Lost in NashVegas Read Free Page A

an extra fifty bucks.
    You say we’re gonna have a better life.
    Buy me a diamond ring and you a big Ford truck.
    As the song builds to the chorus, the energy of the crowd gets me going, and I stomp out the rhythm with the heel of my boot.
    Ooo, let me be your Country Princess.
    Plain and beautiful, that’s what life is . . .
    Merry-go-rounds and Christmas lights . . .
    Rocking through the chorus and into the second verse, I relax a little, bravely peeking at the crowd beyond the first row. They’re clapping and swaying, and when I loop back into the chorus, a choir of female voices raises the rafters.
    Ooo, let me be your Country Princess . . .
    A banjo starts plucking, and Paul Whitestone saunters up beside me. Next, a fiddle whines as Granddaddy Lukeman walks my way, his blue eyes snapping as he does a little Pa Ingalls jig. Behind him, Jeeter comes out with his steel guitar, and the triplets, fully recovered, stomp and swirl across the stage.
    We let the music go a round without the words, the players circling and leaning together. My heart soars with the music, rising above the thousand pairs of eyes watching.
    Now this I could do the rest of my life.

2
    â€œYou did it, Robbie!” Daddy picks me up and swirls me around. “I’m so proud of you.”
    Ricky Holden, my man of six months, tucks his arm around my waist and kisses me on the cheek. “How’s it feel?”
    â€œI did it for the triplets. But . . .” I grin. “It feels great.” I hope he doesn’t think “Country Princess” is about him. Because it’s not. Really, it’s not.
    Momma’s off to my right, pressing her lips into a straight line. “The Lord knows Robin don’t need encouragement to waste time playing music.” She clucks and fluffs like a mad hen.
    â€œSimmer down, Bit,” Daddy says, his big hand resting gently on her shoulder.
    I glance up at Ricky. He’s seen Momma, on a few occasions, aflame with moral and/or social injustice, but this is his first opportunity to see steam coming out of her ears.
    â€œTen minutes in the Hall don’t make you a star, Robin Rae.” She steams all over me.
    â€œWhat? Who said—”
    â€œWe’re going home, Bit.” Daddy gently takes Momma by the arm, an indication her last comment was his last straw. “’Night, Robin. ’Night, Ricky.”
    â€œâ€™Night, Daddy.” I watch them go.
    â€œHey, do you want to grab a bite before the diner closes?” Ricky weaves his fingers through mine. Innocent as it is, it makes me feel like a possession. But I don’t pull away.
    â€œNot tonight. We have to work early.” I tug on his hand. “So, did I really do okay?”
    He shrugs. “Yeah, you were all right.”
    â€œJust all right?” I shuffle around him in a little Cowgirl Boogie ’N Strut.
    He grins. “Maybe even pretty good. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
    â€œMe, neither. But, I did it for the triplets.” I peel my hand away from his. “Better get my guitar.”
    He follows me to where I left my guitar by the stage curtain. “What’s with your momma and you singing?”
    â€œI have no idea.” I glance out to the emptying auditorium. “She’s acted funny about me and music ever since Granddaddy Lukeman gave me a guitar for my tenth birthday. Momma exploded like Mount St. Helens, spewing and spitting, changing the whole atmosphere of the room. Me and five other ten-year-olds ran for cover under the trampoline.”
    Ricky laughs. “Sweet Bit, exploding? ”
    â€œSweet Bit, nothing. You saw a little of Sour Bit just now, and believe me, there’s plenty more.”
    Just then, Momma runs back across the stage and stops right in front of me. “You’ll be at dinner tomorrow night, right?”
    Daddy ambles up behind her and gently drags her away again, hollering hellos and waving across the