Page 21 of Once Upon A Christmas Song

It was strange going to the airport alone. I felt disconnected, like the tether that had been holding us together had snapped. I went through the motions of checking in, boarding the plane, but it didn’t seem real. Only when I got home, with the familiarity of everything, did I begin to feel like me again.

“It’s weird,” I told Simone that night, “but the whole visit felt like a goodbye.”

“No,” she assured me. “You’re just sad because you’re missing him already.”

But I wasn’t wrong, and I wasn’t at all surprised that he didn’t call. The few times I tried, all I got was his voicemail. It made sense in a way, because even though I’d helped him, I was still a distraction. His focus needed to be singular, and I finally grasped the fact that there was no place for me in his world where he was on the road, making music, chasing his dream.

Three months later, when the second album was released—the one he’d completed while I was with him, Gasoline Under a Desert Sky—and then later was certified platinum, I was healed enough to be happy for him and even called to give him my congratulations. I only got as far as his manager’s assistant, but that was all right. I’d put forth the effort, and that was enough. What I always loved about him was that he stayed true to who he was. He never hid that he was bisexual, but because his manager, his agent, all his people surrounded him with beautiful women, and no one ever saw him with a man, it didn’t seem to be much of an issue. What had turned out to be a huge problem over the next year, amid endless tour dates, the creation of a third studio album, and the promotion that went into that, was the continual drinking and the drugs.

I suspected that when you were constantly out on the road, touring with no end in sight, that perhaps the vices were inevitable. But I couldn’t say; my calling was so much smaller than his. I had a little life in comparison, which I found myself liking more and more with each passing year. The stability of my present situation grounded me, and I, in turn, made life possible for everyone who worked for me. I loved that La Belle Vie could be a sanctuary for many. A lot of servers came and went, but I could honestly say that they always left for something better. And if they weren’t ready to fly, they stayed safe in the nest. When they went, they moved on stronger, with a direction and a purpose. I wanted more than anything to continue to be that port-in-the-storm for our staff, which was why we needed patrons to spend money, and for that we needed live music. And there had never been anyone better than Dawson.

At present, I was having trouble wrapping my brain around the fact that he was, again, back in my club in New Orleans. And while I thought I would see him again someday; I had always thought it would be in concert somewhere. I never imagined that he’d be close enough to speak to.

“Hey,” he greeted me as he crossed the floor to us, the warm, mellifluous, whiskey-smooth sound of his voice the same as always.

That walk of his, the swagger, the rolling movement liquid and deliberate, made me draw my breath in deep. He knew what he looked like with his broad shoulders, wide chest, and the long, roping muscles under his tan skin. His T-shirt was straining around his biceps, and I had a flash of memory of having those strong arms wrapped around me tight. I breathed in through my nose, girding myself for whatever it was he was going to say.

“Mr. West,” Evie blurted out, rushing by me to reach him, hand out in offering.

He turned to Xola, who was closest to him, and held out his guitar case to her. Demure like she never was, she took the handle reverently so he could shake Evie’s hand.

“I understand that when your last tour ended, you split with your management company,” she said quickly, looking like she was holding on for dear life as she flushed a very becoming pale rose.

“I did.” His midnight-blue eyes glinted as he gave her a trace of a smile that deepened his utterly beguiling laugh lines. He had lines on the sides of his mouth as well, all of them giving him a weathered appeal, like he lived well in his skin.

The way his lush lips curled up in one corner, the square cut of his jaw, the stubble lining it, and his impossible nose that had been broken more than once—he’d played in some sketchy places before mine—all the perfect imperfections added to his allure. He had a way of looking down for a moment and then lifting only his eyes to you, laser-focused on your face. I saw Evelyn Ewing’s eyes flutter, heard her catch her breath, and was guessing by this point, she was holding on to his hand for actual balance. It happened all the time. Even when I’d seen the pictures of him before he went to rehab, even at his lowest, thinnest, face gaunt, missing the thirty pounds of muscle—that he’d now regained, given his powerful, athletic frame—he had always, always, remained luminous. The man was breathtaking, and nothing could diminish that.

I had been as enthralled as everyone else from the very beginning. The sultry sound of him, the mane of thick chestnut hair he was forever tucking behind his ears, carding his fingers through to brush back from his face, and simply the heat and raw sexuality of the man were overwhelming. Never had I wanted so desperately to keep someone.

He and his band, the Dregs, used to play from nine or ten—depending on how good or bad the arthouse musicians we used to have on earlier were—until closing every night. They would mix Dawson’s original music with covers, mostly ’60s and ’70s rock. I would freely admit, it had been perfect. This was the Quarter, so to end every night with an extended, raucous version of “On the Bayou” had been inspired. I understood as I looked at him now that I needed to find someone like him, the difference being that they would stay. And not for me. I was not looking to ever fall in love with another musician—that way lay madness. I was looking for someone with his charisma and versatility and talent.

“So what on earth are you doing here in the Quarter?” Evie asked him, still sounding shaky, no matter how hard she was trying to hide it.

It made sense. It was hard to stand in front of a superstar and remain unaffected.

“I’m not touring anymore. Everything I own is in the back of my SUV.”

“Really?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he told her with a flirty, throaty rumble. “I have downsized my life.”

“Why?”

“Because eventually, you figure out what’s truly important.”

“Is that right?” Simone baited him.

“It is.”

She made a noise in the back of her throat that was all judgment.

“I’m working on a new album and I was just signed to Stig Malloy’s label, Salvage Records.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Evie gushed. “When will the album be out?”

“Not until next year.” His eyes flicked to mine, then back to her. “I’m still writing. That’s why I came back here where it all began. No better place to find my inspiration again.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “May I ask who your agent is now?”