CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cassie
Five Months Later—February
The Rustic Chords Music Festival logo stares back at me while I take a swallow of straight tequila.
I close my overflowing notebook of lyrics and half songs, tapping my pen on the top as I hum the tune that plays on a loop in my brain, knowing I won’t be able to come back to it until later.
The reoccurring desire to be on a warm front porch somewhere with my feet up while I write, instead of in a dimly lit dressing room, is a yearning I can’t let go of.
But, today, I push it down. I have to. Because there’s no sense in wanting something I can’t have.
The crowd beyond the stage is electric in the warm California air, as a fellow Tennessee native and growing country star, Evan Woods, finishes up his set.
I’m next, and I’m trying to find the energy for this show.
I’m exhausted. I’ve been up since five-thirty.
We drank too much last night at the preshow, and alcohol never mixes well with my anxiety.
Just the sounds of the crowd and the thought of the after—the feeling when the show ends and I hit my anxiety hangover—make my palms tingle.
Sometimes the anticipation of that is worse than the feeling itself.
Another swig of tequila dulls my nerves.
I’ve always been anxious about performing, but these days it takes this double shot of liquor just to get onstage. Because with the spotlight comes the scrutiny.
The more my latest song grew in popularity, the more the internet filled with piranhas waiting to tear me to shreds.
There are days it feels like those trolls have taken every last drop of confidence from me with their awful words.
I try not to read the comments about how my music sounds too much like Sierra Ferrell’s or Lainey Wilson’s, that I’m nothing but a knockoff.
I try not to hear the ones talking about my thick thighs and cellulite when I wear skirts onstage.
Or the “awkward” way I move when I’m playing guitar and singing at the same time.
I set the tequila down, knowing my stomach is going to hate me for it later.
But I’m up next and this crowd is huge. This is the second-largest festival I’ve played since last summer.
The headliner, Luke Bridges, is the fastest rising country star in the US.
Dax says that I’m moving up in the world, because tonight Luke is going to make an appearance for my last song to surprise the crowd and sing it with me. It was his idea.
I check my phone now and answer a good luck text from the group chat with my mom and sister with a smiley face and a “kiss my niece.” Ever since the one-night stand with Haden that rocked my world I’ve been doing my best not to talk to Ivy too much.
Hearing stories from the ranch reminds me of him.
And I haven’t been able to go a day without thinking of him since we met.
I ran that night. The way he made me feel, the way he looked at me …
it shook me to my core. The instant connection, the way he held every ounce of power I usually possess in his hands.
I wasn’t lying when I told him I hate awkward goodbyes.
It’s easier to cut the tie, to run the other way.
With Haden, that took a lot. I’ve been ready to text Ivy and ask her for his number on countless occasions.
Just to see how he is, to let him know it was because of me that I ran, not him.
But the idea of getting close to someone when this is my life?
Constantly moving from city to city. Owned by my publicist and my manager.
Drowning in my own personal sea of self-doubt and imposter syndrome.
It wouldn’t be fair to him or to me. It’s easier for us both if all we ever have is that one incredible night together.
Only, I can’t shut my emotions off with logic.
Which means I now have this notebook full of songs, one of which was the fifth-most streamed song in country music last month.
Running from Haden when I’m singing about him night after night is proving harder than expected.
“You ready, sugar?” Dax asks, appearing out of nowhere behind me.
He’s a tall, thin man of thirty-five and looks more preppy and posh than country.
But he booked me shows no one else could when I was nobody and, in his words, he always makes sure I’m “taken care of.” His perfectly pressed jeans fit him like they cost more than mine, and they probably did.
If there’s one thing Dax is good at it’s spending money.
I try to stand and smooth out my purple leather pants and matching top.
The heavy buckle at my waist digs in but it’s fitting better after the last few months of being on the road and constantly being on my feet in four-inch heels.
I try to take a deep breath as the thirty thousand people in the audience who are crowding the stage explode for Evan. But peace doesn’t come.
