling, as the Black guy sits behind the drums. The audience welcomes him with applause and cheering. Very softly, he begins a solo.
Drum solos are not really my thing. I guess I’m more the melody kind of girl and that rhythm is lost on me once it is by itself. But this here is a surprise. The drummer plays that ba-dum-tss in many variations, outdoing themselves, mocking one another. I’m not sure this is a thing, but it most definitely sounds like it.
After a few minutes of blissful drum solo, another man walks on stage. He puts his horn to his lips and soon, the two instruments engage in a playful duel. I can’t stop grinning. This is so good!
“This is good.”
The seats jolt as Brittney flops next to me. She offers me a water bottle I had not requested. Sometimes, things like that make her a wonderful friend. Now, though, it irks me as it takes from the moment.
I hear background vocals, and as the light changes again, it reveals three singers standing upstage, two women in silvery dresses and a man in black pants and a shirt of that same silvery fabric. They are moving gracefully, thus emphasizing their singing. The entire stage setup is visually as alluring as the music.
“Ooh, I’d love me some drummer.” Amanda points at the young man skillfully twirling his sticks and working his drums with his entire body. Sweat makes his skin glisten in the limelight. How can he go through the concert if he exerts himself this much in the very first song?
Brittney makes a howling sound. “Okay, you can have him. I take the hornist.”
Interesting. With his long, wavy hair and his slender body, he is about as different from my brother as someone can be. I feel the need to protect Carson, and so I point out, “You’re married.”
“Yeah, so? A girl can dream.” Brittney winks at me and keeps dancing in her seat in that slightly exaggerated way, like she had to make sure everybody knew she had a good time.
I’m not comfortable with this conversation and try to focus on the music.
“Who are you gonna pick?” Amanda asks.
I’m about to say, “Nobody,” when another man steps on stage. He is much taller than his band mates and wears himself with an easy confidence that makes me edgy. He is broad-shouldered and looks just like the kind of man who could put a spell on me—I’ve always had a penchant for the lumberjack physique. I notice a pressure on my chest, like my heart is beating erratically.
The man wears leather pants and a shiny, see-through tunic that emphasizes his toned body more than it cloaks it. He slides the belt of his guitar around his neck. With a quick motion, he swipes some of his longish dark strands behind the ear and checks the plug.
The pulsating rhythm of the drum and the titillating timbre of the horn echo through the arena, but it is the guitarist who had not even started playing that held my attention. I just couldn’t ignore that spark of a connection.
“Ooh, somebody likes the picker.” Brittney jokingly elbows me. I wave her off dismissively, but that only makes her and Amanda break out in laughter.
Determined not to pay attention to their antics, I intently watch what is happening on stage. And yeah, by that I mean I watch the guitarist. He nods a few times to get into the rhythm and finally begins to play.
I love guitars. They talk to me. I know this sounds stupid, and I am no good at anything to do with music in the first place. My father always says that I am tone deaf, and that might very well be. I couldn’t hold a tune if my life depended on it, and I sucked at music lessons. But once I decided that I don’t care a fig about what good music is and whether people laugh at me enjoying it, I now am free to listen to whatever I want and to spend all my money on concerts. It makes me come alive. And guitars do talk to me. Not all of them, of course. It depends on who plays it. This one here is outright eloquent. I listen, captivated, song after song, ensnared by the instrument. Or its player if that makes a difference at all. Watching him is almost as bewitching as listening to his guitar and I wish we had gone for front-of-stage tickets so I could see him better. He walks around the stage, dances, jumps, or in some instances, just stands still. In these moments, it looks like he was listening, too. The stage lights bathe the band in a kaleidoscope of colors and gives them a mysterious air. Maybe it is just a trick of the lights, but one time I actually had the impression he smiled and winked at me.
I feel a closeness to him, and that is futile. I bet everybody in the stadium does. Still, it feels real and makes me yearn. Like a rock star would ever look at me.
Chapter 2
When I decided to lick my wounds back at my parents’ place after everything that went down in Nashville, I hadn’t imagined it would be like this. Of course, they had told me about all the changes they had made to the business. I just never believed it would affect home.
But it does. All the heavy machinery is gone, not even the deep ruts from the tires left. The unsightly barn has been replaced by a small park with a swing set. That should feel good, ugly as the barn had been. But I feel nostalgic about its loss.
