10. 10
Hayes
Now
S ince Outlaw is the headlining musical act, our set at the Nashville Holiday Music Festival doesn’t start until the evening, so the black Lincoln Town Car picks me up at my condo in the early afternoon.
As we drive down the alleyway and approach the black iron gate of the artist entrance, I’m immersed in nostalgia, remembering the first time Outlaw performed at the historic Ryman Auditorium.
Our first album was recorded but not yet released, and a larger artist asked us to open for them after their usual opening act cancelled at the last minute.
I’ll never forget that performance. It was electric. The Ryman isn’t huge, seating less than 2,500 people, but man, it’s sacred. It was originally a tabernacle, and performing on that hallowed stage feels like a religious experience every time.
Upon entry, I’m met by security, who escort me through the maze of dimly lit backstage hallways to the dressing room where Outlaw will hang out until we’re needed.
Along the way, I nod at people I recognize from the industry, stopping to chat with a few.
This is Outlaw’s first performance since our previous tour concluded, and I can’t wait to return to the stage.
The atmosphere back here is chaotic and loud, and it brings me back to the excitement I used to feel when we first started out.
Rowdy and James are already in our shared dressing room when I arrive, as are Charlotte and Aiden.
We’re still waiting on Dumber, but he texted the group chat that he’s running late, which isn’t unusual.
That boy will probably be late to his own damn funeral.
Charlotte and James are immersed in conversation with Aiden discussing the round of television and radio interviews that we have starting soon, so I sidle up to Rowdy.
“How’s it going, man?” I say, clapping him on the back.
"Great." His eyes flick to the side, where his wife is curled up on a couch, absently scrolling through her phone.
As if she can feel the weight of his stare, Bailey looks up.
Rowdy shoots her a curious glance, and she responds with a subtle nod.
It always amazes me how they can have an entire conversation from across the room without saying a word.
Turning back to me, Rowdy grins. “Bailey’s pregnant.” His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.
“No shit! Congratulations, man!”
I wrap him up in a bear hug before rushing over to do the same to Bailey. Lifting her off the couch, I twirl her in my arms, swinging her around. My exuberance earns me one of her charming laughs.
I am so damn happy for them. And if I'm honest, maybe a little jealous. As much as I want a family of my own, the older I get, the less possible it feels.
“If it’s a boy, you can always name him after me,” I suggest to Bailey with a cheeky grin.
"Fuck that," Rowdy yells.
"Well, you sure as shit aren't going to name him after you, Ralph ," I tease, calling Rowdy by his given name.
"Watch your mouth, asshole."
“Watch your language, both of you! Soon enough we’ll have children around,” she chides. Bailey's words are stern, but they’re spoken with a wide smile on her lips. She's used to playing referee to our immature brand of humor.
This is perfect timing for them too. With the upcoming release of Outlaw's fifth album, our current contract with the record company will be fulfilled. M their reactions totally stroked my ego.
Removing my guitar strap from my shoulder, I hand it to a stage crew member.
I slip my in-ear monitors from my ears and leave them dangling around my neck.
Another staffer hands me a towel and a bottle of water.
After chugging it, I drape the towel around my neck and wipe the sweat from my face.
I’m ready for a shower and a shot of whiskey. Not in that order.
“Hey Ruston, great show.”
I turn my head to acknowledge the guy. He looks like a record label suit. I don’t think I’ve met him personally, but he seems vaguely familiar. I can always tell how well I know someone based on whether they call me by my first or last name. Only those closest to me call me Hayes.
I lift my chin. “Thanks, man.”
Ambling back to Outlaw’s dressing room, I keep my head on a swivel, looking around on the off chance I’m able to spot the same woman I saw earlier. I'm sure she wasn’t Annabelle, but I’d love to see her again to confirm my assumption.
Unfortunately, she isn’t anywhere to be found.
However, there is a small cluster of beautiful women nearby, talking and laughing. One of them catches my eye. Pretty face, curvy frame, and espresso hair. When she notices me watching, she aims a coy smile in my direction and arches an eyebrow. An unmistakable invitation to approach.
For a moment, I’m tempted to pull her into the dressing room bathroom for a quickie. Nothing takes the edge off the post-show adrenaline like a good sexual release. But tonight, I’m not interested in meaningless sex.
Instead of a bathroom quickie, I simply smile at the brunette and keep walking.
Thinking about Annabelle is messing with my head. Just like it always does. I heeded Charlotte's warning last month, and I've kept my dick in my pants. But without having any other women to distract me, I’ve been thinking about Annabelle even more than usual.
One fucking night. We had one night together over a year ago, and her memory holds me captive. What the fuck is wrong with me?
A heavy arm drops onto my shoulders, corralling me into our dressing room. “We fucking blew it out of the house. Did you hear how excited they were when we played the new single? Sounds like we’ve got another hit on our hands. ”
Agreeing with James, I reply, “Shit, it felt good to be back out there again, didn’t it?”
“Indeed, it did. Got plans after this? Wanna stick around and find some groupies, or go somewhere and grab drinks?”
I decline. “Nah, thanks though. I’m trying to keep a low profile for Charlotte right now. She’s still mad about the leaked video.”
It’s a great excuse. No one needs to know I’m still hung up on Annabelle.
“Don’t worry,” James laughs. “Josh and I will get into trouble to take the heat off you.”
“I have no doubt.”
As James moves toward a group of women, I make my way to the beverage station and pour myself a tumbler of whiskey.
Tugging me away from the makeshift bar, Rowdy asks, his voice low, “What was that about earlier? Before the show, when you yelled Annabelle’s name?”
“I saw someone who reminded me of her.” I shake my head. “It wasn’t her, obviously, but for that split second, I thought it was.”
Rowdy looks at me with concern. “She’s still on your mind? Even after all this time?”
Dammit.
After I’d exhausted every effort to find her, I put the kibosh on all things Annabelle. When we finished writing and recording the album—an album she unknowingly inspired—I told Rowdy the songs had helped purge her from my system.
That was a lie, but I hoped someday it would become the truth.
“A bit.” A bittersweet thought makes the corners of my mouth twitch. “Like the song says, I still think about her every now and then.”
Or more accurately, all the fucking time. Playing the music from the new album is a constant reminder of her and our time together. Try as I might, I can’t escape the memories of her because they haunt me like a curse.
Rubbing his beard, Rowdy eyes me pensively. “Do you think you’re romanticizing your night with her a bit too much? Y’all fucked for one night, and it’s like she ruined you for all other women.”
Gruffly, I reply, “I know, Rowdy, I know. Everything you’re saying, I already know.”