Chapter 30
KNOX
Closing night in Vegas doubles as the tour opener.
The marquee says so. The crew shirts say so.
My inbox says so. We’ve packed the rooms, paid out the bonuses, signed off on the last invoices from the residency, and loaded the first cases for the road.
The bus for Lou is parked in the service bay with fresh tires and a desk bolted down exactly like she wanted. It smells like new carpet and tape.
It’s bright fucking pink. Not my choice. Not my call. She loves it. That’s all I care about.
I start the day with a list and a checkmark pen.
Stage plot printed. Comms tested. Backup power verified.
Security briefed with the TRO and the updated names list. Meet and greet set for ninety minutes after the show, no deviations.
The lobby screens run the new opener reel Lou cut last night.
I watched it once. It’s lean and clean. Our girl does immaculate work.
Lou shows up at soundcheck with her laptop and a coil of tape on her wrist. Tank top.
Black jeans. A trademark pencil behind her ear.
She flags one lens shift, and Salem slides the stand a hand’s width.
Houston hums into the ribbon. I walk the room with a radio and a metronome in my pocket, making note of two squeaks and one light that needs to be moved an inch.
We run “Locket” last in sound check because we’re closing with it.
Lou takes the mic for the whisper line because it’s her part now, and we don’t pretend it isn’t.
She looks calm. I know she threw up in a sink twice at rehearsal yesterday, so I’m glad to see her comfortable now. I hope it holds for tonight.
Backstage an hour before doors, I gather the band and the core crew for the last run of house rules before we take it outside this building. Security calls go to me first, and then the hotel. No surprises after ten. It’s muscle memory now, but it helps to hear it spoken.
Houston ties his ponytail and gives Lou a nod that says he hears her part in his head already. Salem bounces once and then stops himself because he can. I look at all three and feel the catch in my chest that hits before a show.
Doors at seven. The house swallows people like it always does. The opener does twenty-five and hits their mark. I can feel the floor through the soles of my shoes when the crowd’s weight shifts forward.
We walk on at nine sharp. I hit the downbeat, and the night becomes lines and bars.
The opener run of songs lands like it does when the set has been lived in for weeks.
It still hits. The projection mapping paints the back wall with the Sagebrush silhouette and a grid of notes so faint you only see it if you’re looking for it.
Halfway through the set, I check my hands. They’re steady. My chest still gets a flutter before I walk up to a mic to speak. I’ve done this for decades, and that never leaves. It’s useful. It keeps my sentences short.
We build to the last run. The lights drop, the stage breathes, and the hush lands. I step to the mic. “Before we close, I want to tell you where the last song came from.”
The room answers with quiet. Not silence. Listening.
“We made this record in a small studio on the edge of this city. It raised us. We go back there when we need to remember how to work. This song is about family and second chances. It’s about a home that is a person, not a place.”
I don’t look at Lou to my left. I don’t need to. “You’ll hear a voice on this one that you haven’t heard on this stage before. She’s part of us now. She helped us build this song and this album. Please welcome our Creative Director and our heart, Lou Navarro.”
She steps forward like she’s walking onto a train she meant to catch, and the crowd cheers. Houston gives her a small nod. Salem grins like a kid and then folds it away. I count the song off.
Houston’s voice sits on the piano. My hands know what to do without looking for it. Salem stays in his lane, bass guiding us. Lou’s whisper singing comes in on the first chorus, and I can feel the place where the room tilts toward her without her having to chase it.
On the last chorus, the phones go up, even though they’re not supposed to, and the voices come back at us in a way that makes the floor feel like it’s breathing.
Lou doesn’t look at the sea of screens. She keeps her mouth near the mic and her eyes low.
It looks like stagecraft, intimate. Calming.
The audience sways with her when she moves.
They love her.
The song ends, and the crowd cheers wildly for her. For us too, I imagine, but this is her night. I hear my own yes in my head and keep my face flat because we still have bows and walk-offs and an encore to run.
Offstage, Lou is breathing hard like she ran a mile. She’s smiling in a way that’s new for her, big and unguarded. It hits me like a freight train.
“That’s a rush,” she says, leaning a shoulder against the cinderblock wall, hand still on her in-ears.
“It comes natural to you.”