My cabin is gone, too. I had cleared it for demolition, so it is no surprise. Yet, seeing a beautiful new cabin with white shutters in place of my old one stings. Like my brothers, I was gifted a plot and materials to build my own place at my coming of age. Lacking both Lyle’s craftsmanship and Finn’s effortless dedication, my cabin had been a means to an end: parties and overnight guests. A haphazardly assembled shack sufficed.
And now that it is gone, I suddenly find myself caring. Lyle’s has been turned into a tourist cabin, as he lives in town with his fiancée. Only Finn still occupies his. Envy gnaws at me, and I rub my sternum, reminding myself that I consented to all these changes. No one betrayed me. Nobody pulled a fast one on me.
I exit the car and haul my luggage into the cabin. It’s a stunning place, befitting the luxury resort my parents are transforming their timber business into. The only thing they’re keeping is the Christmas tree farm.
The furnishings are surprisingly modern. I would’ve guessed Ma would go for a more rustic vibe, but it’s as if it jumped right out of a design magazine. The bedroom boasts the largest bed I’ve ever seen. And, having been on tour now for years, and having stayed in innumerable hotels, I have seen plenty of big beds.
In the bathroom, a glass door leads to a sauna. My parents are indeed taking the luxury route. It’s March though, and although the nights still can freeze, I doubt I’ll use it much.
Resentment builds up. I came here because I assumed everything still is the same, while outside, the world is mad at me. I need to play it low, or as my manager had put it, “Get off the effing planet.” She warned me to stay hidden for at least a month. To not get into the news until she told me to. So unless she comes with a camera team, I have to make sure there is nothing newsworthy about me. Nothing good, nothing bad, just nothing. Kat had a mean look on her face when she said that. So I will do my best to not even be on this planet until grass grows over this thing.
My hometown of Elken Grove is about as off the planet as one possibly could get without actually going into space. But I crave home, and all I get is another luxury accommodation.
Again, I remind myself of the dwindling profit margins in timber, and that the income after all the expenses and taxes yada-yada-yada. What would I know about this? Although timber prices are picking up again, Pa has had it. “I’m done, boys.” I remember the tiredness in his voice when he said that. I am not begrudging my parents for turning their life around for what’s better for them. I just hope I can make that turn, too.
I walk over to the main house, freshly painted and picturesque. A new flower bed encircles the wrap-around porch. This will look very nice in summer, once the plants have grown and sport blooming flowers.
Inside, the hall, stripped of family portraits and clutter, now hosts a reception desk in the corner. The living room has been converted into a communal lounge—elegant, but not home. I hear noises from the kitchen, so I go there. I stand unnoticed in the doorway, absorbing the changes. There is a fancy coffee-maker and a giant smoothie mixer. Above the sideboard, there are our photos. So they haven’t been trashed, just taken out of sight of the general public.
Ma is sitting at the table with her back to me and chops veggies. “I really think we should offer a daily teatime,” she says. “We could get cookies and the like from Caffeine Drip and have a self-serving coffee station in the lounge.”
“Even more extra work,” my father says. I take another step into the room and see him toweling glasses. “But you’re right. It would be nice to have one time of day where people can regularly meet.”
“Right? And we’d hear more about what our guests like. Some would not complain about grievances the cabin might give them. But with a cup of coffee in hand, they might casually talk about it.”
That’s my mother. Afraid that people would complain less than they should. Bless her. I just hope the guests won’t make her lose that mindset.
“So you think that one of us—” Pa sees me and his eyes sparkle. “Rory!”
Ma jumps up and envelops me in one of her fierce hugs. “You’re here!”
So, this feels like home. My parents might change their business, but not themselves. I close my eyes and sigh.
“Long drive?” my father asks and plucks my hat off my head to put it on the sideboard. If I’ve forgotten about the no-hat-in-the-house rule, I must have been away for too long.
“Not too long, no.” It’s less than four hours from Nashville. “Where is everybody?”
“We’re here.” Pa points between Ma and him.
Ma smiles. “You mean Lyle and Finn? They are working. I guess Finn will be around sometime soon.”
Pa tilts his head. “You are aware that they don’t live with us anymore, aren’t you?”
“Sure. It’s just so quiet.”
Pa rolls his eyes. “Thank the Lord for that,” he mumbles.
There is somebody at the front door, and right after, we hear a knock at the kitchen door.
“May I?” The newcomer is a stranger to me.
