Page 4 of Deacon

He had a natural magnetism that made everyone lean forward, drawn closer, enraptured by his libretto and musicality.

I scarcely moved in my booth, unable to tear my eyes off him, my pulse racing.

I was 21, but I was crushing hard like a high school girl as he and his mate Angel sang about love and loss. Also about broken promises scattered across dark highways and devastating heartbreak.

Their voices tangled together, one rough as whiskey, the other smooth as midnight silk.

They bled their hearts into those lyrics, baring every jagged edge of their souls without an ounce of shame.

They made pain sound like poetry, turning anguish into a sacred shared experience.

Deacon’s eyes kept finding me in the back, but I tamped down any ideas.

He couldn’t have spotted me in my dim corner, sipping my glass of cheap white wine.

Still, I stretched it as long as I could, so I’d keep listening to the magic notes from his sax.

I stayed until their final set wrapped up at 1 a.m. after two encores, encouraged by the audience’s uproarious cheers.

My eyes tracked the tall, beautiful man as the pair disappeared into the back of the bar, surrounded by a multitude of fans.

Even this late, the place was heaving, more than when I arrived.

Still dazed, I fought through the crowd and went to the barman to ask when Deacon would be playing next.

‘Not sure, love; it’s very loose when we book gigs, but Deacon’s ace. He and Angel are putting together a full band. Come back and check in a few weeks; they might be booked again.’

That was all he offered.

I cast one final glance and spotted Deacon’s tall silhouette at the other end of the bar, surrounded by clusters of fans.

With a sigh, I left.

My heart was still racing, so I wandered the streets of Nashville until dawn, unable to get the seductive saxophonist out of my mind.

Chapter 2

ANA

Twelve years ago

Three weeks later, my friend Sarah, a university mate and fellow model, invited me to a summer bonfire party at Old Hickory Beach.

‘It’s just some friends and workmates kicking it after work.’

On the day, I fussed over what to wear, deciding on high-waisted denim shorts and a soft green silk tank top.

I added booties, a scarf, and long ropes of pearls around my neck.

With lip gloss and eyeliner on, I was done.

Soon, I was behind the wheel of my classic silver Bronco.

The rumble of the V8 engine hummed beneath me as I cruised, windows rolled down to let the crisp night air hit my face.

I pulled up to the lakeside overlook at 8 p.m.

Cars were packed along the dirt shoulder, but I parked my ride with a view of the shoreline.