Sweet Seduction Serenade Read online

  Sweet Seduction Serenade

  Book Two in the Sweet Seduction Series

  By Nicola Claire

  Copyright © 2013, Nicola Claire

  All Rights Reserved

  Kindle Edition

  ISBN: 978-0-473-23573-4

  http://nicolaclaire.blog.com/

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  More books by Nicola Claire:

  Kindred Series

  Kindred

  Blood Life Seeker

  Forbidden Drink

  Giver of Light

  The View From Here: Volume I

  Dancing Dragon

  Shadow's Light

  Entwined With The Dark

  Mixed Blessing Mystery Series

  Mixed Blessing

  Sweet Seduction Series

  Sweet Seduction Sacrifice

  For:

  All those romantics who like

  a little Garth Brooks in their life.

  And for my sister, who introduced me

  to Garth Brooks all those years ago.

  (Oh, and of course, for Garth Brooks himself -

  my Sweet Seduction Serenade muse).

  Songs that influenced Sweet Seduction Serenade

  Every author will tell you that they are influenced by something when a story forms in their head. Everyday life, a trigger they've seen or heard or read. We live in a world so full of stimulation, that there is bound to be something that makes it through and settles in our hearts.

  Garth Brooks was the influence for me whilst writing Serenade. I'd listened to him when I was younger, then moved away and found other artists that made me soar. But found him again when I decided I'd write a story about a singer and how music featured in her life. I chose Country and returned to my all time favourite Country singer: Garth Brooks.

  The songs that featured the most on my MP3 player as I wrote this book, were from his Ropin' The Wind and The Ultimate Hits albums.

  And appear below in no particular order:

  Burning Bridges written by Garth Brooks and Stephanie C. Brown

  Which One of Them written by Garth Brooks

  Shameless written by Billy Joel

  Cold Shoulder written by Garth Brooks, Kent Blazy and Kim Willaims

  Rodeo written by Larry Bastian

  The Thunder Rolls written by Garth Brooks and Pat Algar

  The Dance written by Tony Arata

  Wrapped Up In You written by Wayne Kirkpatrick

  Standing Outside The Fire written by Garth Brooks and Jenny Yates

  I've Got Friends In Low Places written by DeWayne Blackwell and Earl Bud Lee.

  I'd like to put a big shout-out to this talented artist and those who wrote these beautiful songs. They really did soothe my ragged soul.

  Thanks, from this wannabe cowgirl-in-the-rodeo-ring.

  Chapter 1

  The Night Before I Left For Nashville, Tennessee

  "Eva! Get your arse in here, I can't make the commode!"

  I let a long breath of air out on a sigh. There were definitely better ways to wake up. Hell there were better ways to torture yourself, but I was obviously a glutton for punishment.

  "You hear me, girl? You deaf or somethin'?"

  I rubbed a hand over my face and pushed my tangle of tumble-weed hair off my face. If I had time, I'd brush it, like I did every morning and night back home. But since I've been here, I haven't had time for a lot of things. Today, that would change.

  "Eva!"

  "I'm coming, Dad. Hold your horses."

  "Ah, it's too late, girl. I've gone and messed the bed."

  Ah darn. It was enough to make a cowgirl cry and we don't cry easily.

  I stumbled out of bed and hit the play button on my MP3 player, the Dixie Chick's Cowboy Take Me Away started blaring out of the portable speakers from beside my bed. If I was going to have to clean up my father's mess, I needed a little encouragement.

  Bypassing the multiple towers of Lipton Tea boxes down either side of the central hall of his council flat, I slipped into the bathroom and raided the newly purchased cleaning gear I'd stashed in the cupboard there. Clean sheets, warm soapy water and a sponge, I braced for the task ahead.

  "Number ones or number twos?" I asked cheerfully as I walked into his dimly lit bedroom. I could smell the ammonia from out in the hall. His bladder had to have been full.

  "Just wees, girl. You're lucky this time," he grumbled uncharitably from his slumped position on the bed.