“Sure, Mr. Jeffries. Can I offer you coffee?” Ma is already hustling with a cup.
“Coffee would be nice.”
“That’s our youngest, Rory.” Pa points at me.
Shit. I have not thought this through. Showing my mug to strangers was not what Kat had in mind when she told me to stay hidden.
Luckily, the stranger doesn’t recognize me. He takes a sip of the coffee, sighs, and says, “I’m afraid this resort is less relaxing than we had hoped for.”
“Oh my, what can we do to help?” Ma’s eyes are wide, and concern is written all over her round face.
“The dog…”
“She’s just a barker, that’s all,” Pa interrupts. “She is no danger to anyone.”
“Of that, I am sure. It’s the barking. Every morning. It’s hard to enjoy having the time to sleep in, when there is a dog like that around.”
I open my mouth to say something, but Ma cuts me off. “I understand. And I appreciate your patience.”
“Well, that’s just… We decided to leave early. The car is packed, and my wife is waiting outside.”
Pa takes him to the reception to return the money for the nights to come and Ma plops onto a chair heavily. “That’s the third party that’s left early because of Lilly.”
“Lilly is no barker,” I defend my old friend. “She is as sweet as they get.”
“Things change. Lilly did.” Ma closes her eyes. She looks tired. “I’m afraid we will have to re-home her. To somewhere far, far away from people who like to sleep in.”
“We can’t do that. She’s never been like this and I…”
“You don’t know her anymore. She has changed.”
“Where is she?”
“In our bedroom. We have to keep her away from people or else she’ll bark at them.”
“Ma! You can’t lock her in a room the whole day long.”
“We can’t let her out either. She’ll approach anyone in sight and barks at them: the construction crew, tourists, deliveries, guests—just anybody. And once started, she won’t stop, even after the person has left. She just keeps on barking.”
“That doesn’t sound like Lilly.”
“I know. It’s like she isn’t the same dog anymore.”
We got Lilly when I was in my senior year at high school. I had been the one to name her. Heck, I even decided we’d have a Bernese mountain dog in the first place. My brothers already lived in their own places, so Lilly basically had been my dog until I left to make music and returned just for the holidays.
“I’ll take care of her for as long as I’m here.” I let Lilly out of the room and put a leash on her. Only then does she start wiggling her butt and squealing to greet me. Funny, didn’t she recognize me before?
“I’ll have dinner in town. See you tomorrow, Ma!” I call before I close the front door behind me. I know it’s not nice to leave like that, but I am upset about the way they treat Lilly. I take her on a long walk into town and back. The entire time she does not bark even once, which makes me think that my parents must be doing something wrong. Lilly is the sweetest dog ever.
When we arrive at my cabin, Lilly goes straight for the bed and scrambles up. She falls asleep instantly and soon emits low snoring sounds. She is a picture of pure innocence. How dare anyone complain about her!
♥♥♥
Woof. My eyes snap open. It’s pitch black. Woof. I look at the alarm. 4:34 am. Woof. This is way too early to get up. Woof. I pull the blanket over my ears. As if that would help. Woof.
“Shh, Lilly. It’s okay.” I reach out to pet her, but she isn’t in bed anymore. She stands in front of the glass door that leads out to the patio and barks into the darkness.
I get up and look out. There is nothing to see. I strain to hear anything, but the only sound is Lilly’s deep bark. I open the door to let her out, but she keeps standing in place and barks.
I am literally scratching my head, unsure of what to do. Returning to bed sounds tempting, but I wouldn’t be able to catch another hour of sleep. Not with that barking. So I make myself a coffee. Sipping it, I remember that just two nights ago, I didn’t even get into bed before this time. A musician’s life unfolds at night.
With my sleep rhythm disrupted anyhow, I dress fully and take Lilly for a walk. As soon as her leash is fastened to her collar, she is quiet and eager to come with me. We take the trail along the lake. It’s quiet but for the night sounds. The leaves rustle with movement from some nocturnal critters. The call of the chuck-will’s-widow echoes around us. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out at night. In the woods, I mean. City nights are something else—exciting, flashy, and filled with loud music.
Here, it is way quieter, darker, and lonelier. I hope there aren’t any bears around. I’m not used to this anymore and forgot to bring pepper spray with me—in March, when bears emerge after months of hibernation and are hungry. I realize I have lost all my outdoor skills while touring the world.