“I just need a minute,” I say, loosening my buckle for a second and taking a seat on one of the benches backstage.
“Uh … Cassie, we don’t really have a second. Luke is on a tight schedule and you don’t want to get behind during this set.”
Dax picks up the bottle of tequila I just set down. His brow furrows and his gel-slicked hair glimmers in the neon lights as he hands it to me.
“Here.” He nods toward the tequila. “It’ll get you up there at least, and once you’re there, you’ll fall right into your set.”
I nod and take the bottle from him, knocking back another straight shot.
“I know you’re burning the candle at both ends.”
He’s putting it mildly and we both know it.
Dax has had me booked for shows in seventy-one cities since November.
I spent Christmas Day at Bob Evans with my band.
I’ve written and recorded almost an entire album.
I’ve done more podcasts, interviews and charity events than I can count.
Anything to get my name out there. Anything to get eyes on me.
I don’t remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep that wasn’t on a bus or in a hotel.
Or even the last time I went to bed without a few shots of something under my belt.
I haven’t been to my apartment in Nashville since December.
My body screams at me daily that this can’t continue, but Dax says we need to ride the wave.
My first song, “Friday Night Lights,” hit the Billboard Top 100 last fall, and my follow-up surprise release “Your Truck” has skyrocketed up the charts.
It’s a song Highway Radio called “moving, a tale of memories and lost love.” I wrote it in two days on the road and recorded it in October at a studio in Nashville.
That song alone has seen me gain more than half a million followers on the ChordShare music streaming platform, and over fifty thousand followers on my socials.
“Two more shows and you’ll get a short break from the road.
You can take some time, wind off the whiskey a little.
We’ll head into the studio and finish up that album.
Oh, did I tell you I heard back from Wyatt Santos?
He wants to work with you on ‘A Darker Kind of Stride.’” That’s the song I just finished writing in my hotel room in El Paso. Or was it San Antonio?
I shake my head. “No, you didn’t.”
“Come on,” he says, helping me to fix my belt. I let him, raising my arms as he pulls it so tight my breath hitches.
“Deep breath, smile for the cameras, and when Luke comes out, let him have his moment. They’re replaying this whole festival on OnAir,” Dax says, mentioning the most popular online streaming channel for concerts.
I nod, pushing away thoughts of the negative things the internet could say if I mess this performance up or if my ass looks too jiggly on camera or the inevitable “is she pregnant?” comments when the natural curve of my stomach shows.
My band starts moving around me. Darren, my drummer; Cherry, my new guitarist; and Shawn, my banjo player.
We gather together and say a few words, before Shawn says “One, two, three, Cassie Spencer and The Spin,” and we all echo, “The Spin.” We make our way out onstage just as the announcer calls out that we hail from bluegrass country deep in the heart of Tennessee.
In truth, I come from a trailer park in Jellico but that doesn’t sound so appealing.
The buzz of the tequila takes over and I pick up my Fender acoustic and grip the mic in my hand as I hum the tune to “Your Truck” in a bid to calm my nerves.
The crowd roars as I fuss with my in-ear monitors. Another flash of that night months ago washes over me. But it’s easier to forget about Haden once the tequila kicks in. Someone rushes behind me and plugs my ears into my mic pack. Reality comes rushing back again.
“How y’all doing tonight?” I ask as the crowd erupts. I see nothing but shiny cell phone lights and the hot pink spotlight that bathes me.
“Y’all ready to have some fun?” I call out before turning to my band, then back to the crowd. “I don’t normally start with a cover but, when in Cali, I say one must always, always sing ‘Hotel California.’ And eat In-N-Out. Am I right?!”
The crowd cries out as I play the opening strings of the Eagles’s hit on my guitar. The air is electric, filled with the smell of weed and sweat. There are so many people it amazes me how this has been put together in a field in the middle of nowhere. Instant concert. Just add water.
Everyone sings along to the cover and, when I’m done, I begin to move through my own six-song set.