  "Okey dokey then," I said with false bravado as I prepared a clean towel on the seat beside his bed and helped him move across to it, managing to removed his sodden night wear in the process. "You sponge yourself down, while I deal with the sheets," I suggested.

  "What, I gotta clean myself too? What good are you then, girl?"

  "If you like, I can leave it up to Gabe. Or maybe your latest girlfriend? Where is she anyway?" Great and now I felt guilty for biting back. I shook my head in disgust at myself. My father had always been a no-hoper, skank-loving, barely-present parent as I grew up, but the man was dying of cancer. The least I could do was see out his final days with a smile on my face.

  "You know damn well that Gabe'd be here if he could. The light of my life that boy. Bloody saint."

  Yeah, a real saint, currently spending five to eight behind the fortified walls of Mt Eden Prison for car theft and possession of cannabis for supply. And like he'd be wiping our father's bum or tucking him in at night if he wasn't.

  "And Sharon left me," Dad mumbled, chucking the now used sponge back in the bowl.

  I stood upright from the bed. "I'm sorry, Dad."

  He grunted, then added, "I'm cold. Grab me some clothes."

  I helped him into clean underwear and clothes and then made him use his walker to head out to the lounge, while I finished off in the room. Disinfectant makes him feel nauseous, so I have to use a splash of lemon and vinegar to get rid of the smell, with copious amounts of hot soapy water. In the three months that I've been back I've picked up a trick or two. Shame these skills won't help me land a recording contract.

  I threw the dirty laundry into the washer and came out to prepare his breakfast and make sure he took his meds. We had a routine going, it wasn't much, but it worked. I was slowly chucking out all the crap accumulated over the past fifteen years of hoarding anything and everything, detail cleaning his house in the process, all the while feeding him and making his last months, if not comfortable, then at least liveable.

  What he wanted with over three hundred full boxes of Lipton Tea I did not know, but convincing him that they were a fire hazard in the house and needed to be stored in the shed out back took six weeks. They were on my list to scrap tomorrow. Whatever made it to the "shed" never saw that light of day again. So far I'd discarded seven-hundred-and-twenty-eight dog-eared magazines and faded newspapers. Twenty 50 watt light bulbs, thirty 75 watt light bulbs and a whopping great big ninety-three 100 watt light bulbs. Broken toasters, sandwich presses and kettles coming out the wazoo. A room full of moth eaten hand knitted jerseys. Fourteen battery operated transistor radios. Nineteen boxes of 'C' sized batteries to go in them. Five cases of bottled water. Three boxes of canned goods, labels all peeled off. And, the hardest of all, twenty-one underfed, flea bitten, cats.

  It had been a hard, long three months.

  But toni
ght I would break free of the monotony, even treat myself to a mini-makeover; body lotion, make-up, the works. And sing.

  First, I needed to make sure Aunty Jessie was still on for father sitting duty.

  I settled Dad at the table with his breakfast and pulled out my cellphone to dial my aunt. Dad's sister was just as low-rent as him, but she loved her brother and baby sitting him on the weekend was the only thing she'd willingly do that helped me. She did it for Dad, of course. Not her niece who was too big for her cowgirl boots and left the trailer-trash life, they all lived, behind eight years ago.

  "What do ya want?" came Jessie's dulcet toned answer to her phone ringing down the line.

  "Hey, Aunty Jessie, it's Eva."

  "Yeah?" she grunted in reply.

  "You still on for tonight?" I asked, making sure I didn't sound too desperate. If she had an inkling of how important tonight was for me, she'd ditch baby sitting duty, her love of her dear brother or not.

  "Yeah, said I would, didn't I? I'll be there, Miss Hoity-Toity. Better make sure you leave me some food this time, your friggin' pantry was bare last week. Had to go get me some food from the corner store, your poor father was beside himself by the time I came back."

  I frowned down at the floor. There'd been food. $330 dollars worth to be precise, purchased that morning by me. What there hadn't been was ciggies. And alcohol. And any other mood altering product she decided she simply had to have right then and there.

