Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“Yeah.”
“If you have any questions . . .”
I nod, cutting him off. Yeah, yeah. Call me anytime.
8
Dominic
10:00 p.m.
“Bottoms up, boys!” I shout over the bar chatter and the music from the live band onstage.
Shane tosses back his drink after clinking his bottle with mine, James’s, and Crew’s. I lift mine to my lips with a smile, and James hollers with excitement before doing the same.
Cutting loose tonight feels hard earned, and I’m ready to enjoy the night accordingly. Crew and James are two of my closest buddies from Vanderbilt, and some of the only ones from our college group who still live in Nashville. We make a habit of getting together at least once a month, and usually those are the nights when I let myself get a little wild.
Crew and James have seen me at my craziest—parties, bars, clubs, and lots of coeds. You name it, and I did it while I was at Vandy.
Technically, all of us did back then.
Now, however, we’re all grown up and living our lives accordingly. Crew is a successful architect and married to a sweet girl named Jane, who’s pregnant with their second child, and James owns one of the most important accounting firms in the city.
We even try to be on our best behavior when we’re out together like this, but our college days’ good-times nostalgia runs deep. Being around them makes me feel young and dumb again, and since Shane is never anything else, this Friday night shouldn’t be any different for him.
“What’s up first, Dom?” James asks, taking a swig of his beer before gesturing with it toward the stage. “‘Friends in Low Places’ or ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’?”
“Oh, James, please.” I shake my head, faux disgusted. “You can’t plan the Karaoke Cowboy. The Karaoke Cowboy plans you.”
“What?” Shane asks, his laugh cutting through the bar’s overall noise. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Sure it does, sweetheart.” I slip my white cowboy hat on and head for the stage. I turn to yell over my shoulder, “It means stop asking questions and get ready for a show!”
I jump onstage as the group of them starts to whistle and shout, busting in on the band right in the middle of their song—“Save a Horse (Ride A Cowboy)” by Big & Rich.
Tex, the big, bearded guy on guitar in front of the microphone, laughs. “Uh-oh, here we go,” he manages to exclaim into the mic before I claim it for myself.
“Good evening, beautiful people!” I greet everyone with a big, flashy smile. “The Karaoke Cowboy has arrived!”
The crowd cheers, and I hear Shane shout, “Take your shirt off!” from the back.
Quite a few women in the crowd agree with him, but I don’t waste any time before belting out the lyrics of the song in time with the band. Buddy, the bald dude on drums, rolls his eyes in amusement, while Reed, the redheaded ace on the bass, walks over to swing a playful boot toward my ass.
These are some of the coolest dudes I’ve ever met, which is often the case when it comes to live acts in Nashville. They’re as used to me—the Karaoke Cowboy, as I’m known here at Honky Tonk Parade—as my friends are, and the whole crowd joins me as I sing about being the only John Wayne left in this town. I jam as Tex dives deep into his guitar solo and then start my signature stage dance, rolling my hips round and round until the women in the crowd scream their approval.
Honky Tonk Parade is the only bar in the city that does karaoke with a live band, and I’ve been coming here since my freshman year of college. Me and my karaoke skills are practically a tour-guided exhibit in Nashville at this point, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The song builds to a crescendo, and I sing about saving a horse and riding a cowboy and send my hat into the crowd before diving into it myself. I crowd-surf on their outstretched hands, thankful for their excited yet sturdy guidance across the dance floor, and when I reach the end, I hop back to my feet and take my hat from a pretty lady with a wink.
Women and men alike pat me on the shoulder, and one woman in a skimpy dress, boots, and platinum-blond hair slips a piece of paper into my hand as she whispers, “Call me, Cowboy,” into my ear.
I offer her a little smirk, shoving the paper into the back pocket of my Wranglers, and signal the bartender for another beer as I saunter back to the boys.
When I get to the table, I slide the folded piece of paper over to Crew without even looking at it. “Got a number for ya, buddy.”
Crew just laughs. “Pretty sure my wife would be pissed.”