Dirty Little Secret by Jennifer Echols Read Free Book Online Page B

and I figured out who she was. The outsize breasts might be a put-on, but the Appalachian accent wasn’t.
    I hadn’t realized I’d earned such an emotional response from her after playing in her band once. I needed to get this outfit off as soon as possible and put my usual makeup back on to warn away good-hearted middle-aged country singers. And hunky teenage guitarists dressed like Buddy Holly. Feeling closed down over the past year had been awful, but it might actually have been more awful to think that music and this boy had opened me up. In a state of something like despair, I mumbled a good-bye to Dolly and slid into Ms. Lottie’s chair.
    “Uh-oh,” Ms. Lottie said, seeing my pouty expression in the mirror and sticking out her bottom lip in sympathy. “Did Sam steal your heart already? That’s got to be some kind of record, even for him.”
    I didn’t want to talk about it. I explained instead, “He and his dad got into an argument in the middle of the food court.”
    “Yeah, I’ve heard that about those two. I’ve seen it in here.” She nodded toward the empty lounge area, then lowered her voice. “Darren is a drinker when he doesn’t have a gig. He’s hard on Sam, and Sam is hard on him. I feel sorry for both of them. You run into that again and again in this town. So talented, and they’re their own worst enemy.” Shaking her head, she pulled out a few bobby pins and lifted my hair off.
    After she disassembled me, I stepped into the changing room, a cubicle with no ceiling. Way up on the wall hung a decorative poster left over from Borders. James Joyce frowned down at me, which made me feel even more naked as I pulled off my heavy costume. I glanced up at his creepy gaze behind his glasses and fought the urge to hide my bruised thigh under my circle skirt again.
    Then I paused, wearing only my black lace undies, and listened to the larger room on the other side of the partition. A banjo strummed. Ms. Lottie laughed. There was no guitar music, and there were none of Sam’s quips under his breath. Yet my body thought it could feel him there.
    Ms. Lottie’s commentary had made me wonder again about his argument with Mr. Hardiman, and his snide laughter when Mr. Hardiman said he was tired after working four hours. I’d thought Sam was just a handsome guy. Now that I knew he had problems at home, he was complicated and, in a twisted way, more intriguing.
    Which didn’t change the fact that he was gone.
    I’d almost forgotten his handkerchief in my circle skirt pocket.I pulled it out and examined it for the first time. It wasn’t stained with my makeup after all. It didn’t have his initials embroidered on it, either. It was just a store-bought square—I marveled briefly that a shop still sold these—and any sweat on it was mine, not his. I didn’t have to cling to it like he was a rock star.
    Rolling my eyes at myself, I pulled on my tight jeans, stuffed Sam’s handkerchief into my snug pocket, and ducked into a tighter T-shirt. Emerging into Ms. Lottie’s area, I scrubbed my face clean and started over with my makeup for the third time that day. While Ms. Lottie deconstructed the fake boobs of a banjo player who’d followed Dolly around that day, she kept glancing over at me, carefully maintaining a neutral expression as I applied my black mascara, liquid eyeliner, and blood-red lipstick. The ponytail wig and four hours of sweat had matted my hair. I brushed it out and fluffed my curls until they hung correctly, longer on one side and jet-black all over. Then grabbed my purse and fiddle case and bailed out of Borders.
    Out on the loading dock, the summer heat hit me like a rock, and the evening sunlight blinded me. I couldn’t see, but I could hear a guitar to the left. Blinking and then opening one eye, I recognized Sam on the retaining wall. The pompadour was gone, his hair damp. Without all the gel or whatever Ms. Lottie had used to stick it together, his hair was surprisingly wavy and