Love Me Tender Read online

  When he clears the table, he offers her a dessert menu. “The dessert tonight is complimentary,” he says.

  “And why would that be?” she says, knowing it isn’t the most gracious way to respond.

  “Because you’re a girl alone in a strange city.”

  “I didn’t know you got a free dessert for that.” If this is his tactic for getting women to invite him up to their rooms, it isn’t going to work here. Leslie Stern can’t be bought for the price of a bread pudding in bourbon sauce.

  At the end of the meal, Hunter brings the bill. “You have any special plans while you’re here?” he asks.

  “I’m actually here for work. I’m doing an article.”

  “You a food critic?”

  She shakes her head. “There’s this guy named Patton King who is claiming to be the next Elvis Presley. It’s not much of a story. I interviewed him this afternoon. I told him I might go see him at the Bluebird tomorrow night. I could stay and do that. Everyone says I should see the Bluebird.”

  “Patton King. You’ve got to be kidding me. Patton and I are tight.” Hunter holds up two fingers and crosses them together.

  “What are the chances?” Leslie, of course, doesn’t believe this guy. Nashville’s not the biggest city in the world, but it’s not that small.

  “No. Seriously. We’ve been friends since we were kids in Memphis. We moved here together. We share a house.”

  “Oh. Are you together?” she asks. They could be. She never asked Patton about his romantic life, and now she realizes that she probably should have. Part of her hopes Patton isn’t gay, and that’s silly because she probably won’t ever see him again.

  “No, ma’am.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “The best of friends. I know everything there is to know about Patton King.”

  “Everything?” Leslie looks up and bats her eyelashes. She’s not above flirting for information.

  “Known him since we were six. In fact, this Elvis story. All me. I’m the one who made it up.”

  “Really?”

  “When this girl at the bar where Patton was playing said he looked like Elvis, I was the one who told her Patton was related to the King. She took it and ran with it.”

  “Nola Grayson?”

  “That’s her. She came and sniped Patton right out from under me. He and I were supposed to be a team, but as soon as she dangled Slant Management in front of him, he slinked off after her like a hound dog.”

  “You sound angry.”

  “We had plans. Dreams.”

  “Hunter, may I buy you a drink after your shift?”

  “Honey, I thought you’d never ask.” He rips off his apron. “I’ll be right back.” When he returns, he is wearing a jean jacket over a checked shirt. She might have thought his freckles were attractive if she hadn’t found herself comparing him to Patton.

  Hunter takes Leslie to Losers Bar and Grill on Division Street. They sit at a table near the wall. At the mention of Patton’s name, Hunter lost his inclination to flatter and seduce. Now it is all about the story.

  “Patton and his momma didn’t have a pot to piss in. My family was better off, and we tried to help out sometimes. Like if we were going away, Patton always went with us—as if he was part of the family. We were more like brothers than friends.”

  “Tell me about his mother.”

  “The beautiful Jo Lynne King. She got around. I’m not gonna lie. Patton knows this, so I’m not saying anything I shouldn’t. You know the expression a girl in every port? Well, Jo Lynne King was the port. Men came and went, but she was always there.”

  “What do you know about Patton’s father?” Leslie takes a sip of her bourbon and branch water.

  “It’s what Ashley Judd drinks,” Hunter had explained when he suggested it.

  Leslie doesn’t care what Ashley Judd drinks, but Hunter must have thought this was the kind of celebrity gossip Leslie would be interested in.

  Leslie homes back in on her conversation with Hunter. She knows better than to miss a good scoop.

  “Patton’s father could be one of three guys,” Hunter says, “but Patton never talks about them.”

  “Why not?”

  “He says he doesn’t want anything to do with a father who doesn’t want anything to do with him.”

  She takes another sip. “Tell me about the men.”

  “None were named King. That’s Jo Lynne’s name, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she picked it out of thin air. She’s like that. A self-inventor type. From the time we were little, she thought Patton was a musical genius, and if he has any success, he’ll have her to thank.”

