Whiskey clapped her hands excitedly.  "I love them!  Oh, I'd love to do 'If Looks Could Kill.'  You would be great on the guitar.  We'd rock the house down!"<br/><br/>Once her excitement settled, she looked at him seriously.  "I've tried my hand at writing a few songs...but what I think I need is a collaborator.  You know, two heads are better than one, they say."  She smiled.  Jeri knew people were surprised when they met her away from the stage.  In truth, she was a quiet person, a good friend, a good companion.  But once she put on her stage clothes, she became Whiskey, the South's Version of Tough Love.  Nothing made her blood run hot more than hard metal acoustics.  Often, after a three-hour concert, she would be so high on her music she would take up with the first groupie or musician that crossed her path, practically dragging him into her bus.  Of course, that was not a part of her life she was particularly proud of, but it was like needing a fix.  She was addicted to music, the drug of her choice, and a man was her rehab, bringing her down slowly.  But she was trying to change.  When things got out of hand the last time, her band imploded.<br/>