Dirty Little Secret by Jennifer Echols

I’m asking you toplay in a bar and that would seem pretty bad to them, plus lying to your granddad. I’m guilty. But besides getting along with them, what would it hurt if they decided not to pay for Vandy? I certainly don’t have perfect pitch, and I got a full scholarship from the music department. I can’t believe you didn’t.”
    I shrugged. “My grades were good, but I didn’t do any extra-curriculars or community service work when I was in high school. None. I told you. I never did anything but tour bluegrass festivals.”
    Exasperated, he opened his hands on the steering wheel. “Yeah, but didn’t you audition? Didn’t they hear you?”
    “No. If I auditioned and got a scholarship, they’d want me to major in music or at least be in the orchestra, and I don’t want to do that.”
    “You don’t want to major in music ? What is the matter with you?”
    A loaded silence settled between us. The truck zoomed on through the night. He watched the road. I couldn’t give him my go-to-hell stare effectively when he wasn’t looking.
    Then he glanced over at me and let out a huge sigh. I hadn’t realized how tense he looked, hunched over the steering wheel, until his broad shoulders relaxed. “I’ve been giving you hell, Bailey. I have no right to do that. You just caught me off guard. I had a good friend who died driving drunk last year.”
    “Oh!” In my own short exclamation I heard surprise, sympathy, and relief that he was as much like me as I’d thought when we talked at the mall. He only acted different because he’d gone through something lots worse.
    He cupped my bare knee under his hand—just long enough for fire to shoot across my skin—and took his hand away. “I’m really sorry. The third degree about your boyfriend—”
    “Ex,” I reminded him.
    “—and your family, and Vandy . . . I’m sorry. That was none of my . . .”
    Business. It was none of his business. If he didn’t finish the sentence, I would finish it for him.
    No, I didn’t have the heart. He’d seemed so driven when we played at the mall today, when he upstaged his dad, and when he came to my granddad’s house to rescue me. Now he was still driving toward downtown Nashville, but the fire had gone out of his eyes. He seemed lost.
    He shook his head as if to clear it, then flashed me a grin. Just like that, he was back to the glowing Sam I’d met that afternoon. “We’re going to have fun tonight, you’ll see.”
    “What’s the name of this band, anyway?”
    “The Sam Hardiman Band, but don’t look at me like that! Believe me, I’ve already caught plenty of flak for that from the other members. I had to write something down when I sent in the audition video, and we hadn’t discussed a name before. We need to think of something else.” Pulling to a stop at the next intersection, he thumbed through the MP3 player plugged into the dashboard. When a funky beat began, he drove on. “I wanted to play this for you. Have you heard it before?”
    I listened for a second. “Yeah, but it’s been a while. Justin Timberlake?”
    “Exactly. What key is it in?”
    “F minor,” I said without thinking.
    “Wow,” Sam said. “That is amazing.”
    I didn’t think it was amazing. It was more of a nuisance. But after years of my mom telling me my miraculous ear was a hindrance rather than a help because of how much I complained about pitch problems she couldn’t even hear . . . if Sam wanted to call it amazing, I would let him.
    “Hear the disco violins?” he asked. “The band’s been playing this song for a while without that part. It’s almost like I knew you were coming. I was hoping you could give the song a listen and pick up those licks after one hearing. I’ll bet you can do that, can’t you?”
    “Yeah,” I acknowledged.
    Admiration evident in his voice, he said, “Like a machine.”
    Yes, that’s exactly what it felt like.

5

    Parking in downtown Nashville was always crazy, but the