  "There'll be food, Aunty Jessie. I made sure," I said meekly. There was no point riling her, she'd only turn up three hours late, or not at all. I had to be there on time, the guys were counting on me. Besides, Gen was opening the store especially, so we could sound test for a couple of hours to make sure the gig worked for us and her.

  "Right then," she muttered. "Fuck off!" Then the phone went dead.

  "Eva!"

  "I'm right here, Dad," I said wearily.

  "Get me some more tea, girl! A man could die of thirst with you around!"

  "Coming right up."

  I spent the rest of the day clearing out the back porch, which Dad had somehow turned into a depository for broken china and bent utensils. Not to mention a spider's perfect habitat. Three-hundred-and-forty-one pieces of crockery, six-hundred-and-three single pieces of cutlery, and over one thousand spiders - I was sure - later, and I was done.

  Dad had eaten his lunch out on the back lawn, listening to Eden Terrace on a Saturday afternoon and the odd staunchly resistant bird in the Rimu trees nearby. I liked him to get a bit of sun, but being winter it had been hard. Today shone bright and clear however, so lunch out on the back lawn in his wheelchair it was.

  By five in the evening he was waning, I wasn't feeling much better, but I still had several more hours of work ahead of me. At least the type of work I had planned, though, would make me soar.

  I settled him into the couch with another cup of tea to watch the early news, while I took the opportunity to shower and finally brush my wayward hair. I'd cut it off, if I could, but Country singers tend to do better in Nashville if they have luscious long locks. Mine aren't necessarily luscious, or at least I don't think so, but it does come as far down as the top of my rear. Auburn, my best mate from home, Cary, calls it. He says the lights on stage make it glisten and sparkle, a halo fit for a cowgirl princess. Of course, I hide it beneath my Bullhide tan leather cowgirl hat, not to mention braid it in a thick plait down my back. Cary always teases me when I perform with my hair tied back. I reached for my hair tie now and in a fit of delusional rebellion decided I'd let it go natural tonight. If there was any hint Gen didn't want us to perform, maybe the hair would make her think twice.

  I snorted at that thought. Genevieve Cain had the most beautiful dark blonde hair, gorgeous face and to-die-for body. But she didn't know it. I'd doubt she even looked at peoples' appearances. Gen's a see-right-through-to-the-soul kind of woman. My soul was OK, I think. I'm not a bad person, I just walked away when it finally got too hard. That's all.

  I sighed and reached for my body lotion. I hadn't had much time to use it since I got back, too busy with Dad and his over-stuffed house. Oh, how I missed my peaches and cream. I spent a little extra time massaging it in, making up for neglecting my skin for the past three months. A smattering of make-up, just enough to make sure the lights don't turn me yellow, and my cute little cowgirl dress with matching almost knee high boots. To really get the attention of the male portion of a crowd, you had to show a bit of leg. Some went for tight booties in jeans, but most men want to see skin. It's all part of the show. But I do love this dress. Dark brown, to complement the tan hat and boots, with tan stitching. Short sleeves, piped collar, and an embroidered design coming up from my breasts and framing the collar itself. The final touch was a horse shoe leather belt cinching my waist tight, making the skirt flare out well above my knee.

  Thanks to sunny Nashville, I still had a tan, even though I'd been here for three months, I was blessed with maintaining good colour year through. Eight years in Tennessee’s temperate climate, low rainfall environment, had paid off nicely with a deep base tan that lasted. Any skin I showed was a nice golden brown.

  I heard Aunty Jessie out in the lounge, surprisingly she was early. Miracles never ceased. I finished getting ready, grabbed my guitar case, wallet and cellphone, and headed out for hopefully a brief farewell.

  Of course, my luck never goes like that, does it?

  "What the fuck are you wearing, Evangeline Rowe?" Jessie demanded, plump hands on her broad floral material covered hips. "You gonna let her go out like that, Ray?" she demanded of my Dad.