  A girl shows up at their table. Assuming she’s a waitress, Leslie says, “I’m fine for now.”

  “Hi, Sarabeth,” Hunter says. “What are you doing here? You stalking me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Hunter Embry.”

  “This is Leslie. She’s from a paper up north. She’s interviewing me.”

  “And what’s so interesting about him?” Sarabeth asks.

  “We’re talking about Patton,” Hunter says.

  “Oh, I know Patton.” Sarabeth pulls up a chair and sits on it backward with her denim-clad legs held wide apart.

  “You know, Sarabeth, I’m not too keen on your friend Nola right now,” Hunter says.

  “She’s just helping Patton.”

  “She stole him.”

  “What do you know about management?”

  “I know a lot about Patton.”

  “So, the possible fathers.” Leslie pushes Hunter back toward the subject she cares about.

  “Buck Johnson, Clive Porter, and Jesse Whitney. Whitney is the most likely. He actually claims to be one of Elvis’s love children, but I think it’s something he came up with just to get up Jo Lynne’s skirt.”

  “From what I hear, it isn’t too hard to do that,” Sarabeth says.

  “Don’t be nasty. She’s a nice lady,” Hunter answers.

  Sarabeth turns to Leslie. “Ask me about Patton.”

  “You don’t know shit,” Hunter says.

  “I do so. I know he’s gonna be the next big thing in Nashville. He’s got Nola behind him, and she’s a force of nature.”

  “A regular hurricane.” Hunter leans back.

  “Do you know anything about this claim that Patton is related to Elvis Presley?” Leslie asks Sarabeth.

  “She doesn’t,” Hunter says.

  “I know that Patton is the spitting image of Presley. If Patton’s not the King’s grandson, then Patton’s the reincarnation.”

  “That what Nola’s trying to sell now?” Hunter asks.

  “No. The reincarnation concept was my idea.”

  Leslie is amused. “That’s an angle I hadn’t thought of.” Leslie wonders if this girl is nuts. It’s one thing to claim Elvis as a relation, but reincarnation, that’s a whole new level of lunacy.

  Sarabeth kicks Hunter in the shin with a snakeskin boot. “I don’t know why you don’t like Nola. She’s going to turn your friend into a star.”

  “I was going to do that.”

  “And how’s that been working for you both?” Sarabeth leans toward Leslie. “You met Patton, right?” Leslie nods. “But you haven’t seen him perform.”

  “No.”

  “Well, let me tell you a little something about Patton King. He can move like Elvis—that’s true. But there’s something else.” She lowers her voice. “Patton King is enormous.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Leslie says.

  “He hangs to the left.”

  “What?” Leslie asks.

  “She’s trying to tell you that Patton’s dick is so big it makes an impression on his pants.” Hunter shakes his head in disgust.

  “Is that a fact?” Leslie swallows hard to keep from laughing. This is supposed to be a serious interview. Since when did a guy’s penis have anything to do with his musical ability?

  Hunter stands up. “I’m getting us another round.”
r />   “I’ll have whiskey and soda,” Sarabeth says.

  Before Hunter walks away, he looks Leslie square in the eye. “Let me tell you the God’s honest truth. Patton King is no more related to Elvis Presley than I am.”

  Chapter 9

  Jackpot.

  The three names Hunter gave her set Leslie on a wild romp through the internet. Of the three men who could be Patton’s father, two have stories of their own. Jesse Whitney’s been trying to prove his relation to Elvis for years, but the Presley estate won’t let him near anything that might resemble DNA. They don’t want to know about his claims. Of the other two potential fathers, Buck is doing time for mail fraud and Clive’s trail disappears somewhere in northern California.

  Leslie pounds away at the computer all night and by the time the sun rises over Nashville, she has two thousand scathing words about a pretender who is using his passing resemblance to Elvis Presley to catapult him into the spotlight. Patton King is nothing more than a pale imitation of a true original. Our society should reward real innovators, not trumped-up popularity.

