Free WILLEM (The Witches of Wimberley Book 1) by Victoria Danann Page A

but I suspected that everyone there was taller than our target. In the end it turned out that he was even shorter than the space in the air where I’d been looking, because he was sitting down at a long raised table in the big tent. Alone. With something that looked like a Tequila Sunrise, a little too colorful for guys’ night out if you ask me.
    The table had chairs on only one side, like the Last Supper, so we went around the ends, each of us approaching him from opposite ends.
    “Hey, Simon,” I said as we approached.
    As I pulled out the chair next to him, he said, “This table isn’t for contestants. Contestants sit out there.” He gestured to the rest of the room.
    “Okay. Well, we’ll leave when the party moves in here.”
    I looked over at Ivan meaningfully. He said, “Yes. Soon as they start this way, we’re ghosts.”
    Simon barked out a laugh that made him seem a little looney. He pushed his glasses up his nose.
    “So,” I said. “We saw you in the video.”
    His eyes slanted toward me with suspicion. “Yeah?”
    “Yeah. So I don’t have to ask about your heart’s desire. You didn’t tell us what kind of music you write.”
    He snorted. “You don’t care about music.”
    “The hell you say!” I exclaimed, hearing that Alabama was creeping back into my speech with or without permission. I supposed that twenty-four hours of hearing Texas drawl was involuntarily extending my vowels and softening my consonants. “I know enough to know that was a five figure Gibson Les Paul you were fondling.”
    His eyes widened just a little. He pushed his glasses up his nose, gave me a small smile, and glanced at Ivan, perhaps to see what he was up to.
    “Not everybody would know that.”
    “Damn straight.”
    He looked curious. “You from around here?”
    “No. Why?”
    “Just your, uh, terminology. And your cadence. It’s more harmonic in the South. And in Texas. Although Texas is technically the Southwest.”
    “Alabama,” I said. It had been a while since I’d felt pride in saying that and, by God, it felt good.
    He grinned. “Sweet Home.”
    “Amen.”
    He chuckled. I had him.
    “You gonna tell me what kind of music you’re writin’?”
    “Here’s the thing, when times change music gets relabeled. I’m doing something that’s not rock and not country, but a little bit of both.”
    “Like Rockabilly.”
    “No. No. No,” he said. “Not like that at all.” He slanted his eyes toward me. “Do you really know what Rockabilly is?”
    I shrugged. “Of course. Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins. And, don’t hate me for this, but Stray Cats.”
    That got me a huge grin. He banged the table with the palm of his hand. “Hah! Stray Cats. They did fifties better than anybody in the fifties did fifties!”
    I held my palm up for a high five and said, “My man!”
    As Simon slapped my hand I allowed a quick glance at Ivan who was sitting back, enjoying the exchange and grinning like a Cheshire cat.
    “Okay, so you know Rockabilly,” Simon began. “I like songs that tell a story. Like The Eagles. You know at one time they were considered rock. A couple of decades went by and then they were reclassified as soft rock. Another decade went by and they were being covered by every country singer who had a say in what went on albums.” I nodded encouragingly. “I think what they were doing is timeless.”
    “So you’re reviving the sound.”
    “Maybe,” he said with a new coyness. “That’s the goal.”
    “Thing about The Eagles sound… the songs and the musicianship were flawless, but it was all about the harmonies. They used to say the Beach Boys were pioneers of harmony and they were settlers.”
    He was nodding excitedly. “True, but I’m not a copycat. I’m creating something original. I’m just saying that Eagles were a big influence.”
    “Gotcha. Well, if one of us wins, we’re gonna be banging on your studio door and demanding a private performance.”
    He gave us