She laughs. “I threw up twice before I walked out there.”
I laugh too. “I still get nervous every time. I just hide it behind checklists.”
“So that’s what those are for?”
I nod and smile. “Makes me look important instead of nauseous.”
She reaches out, pulls me in by the shirt, and I kiss her. It’s not long. “I love you, Lou Navarro.”
“I love you too,” she says, like it’s obvious and should have been said on the way to load-in. “There is no one else but the three of you who could get me on a stage.”
Houston walks up with two bottles of water and a smile that knows exactly how hard she just did a thing. Salem bumps my shoulder with his and says, “Our heart,” just to make her roll her eyes. She rolls them and takes the water, and drinks half without stopping.
We do the encores and the last meet and greet because we promised it.
Winners of a radio thing. Venue VIPs. A couple of contest kids with markers and sleeves they want signed.
No new faces other than the list. Security checked IDs on the way in.
Quincy’s troll farm threats were fake, but not all of them were, so we keep it tight.
I stand in the line with my brothers and shake hands and look people in the eye and listen to the quick stories about how their cousin used our old song at a wedding or how their kid learned drums on a kit that barely stayed in tune.
I love hearing how our music affects people. Makes the craziness worth it.
We end the line on time. The tour manager we hired for the road closes the curtain and checks the list, and gives me a thumbs-up.
We move the last people out and walk the corridor to the dressing rooms. The crew is already half loaded.
The buses are half full. The show file is backed up three times and sent to the cloud.
More items off the checklist.
In the room, Lou sits on the arm of the couch with a piece of toast someone found and a look on her face like her brain is back to grids. “We should swap the second and third phrases on the projection for a couple of cities where the wall is brighter. It’ll read cleaner.”
“Workaholic, take a night off.”
“This coming from you?”
“Someone ordered me to relax. I think she should take her own advice.”
I step over and set a hand on the back of her neck and rub the way Tia the Chocolate Fairy did to me. Lou’s moaning in seconds. “Wow.”
“We’ll hit the spa before we leave the hotel.”
“Done.”
Mom texts a string of hearts and one note that says, you did good, baby.
Thanks, Mom. See you before we leave town?
I’ll be by in the morning.
The radio station that pushed the single sends a note saying the call-ins spiked when the whisper hit.
The label sends a bland congratulations that reads like it was approved by a committee.
The people who wanted the old masters were fired and/or arrested for the break-in.
The case is going to be messy, but that’s life sometimes.
Quincy is still fighting for his freedom in the case, and that thought makes me smile every day.
The four of us shower and tuck into Houston’s bed for the extra space.
It won’t always be like this. Not during a tour.
Tour time is crazy. One night bleeds into another.
You might do a little sightseeing between shows, or you might just sleep.
Lou mentioned that the tour with Troy was bare bones—he didn’t have the money to fund a good one.
So, I plan to make this one wipe out her memories of that first tour.
Same with her old life.
I can’t imagine what it takes to give up a child. The hardest circumstances, the worst situation. Has to be. No one does it for fun, certainly. It’s hard for me to not be angry with her parents. Stupid, I know. They could be dead for all we know.
But they hurt her, and that makes the primal, stubborn part of my brain very, very angry.
Lou snores. In the middle of the night, she sometimes burps in her sleep. I don’t think she knows that about herself. It’s funny every single time, because it wakes us up, and the three of us have to hold in our laughter so we don’t wake her.
She’s funny in ways I never see coming. Supportive in ways I don’t deserve. She sees the world differently from us. From me, especially. Yet she also understands me. It’s some kind of magic trick, and I never want to figure it out.
I’d rather there was magic in the world.
She snores against my chest, her face buried there. My arms are wrapped around her, and Houston spoons her, breathing deep. Salem lies on his back next to me, arm draped over his face, also snoring. She likes being stuck between us; it’s like she feels safer the more she’s buried in us.
We make her feel safe. It’s an honor I never expected.
I’m the last one awake. Typical. It’s my job to keep watch over this crazy family. I want to do it forever. I breathe deep. Peaceful. Sleep is coming. I kiss the top of her head, and she shimmies unconsciously. And burps.
I almost snort a laugh. Salem does. Houston takes a breath that could be a laugh. But we settle in tight, and the night takes us all.