Guitars and Gardenias

The Los Angeles Show

At this particular moment, smokin’ hot country western singing star Matson Daley was a happy man. He was onstage, in the spotlight, which was his favorite place to be, and the crowd was thoroughly engaged, tucked into the back pocket of his skintight leather jeans.

It was a warm night for an outdoor concert, but that was August in Los Angeles. Fortunately, the blistering afternoon heat had passed. Unfortunately, the humidity hadn’t. It was like being locked in a small room with a herd of panting cocker spaniels.

But heat spells or snowstorms, Matson hardly noticed the weather when he was making music. He figured someone in the audience was on a first date and he wanted to make their evening memorable. Or if some folks came to hear him after a bitch of a day, he wanted to lift their spirits. And, he knew if he sang his heart out, maybe a couple would go home in the mood to make a baby.

Such was the sacred power of the musician, and Matson knew it. The awesome responsibility of having talent could be both intoxicating and empowering. But he never begrudged his fame, nor did he take his gift for granted.

Like a solitary eagle enjoying his mastery of the wind, Matson had a dark theatrical elegance about him. Each time he faced the mike, his body pulsed with the rhythm of some tune or other about the fractured beauty of lost love, and layers of exquisitely tailored, wine-colored, rhinestone fringe shimmered across his back. Every now and then, he would lift his hat and toss his shiny, chestnut hair like a stud horse trying to make a good first impression on a field of mares.

It was fairly universally agreed that Matson Daley had the sexiest hair in show business. Its chunky waves and swirling layers begged for the stroke of long red fingernails, a plea that found its way into the lyric he was singing as the best way to revive a dying man.

The atmosphere of the concert was redneck festive with a colorful cast of characters from boney real-life cowboys in shaggy, denim vests with various configurations of teeth, to road-baked bikers with faded bandanas and a rash of tattoos, to girls in all shapes and sizes.

Though all the chicks were considered “hot,” many were sporting a roll or two of baby fat, hanging under their fringe halter-tops or over the cut-off jeans they wore. The boys in the band had a special nickname for those who tipped the scale at twenty or so pounds overweight. They called them “Porky Pretties.”

The slender, richer, more arrogant female fans—who always came solo to a Matson Daley show—were either drop-dead gorgeous or wildly grotesque, thanks to the city’s ranks of cosmetic surgeons. They had the Versace handbags and the Roberto Cavalli jeans, and thought, mistakenly, that Matson could be had with a snap of the fingers. The band dubbed these women the “Pageant Pretties.”

As usual, the predominantly female crowd was riveted to Matson. The more fanatic fans had bought high-priced tickets in the orchestra pit, where he was almost close enough to touch, but clearly within the protection of a half dozen security men-bulldogs.

The crowd of Porky Pretties, closest to the stage, tossed thongs and panties at Matson, waved hats and marking pens, and called out for him to autograph various body parts, but he was deeply absorbed and rarely distracted from performing. One attractive redhead climbed on the edge of the stage, wearing a t-shirt that read: “ SMILE ONCE IN AWHILE” until security escorted her off.

Had Matson been able to see past the glare of the stage lights, he might have noticed the dazzling and magnificent Leah Hayes, standing in front of him like a runway model.

She was a tall, slim natural blonde with playful aqua eyes, wide cheekbones and a 1,000-watt smile that illuminated her entire being.

Her short, crème-colored, vintage lace skirt showcased long, slim legs, while an elegant matching blouse that fell slightly off her shoulders revealed just enough cleavage and was cinched at her tiny waist. With chic, strappy sandals, sparkling crystal earrings and fresh gardenias in her hair, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a country boy’s daydream.

Leah hadn’t come for an autograph or to make a play for attention. She simply wanted to experience Matson Daley, the artist, firsthand—from the integrity of his words, to the purity of his voice.

Of course, if he were holding her gently and pressing his lips to her neck, she wouldn’t object. But that could never happen. Ever.

About halfway through the first set, Leah felt something about Matson that was unsettling. Everyone knew he was good-natured, vulnerable and sensitive to a fault. And she didn’t know how or why because it defied all logic, but something in her intuition told her they had a connection that would play out someday.