  This story is big. It’s not just about Patton King, it’s about honesty and American culture. Of course, it makes Patton look like a phony. He is being lauded for nothing more than the way he moves his hips and how his prodigious member looks in tight pants. Any talentless dullard can stand on the shoulders of an icon. The aspiring emperor has no clothes. In this culture of instant celebrity, no one is asked to do anything to earn their fame. It is the reality television syndrome. Leslie gives the term the abbreviation RTS to legitimize the condition in the same way IBS validated irritable bowels.

  There is no reality to Patton King and his Elvis connection.

  Leslie gets up and paces the room. She’s been working all night. The sun is about to rise over Nashville, and Leslie is proud of herself. She took what was meant to be a puff piece and turned it on its head. Take that, Olive Poynter! Leslie opens a can of tomato juice and pours a nip of vodka into it. She can tell herself that she’s not having an early drink, but rather the last drink of the evening. She lies down on the bed with its Egyptian cotton sheets and takes a breath of deep satisfaction. She has to remember to tell her brother about this moment. She works for this feeling of being infused with the sense of a job well done. She reminds herself not to worry too much about what this story will do to Patton King. He’s the one who stepped in the cow patty. No wonder he got shit on his shoes. Now she’s thinking like Hunter. Leslie is susceptible to other people’s vernacular. She’d better get out of this place before she starts saying, “butter my butt and call me a biscuit.”

  Yes, this story is likely to hurt Patton King, but she doesn’t even know him, and it’s a damned good piece. Even Olive will have to admit it.

  Leslie gets up, steps over to her computer, and presses Send.

  Chapter 10

  The Bluebird Café is filling up. Patton has nabbed a small table, and he’s holding three seats. One is for Nola, and he hopes the other two will be for Hunter and Leslie.

  Patton has been thinking about Leslie since the interview yesterday. He really wants her to see him in action. That’s the only way she’ll be able to do a great article. Patton hasn’t seen Hunter in days. The guy has been avoiding the bungalow. Hunter is probably shacked up with Sarabeth, licking his wounds. He’ll come around. Patton hopes Hunter manages to do that before Patton goes on stage tonight. So many stars got their start here at the Bluebird. This venue is a seismic shift for Patton, and he wants his best friend to be here. If it goes well tonight, anything could happen. Of course, there’s always a chance he’ll bomb, but he doesn’t want to think about that.

  Tonight, when Patton was getting dressed, there was no one to press him into becoming Elvis Presley. Patton didn’t put any black gunk in his hair. Without it, his hair is light brown, almost blond. He is wearing a simple black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. It’s the look of a working man. No glitter. No glitz. Patton is looking toward the door nervously when Nola plops down beside him.

  “How’d you get in? I’ve been watching the door,” he says.

  “I have my ways.” Nola is wearing her trademark cowboy boots and a little black dress that has nothing country about it. She is displaying many strings of pearls around her neck. Nola is attractive in a flashy way. Not like Leslie, who is a natural beauty. Leslie would probably look great in a burlap sack and Patton likes that no-frills style.

  “What are you wearing?” Nola asks.

  “Clothes.”

  “Where’s the Elvis look?”

  “At home.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that. You should trust me. You’ve been at this for years and only days after I take you on, you have a set at the Bluebird. I promised them the next Elvis, not the old Patton King.”

  “I like the old Patton King.”

  “But it’s Elvis they’ve come to see.”

  “Maybe I can give them both.”

  “Bless your innocent little heart. Do me this one favor: please don’t try out any new material tonight.”

  Patton nods, but he has already determined to read the crowd. He knows this is his big opportunity to shine, and he doesn’t want to do it in the guise of Elvis Presley. Nola may be right, but she could also be wrong. There’s an element of risk in every performance. And even if he is a great success tonight, if he isn’t able to be himself, what will he have gained?

  He wishes Hunter would show up—and Leslie, too. If only they would appear at the door like two white rabbits popping from a magician’s hat.

  The night won’t be the same without them.

