Once upon a time, authors Tami Franklin and Sandi Layne were chosen to write in the same series, The Sweethearts of Country Music, published by Sweet Promise Press.


Upon choosing instruments for their characters to play in the band, Tami chose the drums and Sandi chose the bass guitar. In bands, the drummer and the bassist are often called upon to work closely with one another, as they carry the weight of the underlying beat and feel for many works of musical expression. So, the authors decided to make their characters friends in the book series. 
It meant that their characters needed a back story, especially as it was decided they came to audition for the band at the same time.


Tami Franklin's story is Cecilia's Soulful Heart , which was released on September 20, 2019. Sandi Layne's story is Mac's Daring Heart , which will be released on October 11, 2019.
Here is the story of how Mac Meets Cecilia. Their Origin Story. Co-written by Tami and Sandi. 
(This is not in ANY of the books! And I'm not really sure why I wrote all that in the third person...)
The Origin StoryIt had been a brisk winter morning when Mac had first seen C.C. DeVera. The usual crowd of indie musicians was out and about,  guitars in secure gig bags strapped to backs, amps being pushed or pulled on handcarts, a set of sticks peeking out from a pocket. It wasn’t yet ten, and the sun was angling over the sidewalk on Lower Broadway outside of Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville—one of the local spots. The shadows along the walk looked like a railroad track, and Mac had made the impulsive decision to follow those tracks until something caught her eye. Or ear.

