Loving Dallas by Caisey Quinn Read Free Book Online

that I have to shout into the mic. We’ve found a rhythm for the most part, touring together for the past couple of months. But Lexington Wilks doesn’t have half the skill that Gavin Garrison does and yet he wants twice the attention.
    “I’m Dallas Walker and we’re gonna play some music for y’all tonight. We hope you like it.”
    I’m Dallas Lark and I have no idea who the fuck I’m trying to kid.
    My family surname mocks me from my inner right forearm when I let the first few chords of “Better to Burn” rip.
    Fake, it says. Traitor. Liar.
    The label thought the name Dallas Walker had a nicer ring to it so after the unsigned artists tour, they dropped my last name as if were an unwanted appendage that could be hacked off.
    I belt out a song my sister wrote and try to engage the audience. I don’t think about how much I wish I could glance over and see her playing her fiddle next to me. And I don’t nod to the drummer who I know always has my back. My sister and that drummer aren’t here.
    Trying my best not to pay attention to the fact that I haven’t written a complete song in nearly three years, I make eye contact with a few women in the front row. One gives me a huge smile and holds up her phone so I wink.
    With every song, the seats continue to fill and all I can think is Holy shit. This is my life.
    It’s surreal, the way the lights glow against the jagged outcrops. The crowd is rising up in front of me and it’s as if the amphitheater itself just appeared in the middle of the rocks.
    It feels . . . bigger than me.
    Singing my sister’s lyrics in this setting brings my past into my present. I can almost feel her here onstage with me, just as I can sometimes feel my parents and my grandparents even though they’re gone. They live on in me—this gift they gave me allowing me to live my dream keeps them alive as long as I’m playing.
    No matter how confident I seem on the outside, on the inside there was always this fear—this voice of self-doubt that said I’d never make it and that I should’ve just settled down in Amarillo and gotten a regular job like the rest of the world. But when I hear a few girls in the front singing along with some of my songs, and the stubborn spirit of the men who raised me fills my soul, the music takes over. The energy from the audience and the amphitheater is alive, fueling the show I put on. By the time I finish my set to a stadium full of applause, I can’t hear that voice of self-doubt anymore.

 
    8 | Robyn
    T HERE SHOULD BE A RULE ABOUT EX- BOYFRIENDS. T HEY SHO ULD have to get fat. Or bald. Or just . . . boring. Something.
    They should not be allowed to become sexy country music singers who put their perfect bodies on display while singing seductive ballads on stage night after night.
    Seriously.
    His voice booms through the amphitheater like a seductive lightning show. Crew members chat around me, equipment is moved from one place to another, vendors bring in more booze, but all I hear is him. The man who used to sing just for me. The one who let me belt out my favorite songs in the car as loud as my heart desired.
    The hypnotic sound of his voice lures me toward the stage, where I stand captivated through the first half of his set.
    After Dallas’s first few songs, I do my best to shake off the dreamlike reverie his singing caused and return to the Midnight Bay display to make sure fans are still getting pictures with the Jase Wade cutout and the lit-up bottles. They made one for Dallas, too; it’s to the right of the display and while there aren’t as many people stopping to take a photo with it, the ones who do are female. And gorgeous. And making entirely audible comments about his ass in those jeans and how sexy and intense his eyes are.
    After roughly the fifteenth comment about Dallas, I can’t take much more.
    “What do you say we just pack it up?” I smile at Katie and Drew. “I think we’re good for tonight.”
    Katie gives me a