  Dad just flicked a glance over his tea at me and shrugged. Yeah, I could count on my Dad to not give two flying fucks about what I wear. The only plus side to a negligent parent; they don't care how short your dress is, or how much make-up you do or don't wear. As long as dinner is served and Dad's got his Lipton Tea, he's all set.

  "I don't know what they wear over in that Country and Western town you been living in," Jessie said County and Western like it was a bug stuck to the bottom of her shoe, "but in Auckland City we're a bit more sophisticated." She said sophisticated with a broad Kiwi accent, so it sounded more like suhphustuhcaited. It kind of ruined the meaning a bit.

  "I'll be home around midnight. If you need anything I've got my cell, but I may not be able to answer it immediately. It'll be noisy where I'm at," I said, ignoring Jessie's comments altogether. It was always easier to just pretend she hadn't spoken at all.

  "Where you going?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her ample bosom.

  "Catching up with some old school friends." Which was true, Gen and her best mate Kelly, went to school with me. I didn't hang in their group, but we had a few classes together. We knew each other, that's why when I'd heard she was looking for local musical talent to showcase in her store, I got in touch. It wasn't the sort of thing I'd normally go for, but Gen was cool in school. She never judged me by my second hand clothes, she never teased me about my trailer-trash mother and the trail of loser ex-boyfriends she left in her wake. She never asked me what my Dad did for a living, knowing darn well he was on the welfare. And when Gabe flunked year nine and had to sit it again, and then flunked that too, she never batted an eyelash. She just smiled, greeted me the same way every day, and often came to listen to me play guitar in the quadrangle during big break.

  Genevieve Cain always liked her music - and chocolate and coffee. Sweet Seduction was the perfect shop for her to own.

  I hadn't intended on setting up a band while I was here. My real band was on a forced break at the moment, what with me gone. But I really thought I'd be back in Nashville by now, Dad's cancer is an aggressive form of bowel cancer. There's no good prognosis, just the inevitable whenever it chooses to arrive. But three months in and he was clinging for life like snot to a fingernail. The man just wouldn't let go. When I turned up on his doorstep, having not seen him for eight years straight, he took it as a sign to dig up all the put-d
owns and cantankerous demands he'd missed out throwing my way over the years.

  We've got eight years of bad-tempered, insult-bearing, father-daughter lovin' to catch up on. He's darn well determined to get it all in.

  "Okey dokey then," I announced to the room. "Food's in the kitchen, my number's on the bench. Dad needs to be in bed by nine with his meds half an hour beforehand."

  "Yeah, yeah, Miss Hoity-Toity," Jessie waved me away. "I ain't incontinent."

  I blinked at her stupidity, but bit my tongue. It just wasn't worth correcting her.

  "See ya, Dad. Be good for Aunty Jessie."

  Dad made a grunting sound, but his attention was really on his tea and the TV, the rest of us had already been forgotten. Jessie was in for a riveting evening, but for some reason she worshipped the ground her brother walked on. Which was good for me.

  I skipped down the driveway and waited patiently for my taxi. I'd ordered it earlier, so hopefully it wouldn't be too much longer. I had a couple of minutes up my sleeve though, so unable to help myself, I opened my guitar case up and pulled out my baby. The first thing I bought when I arrived in Nashville, a Martin D28 Acoustic. Rosewood back and sides, spruce top and mahogany neck. It's the Dreadnought by which all others are judged.

  I strummed a few chords, tweaked the pegheads to get the right pitch, then started on my cover version of Garth Brook's Thunder Rolls. It's kind of my signature tune. I've even laid a track for it and sent it to a few of the local radio stations. I play it at all the gigs I perform at too. I get requests for it at some of the places I've frequented more than once. The guys and I will be playing it tonight. It always pays to get a little extra practice in though. I'd made it through the first and second verses, and was rocking the chorus, when the taxi pulled up. I stowed my guitar, waved out to the crowd of oldies who'd come out of their council flats to listen and slipped inside the car.

  Twenty minutes later we were pulling up outside Sweet Seduction on High Street, in the CBD.