At Outlaws—a small place with accordion windows that let music escape to the street while bringing fresh air into the bar-slash-diner—a drummer was driving a catchy rhythm to a popular song a local band was surely covering, so Mac stopped to listen. She’d heard of a new band looking for members. A couple of women had been talking at an open mic night just last week and Mac had shamelessly eavesdropped on them. They mentioned not having a bass player or reliable drummer. But they were all girls . . .“Well what can we do?” The voice was not encouraging, but Mac poked her nose into Outlaws anyway, moving to stand where she could see the band but not be right in their business. She saw a petite woman with dark hair and brown skin lift a drumstick with confidence. “I can carry the backbeat,” the drummer-apparent stated without fanfare. “I mean, we can still play without a bass.”Without a bass? Mac snorted softly. Sure they will, but who’ll dance to it? she wondered. Then again, not too many folks were up for dancing at this hour.  Her own bass guitar—a Yamaha—was in its gig bag but she slung it off her back as she stepped into the shadowy establishment. There was a placard propped on a rail-back chair that stated that the band would be performing at eleven o’clock that very morning, as well as the location’s website and phone number. It was a common happening in Music City, after all—local venues giving floor time to up and coming groups or solo artists. The drummer pushed a pair of sunglasses up her nose and muttered something before taking her place behind the drum kit. There was an acoustic guitar player and a singer who took their places as well, and they did a bit of rehearsal to compensate for the lack of a bassist. The drummer—called C.C. by the lead—did a good job with the rhythm and kept the trio moving pretty well. Her focus was sharp and she had definite confidence, keeping the other two in time but not overpowering them.Impressive.After they had run through a few numbers, with commentary from one of the wait staff and the manager, the trio took a break and moved to straighten up the small area they’d be using to perform in less than an hour. Mac cleared her throat, took a breath, and approached the sunglasses-wearing drummer. “Hey, good set.”“Meh,” she said, gripping her sticks so that her knuckles were white. “It was all right.” Common enough response, as was the nod that went with it. “At least Marco didn’t ask to ‘play the drums’,” she added with a glance toward the guy in the uniform t-shirt. “Ugh. That has to be annoying.” The drummer bit her lips and rocked back a bit, as if wanting some space so Mac gave it to her, watching her carefully before saying, “So, did I hear right that you go by C.C.?” Dark eyes narrowed. “Who says?”“I just heard,” Mac assured her with her free hand upraised. The other hand gripped her guitar. “I’m Mac, by the way. And I play bass. Not trying to muscle in on your group or anything. I just came in to listen.” The other woman seemed to relax more if Mac wasn’t looking directly at her—reminding Mac of a former roommate—so Mac kept her eyes on the drums with occasional looks out the window to the passersby. “Thought maybe I’d listen to your set and then get some lunch.”“Okay. Do you have a group you play with or do you just drop in here and there?”Mac brought up the Yamaha, still in its bag. “Haven’t found a group yet, but I heard of someone who’s looking to start a new one. Entirely female. Even the manager.” Mac ventured to smile at C.C., and nodded when the other woman lifted a brow in silent question. “How about, after you’re done here, we go get a coffee? There’s a Starbucks around the corner. Or maybe some lunch? Playing a gig always makes me hungry, anyway.” Mac knelt and unzipped her gig bag to withdraw a sheet of paper with the information she’d gleaned from her eavesdropping the week before. “Here’s what I heard about them so far. They’re still looking for more musicians. I wanted to audition, but a bassist really oughta know her drummer, yeah?” C.C. took the offered paper, pulling off her sunglasses. She blinked rapidly as she met Mac’s eyes for a split second. “You mentioned lunch?”“Sure. My treat,” she added with half a smile. “After all, I’m kind of recruiting you.” She knew that the phrase “starving artist” applied to far too many musical artists and Mac herself was in no way hurting for funds—her twin was an intuitive day trader. “Your drum kit?”Turned out the drums belonged to Outlaws, so there wasn’t any kind of delay for them to go find some lunch. More tourists were out and the sidewalk along Lower Broadway was getting a bit crowded, so Mac suggested they take a right at the corner and find something off the main drag. “How long’ve y’all been playin’ the drums?”
***“Just about forever.” C.C. wasn’t sure why she’d said yes. Maybe it was Mac’s persistence—enthusiastic, but unthreatening. Maybe it was the offer of a free lunch.Or maybe it was simply the fact that she needed a regular gig . . . needed a band. Sure, studio gigs paid well, and she was earning a reputation for reliability as well as her talent, but there was nothing that belonged to her. The music was someone else’s notes—the lyrics, someone else’s thoughts. And although C.C. could lose herself in the rhythm—the steady beat that kept her grounded and focused—lately, she’d just wanted . . . More.So she’d tucked her ever-present drumsticks into the back pocket of her jeans, slipped her sunglasses back on, and followed Mac out into the chilly sunshine, answering questions she usually avoided. Well, C.C. avoided most questions, but for some reason, Mac’s easy manner made it a little easier to respond. To seem somewhat normal.“My mom started me with piano lessons when I was four,” C.C. told her as they bumped shoulders, avoiding a man pushing a cart loaded with sound equipment. “We all had to take them.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.“All?” “I have five siblings. One brother, four sisters.”“Wow.” Mac’s hazel eyes widened. “Big family.”“Yeah.” C.C. shrugged. “Anyway, I got my hands on a pair of sticks when I was seven, and I never looked back.” She glanced at the other woman. “How about you?”Mac smiled, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder. “I never played the piano,” she replied. “The violin was my first—and I still play—but there’s just something about the bass, you know?”And C.C. did know. She’d heard it from bass players before. “It’s the groove,” she said.Mac’s eyes lit up as she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Exactly. It’s not the lyrics or the melody or any of that stuff on the surface. It’s the thing down deep that makes people want to dance.” She gave a little hip shake and C.C. laughed.“Yeah,” she said. “I get it.” It’s the same reason she loved the drums, after all. “So, lunch.” Mac turned in a small circle, scanning the surroundings. “Any suggestions?”C.C. reached for her sticks and tapped them idly on her legs before she spotted a familiar neon sign across the street. “Sally’s is pretty good,” she replied. “Decent burgers and the milkshakes are real ice cream.”Mac’s nose wrinkled slightly, but she nodded. “Sally’s it is.” C.C. slid her sunglasses up onto the top of her head as they entered the diner, dimly lit by
flickering fluorescents gleaming off the faded red vinyl booths and Formica table tops. Whether it was a nod to the kitsch of days gone by, or an actual fifties diner that had endured through the years, C.C. wasn’t certain. But the food was decent and cheap, so it was a popular choice of the local musicians. They slid into a booth near the back and the waitress showed up, pouring them both coffee and taking their orders. “So, what’s C.C. stand for, anyway?” Mac asked as she frowned at the black sludge in her cup. “If you don’t mind me asking.”“I don’t mind,” C.C. replied. “It’s Cecilia Clemente.” She frowned. “Kind of a mouthful.” Her shoulders hunched up a bit as she waited for Mac’s response.To her surprise, the woman huffed out a laugh. “You think that’s a mouthful? Try Mira Annice Cunningham.” She said the name with a haughty expression, her nose lifted as she peered down at C.C.It took her a moment. “Mira Ann—ahhh,” she said, nodding slowly. “Mac.”Mac tapped her nose before perusing the little tub of sugar and sugar alternatives. “Hmm,” she said with a frown, choosing a packet of C&H and dumping it into her coffee. She took a sip, then shoved it away and gulped down some water.C.C. tasted her own coffee, and it seemed fine, if a little strong. She decided not to say anything about it.“So, about this band,” she said instead, smoothing out Mac’s list on the tabletop. “You think it’s the real deal?”“I think it could be,” Mac replied. “It will be. With you and me bringing the groove.” She winked, her eyes looking more green under the fluorescent lights.“An all-girls country band.” C.C. leaned back and fiddled with her drumsticks, tapping them lightly on the rim of her cup. “Could be fun.”“It’ll be epic,” Mac said. “I have the number. I can call and set it up so we can audition together.”The idea of auditioning made her a little nervous, but somehow the idea that Mac would be there eased it a bit. Maybe this could work. A band. She eyed Mac carefully.A friend. “So what do you say, Ceece?” she said. “Come on. It’ll be fun. And I think they need us.”C.C. felt oddly warmed by the nickname, and a flicker of something twitched in her stomach. Not anxiety. Not really.No, it was something more. Something like anticipation. Excitement.She chewed her lip as Mac watched her, waiting. Then she grinned.“Okay,” C.C. said. “I’m in.”
(And the rest, as they say, is history. You can read about their audition in Rissa's Rebel Heart by Sydney Logan!)