  Chapter 11

  Leslie sleeps in late, and when she wakes, the sun is high in the sky. She checks the clock. It’s almost one. She stretches out, all contentment. This feeling, the one she’s having, is almost like being in love. She’s experiencing the elation that comes with a job well done, and there’s nothing like it. Olive sent Leslie down here to do another silly piece on an unlikely subject, and Leslie figured out how to use the opportunity to write a scathing indictment of the music industry. “The Next Elvis” is the story Leslie has been dying to write. Her grandfather would be proud.

  She should probably cut and run before Patton sees what she wrote. A smart journalist wouldn’t hang around for the fallout.

  There’s a knock on the door. She throws on the terry robe that came with the room and looks through the peephole. All she can see is flowers: irises and lilies. It’s a profusion of white and purple. Leslie opens the door. Hunter’s head is hidden behind the bouquet. He hands it over.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Leslie says.

  “I didn’t. I was just coming on shift, and I saw this downstairs with your name on it. I thought I’d bring it up.”

  Leslie takes the vase and places it on the table beside the sofa. Hunter throws himself down in the armchair as if he has been invited into her space. Leslie plucks a card from the flower arrangement, opens it, and reads it aloud. I hope to see you tonight at the Bluebird. Yours, Patton King. She puts the note in the pocket of the robe. “Classy.”

  “I’m feeling a little bad about what I said about him,” Hunter says.

  “It was true, wasn’t it?” Leslie asks, opening the minibar. “What can I get you?”

  “I probably shouldn’t drink before work.”

  “Work? Aren’t you going to see Patton tonight instead?” Leslie asks.

  “I couldn’t get anyone to cover for me here.”

  “Really? For something so important?”

  “Okay, I didn’t try all that hard. And since you’re offering, I’ll have a Jack.”

  Leslie opens a nip bottle of Jack Daniel’s and pours it into a short glass. “No ice, I’m afraid.”

  “No problem.” Hunter stands, walks over to the sideboard, picks up the drink and downs it in one shot. Then he sits down again.

  “Feel better?” Leslie asks.

  “Not sure one Jack Daniel’s is going to fix things. It can�
��t make me forget that I betrayed my best friend. I feel like a shithead.”

  “All you did was send me in the right direction. I probably would have gotten there eventually anyway.”

  “I shouldn’t have said what I said. Patton is a great guy. I want him to succeed.”

  “Of course you do.” Leslie opens a bottle of cranberry juice and drinks straight from the neck. She suddenly feels parched.

  “Even so, I’m not going to the Bluebird tonight. I don’t have the nerve to show my face. You probably shouldn’t, either.”

  “You don’t even know what I wrote.”

  “Let’s face it. You used me to dig up dirt. And I just rolled over and let you pat my belly. I’m sure you aren’t going to show Patton in a good light. I may be an asshole, but I’m not as dumb as a box of rocks.” Hunter pushes himself out of the chair like an old man. He steps over to the door. Before he opens it, he turns. “I’m not sure destroying someone’s image and humiliating them is anything to be proud of.”

  “I didn’t write anything that can’t be verified.”

  “Could you pull the story?” Hunter asks.

  “I wouldn’t even if I could.”

  “You’re not a very nice person, are you?” Hunter says.

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “Not sure that’s an excuse.” He opens the door and walks out.

  Leslie checks her e-mail to see if Olive has responded to the article yet, but finds nothing about it. There is an e-mail from Henry. Finnian Garvey, the dot-com zillionaire, has made an offer to buy The Commonwealth Courier.

  Chapter 12

  Leslie steps under the scalloped awning of the Bluebird Café. It has started to rain. The guy at the door checks the guest list, and Leslie’s on it with the letters VIP printed next to her name. This place is first come, first served and it’s already packed. The Bluebird could never be called pretentious. It occupies a double storefront in a strip mall on Hillsboro Pike. The bistro tables are covered in pieces of navy vinyl that look like they were cut out by hand. The wooden chairs have put in hard service. Pictures of musicians line the walls, but Leslie is only interested in one musician, and he should be taking the stage just about now.