They’re all tracks from my upcoming first album, and I save “Friday Night Lights” for second to last. I have tears in my eyes, as the majority of the crowd knows every single word, and I allow the music to flow through me.
The light from a thousand cell phones blurs my vision as I prepare to wrap up my set and have Luke join me.
“I love you all so much! Thank you for being with us tonight!” I say into the mic, sweaty and breathless. The crowd cheers but I continue on. “As a thank you for coming out, we’ve got one more for you.”
A roadie rushes out to help me reset my mic and hand me a different guitar.
I make my way to the edge of the stage and sit right in the middle, my leather-clad legs hanging over the edge.
There is a group of security guards and a few feet between me and the mass of people pushed against the rail.
They all wave frantically at me, smiley and tipsy.
I wave back and put my finger to my lips to signal that I’m about to start.
The crowd hushes and I begin the slow steady twang of “Your Truck” before they go wild again.
It’s an acoustic track, so my band is silent and the spotlight floods me where I sit at the front of the stage.
I strum the opening chords before I begin to softly sing the first verse.
I told you I’d play you for the whiskey,
So we let the neon be our guide,
You said “good girls drink sangria,”
So we ordered some Line 39.
I’ve seen those eyes in my dreams,
Something about them, always haunting me.
All the words you whispered were just a lie,
There’s no answer, there’s only time.
One night and your truck,
You had no heart but you left your mark on mine.
I sing the next verse with just my guitar.
Acoustic always goes over well, and transforms the crowd into a sea of light.
It used to fuel me. But now, I have to push down the stress of knowing there are so many phones recording me.
I bring myself back to the moment as Luke enters from stage left and joins in with the chorus.
The sound of the crowd at his approach is deafening.
Luke harmonizes with just a cordless mic as he saunters on with his cool, collected swagger and takes a seat on the edge of the stage right beside me.
He pulls me in for a side hug and I smile at him as he finishes the chorus.
This is the first time he’s hit the stage tonight, and with the crowd so close behind the rail, the atmosphere around us vibrates.
My heart thunders in my chest and I can’t tell where the crowd ends and I begin as we sing the next verse together.
By the time we hit the bridge and the chorus again, I’m singing from muscle memory because I can’t hear a thing.
One night and you … your truck … your heart … left its mark on mine.
Yeah, your truck and your heart left a mark on—
An abrupt crunching metal sound stops me from finishing the line as the metal rail five feet from us topples over and the crowd lurches forward, bridging the gap between them and us.
What happens next is instant, though it feels as if I’m watching it in slow motion.
Hordes of people rush against the stage, reaching for Luke, grabbing my legs, my hand, my guitar.
One second there’s a safe space between us, the next what feels like hundreds of bodies are pressed against me, pinning me to the cold metal edge of the stage.
I’m trying to crawl, or just move, but I can’t.
I feel Luke being pulled away and his strong hand gripping my shoulder but my legs are pinned, and I slip out of his grasp.
I look around frantically as screams ensue.
These people are wild, pushing other people down, trampling, climbing, doing anything to get to safety.
And all the while I’m paralyzed as they threaten to pull me down, using me for leverage.
Pain stabs my inner arm and then someone is tugging at me from behind.
The feeling of the stage digging into the backs of my knees makes me cry out.
I open my eyes just as I feel multiple people free my body from the crowd.
A sort of haze takes over as my gaze lands on a woman on the ground in front of me.
She’s face down and just as helpless as I am.
I only catch glimpses of her as people panic, pushing and stepping on her, but at one point, she is able to lift her head and we lock eyes for a brief second.
She reminds me of Ivy in that moment, before her face is shoved back down by someone’s boot.
I’m screaming “Help her!” but no one is.
Fights have broken out. It’s chaos, and that poor woman in front of me is being trampled further into the ground like she isn’t even there.
“Help her,” I scream again as I’m being dragged off the stage.
I look down to see blood before everything goes black.