Seth sighs as Luke fumbles the lyric and hits the wrong string.
Lowering his fiddle, he locks worried eyes with Jace. They’ve been at this for the last two hours. For the last two hours Luke’s had his head in the goddamn clouds. Frazzled as hell when he’d thundered into the basement recording studio, pissed as fuck about Clive Jasper cornering Sal outside of therapy.
Seth gets it. He’s pissed too. Pissed at this whole goddamn situation Mort’s gotten them into.
Because as much as Seth hates to admit it—Luke fuckin’ sucks.
He’s giving practice his best shot, but he ain’t anywhere near where he used to be.
“Shit,” Luke swears, taking a wary step away from the microphone.
After getting a brow raise from Jace, Seth swirls a finger. The action feels strange. He’s unused to being in charge. Luke’s the frontman. But until his brother can do it, Seth will.
Hell, he thought Luke was nearly there. Since Sal’s been home, Luke’s gone from walking around in a drunken stupor every day to looking like he’ll conquer the world for Sal.
“Let’s pick it up again,” Seth says.
Only Luke doesn’t.
Looking awkward and unhappy holding his guitar, he leans it against the wall. Seth reckons it’s probably the first time he’s touched the busted instrument in the last year. While Emmy Lou was cleaning the house for Sal’s arrival, she found the guitar buried in the garage and then gently rehomed it in the baby’s room.
Two things lost, confined to one sad, lonely place.
“Sorry, boys,” Luke says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “My head ain’t in this.”
Jace stills his bass. “You’re tryin’ to break your string in half, man.”
“I know.” Luke paces around the studio. “We gotta play one song and play it right. How hard can it fuckin’ be?”
“Apparently pretty goddamn hard because you’re playin’ like shit,” Seth mutters.
Luke tosses Seth a dry look.
Jace shakes his head, ignoring Seth. “We ain’t gotta do this, Luke.”
Seth leans back against the wall. “You like career suicide, Jace? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
“Seth’s right,” Luke says to Jace. “It’s the Opry. We can’t back out.”
They’d never play again if they backed out. Not with all the strings Mort pulled. Their shaky nine-month hiatus would be permanent. The Opry would see to it.
“Besides,” Luke says pointedly to Jace, “you need this. We’re doin’ it.”
A guilty look crosses Jace’s face.
Seth nods. “Absolutely, man.”
Jace may grate on his nerves at times, but Seth feels for the guy. No way in hell they’re sending Jace and Emmy Lou down the river. Fourteen years they’ve been playing, and it doesn’t end like this.
To Seth’s surprise, Luke picks up his guitar again. Determined to shake off his blues. Determined not to let his best friend or his band down. Settling himself on the worn leather couch, he strums a clumsy tune that Seth barely recognizes as “Homegrown Heart,” their first single.
Seth holds hope hard in his chest. He can see his brother getting lost in the music. Luke’s brain cranking on as his mind and fingers work in unison. Mentally flipping through the Brothers Kincaid discography, stopping now and then to play several licks from some of their most popular songs.
“That ain’t it,” Luke murmurs aloud, almost to himself.
He strums another. “Cryin’ Blue.”
Another. “Straight Arrow.”