and never looked back. She covered Audrey Auld’s “Shove It” and Bonnie Raitt’s “Real Man” and she sailed through Emmylou’s “Born To Run,” strumming so hard she broke a nail. The women in the audience were grinning. The men weren’t. She didn’t give a good goddamn. When she walked off stage to enthusiastic female applause, Dewey gave her an exceedingly nervous smile. “Interesting set there, sugar. You going to do more of that in the second half?” She blew out a breath. “Nah. I’ve calmed down now. I’ll do a bunch of love stuff to make up for it, okay?” Dewey nodded, looking somewhat happier. “Sure, sure. Whatever works for you, sweetheart. Just, you know, a lot of folks are here on dates.” “And they don’t feel like hearing a lot of ‘You cheated, you lied, you dog.’ Yeah, I can see that.” She blew out a breath, reaching for her bottled water. “They might like to hear some of your own songs,” Dewey said slowly. “If it ain’t more of this cheating and lying stuff.
