Love You a Little Bit (The Birch Siblings #1)

Chapter 1

I swung my hips in time with Darla Rooney, the other half of Whiskey Wild. The music break in our popular up-tempo song “Shit Kickin’ Boots” always sent the fans wild. Especially when we danced and played our guitars in unison. After the break, we’d sing in melodic harmony about hitting the dusty streets and carousing with our friends on a summer’s night.

I’d known Darla since we were in cloth diapers. We’d been best friends forever and every memory I had included Darla by my side. She and I’d been preparing for sold out festivals like the Heritage Fest for years. Pretending the field behind my house was our stage, we’d shake our butts and kick our heels like we’d seen the superstars we idolize on television do. By high school we were no longer singing for fun in the back of my house. We attended farmers’ markets and fairs performing on the makeshift stages to crowds that were more interested in who was going to win the chili cook off and not our puppy dog love songs.

But you’ve heard that saying stay ready, so you don’t have to get ready. That was Whiskey Wild’s motto. So when we were approached by a music industry cat at one of those fairs where the main event was a pie-eating contest, we were more than prepared.

Now almost ten years later, we were the main event at the Heritage Music Festival in the California desert. Whiskey Wild had come a long way from singing to the horses in my family’s stable. As the song faded, we both rolled our bodies like snakes to the music. I kicked up a laugh, it never got old being on stage with my bestie. We fed off one another’s energy and it was always a good time with my sister from another mister at my side.

“How y’all doing out there?” I asked the crowd. They responded with rowdy cheers.

“We sure like partying with you all,” Darla said. “Don’t we, Fancy?”

“Well, we’ve always been known as good time girls. A little liquor, loud music, and handsome men, and we just go wild.” I winked playfully.

“Fancy, shh, that’s supposed to be a secret.”

“Come on Darla, I suspect we have quite a few good time girls in the audience.” There was a smattering of hoots. Jerking my shoulders, I continued, “I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong. Where’s my good time girls at?” Cheers exploded from the crowd and then the beat dropped to our first ever hit, “Good Time Girls.”

Darla flashed me a curled smile before she started the first verse. I accompanied her on the guitar, tapping my foot to the powerful beat. After her verse, I chimed in singing the second verse alone, my voice raspy and deep. At the chorus, Darla’s light and ethereal voice kicked in. The combination of our vocal tones brought the signature Whiskey Wild brand to life.

After our set we waved goodbye to hoots and hollers from the delighted crowd. “That was amazing,” I said, performing an excited little two-step. Being on stage playing our songs to sold- out crowds was the stuff of dreams for so long and even though we were currently living those dreams, I still had difficulty processing it all.

“Another great show,” my assistant, Moniece said.

I scanned the space backstage, searching for Chap. Dylan Chapman was our manager and my boyfriend. I never grew tired of saying those words. Chap was movie-star fine, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes I often got lost in. He also came from a long line of country royalty. The Chapman family had been selling out stadiums and collecting Grammy’s and Country Music Awards since before I was born.

“Are you looking for Chap?” Moniece asked in response to my darting eyes.

“Yes.” My mouth flashed a bashful smile. I was hooked and everyone knew it. But Chap’s personality was just as dreamy as he was.

“He was headed to the bus the last time we spoke,” Moniece said.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll come with you. I have to pee,” Darla said.

“There’s a porta potty right over there.” Moniece pointed.

“Eww, no. I don’t use communal toilets.” Darla hooked her arm through mine, and we were off.

My cowboy boots were firmly planted on the ground, but having people come up to you requesting an autograph like my signature held life changing properties, was thrilling. Growing up, I envisioned the stage, bright lights, and singing songs penned by me and my best friend. But it was these moments that meant the most; a young woman in a Whiskey Wild shirt, cut-off shorts, and pink cowboy boots telling me how our music saved her life by inspiring her to take the first step toward a new adventure. I can’t tell you how many fans mentioned on social media our song “Change of Scenery,” about leaving the comfort and security of all you knew and picking up stakes for new horizons, was the push they needed to move to a different city or end a toxic relationship.

Most of the time our music made you want to kick up your heels, but our ballads evoked unexpected emotions. The power of a well-written song could be a catalyst, and we tapped into music that listeners connected with. Maybe because they felt the honesty of childhood friends living our best lives and making our own rules. It also didn’t hurt that we were game changers. Two Black women from the south paving our own lane in this industry after discovering most of the roads that lead to Nashville were gated and our access summarily denied.

After signing several autographs and posing for pictures, we continued over the water parched grass. The first time we performed at Heritage a few years ago, Whiskey Wild was an opening act. I remember almost dying of heat stroke as the sun glared down on us. Luckily, we had misters. I don’t know how our spattering of fans managed. But today we were one of the main acts. Attendees didn’t stumble onto us performing while making their way to better known acts set. Nope, now crowds formed hours before our showtime to get the best possible spot.

“Today has kind of been a movie,” I trilled out.

“Yep, we’re a long way from Hume, Tennessee. Did you ever think we’d be here?”

“Yes, I always knew we’d be performing in front of screaming crowds one day.”

“Liar.”

“I swear. I’m not one to brag. But we’re talented as hell and we worked hard. We deserve everything we have coming our way. Awards, sold out arenas?—”

“Sexy groupies.” Darla giggled.

“I’ll leave the groupies to you. I already have all I can handle with Chap.”

“You’re such a cliché,” she teased.

“What do you mean by that?”

“The pretty country singer who falls in love with her manager. It’s a tale as old as time.”

“You know why it’s such a popular tale, because it’s tried and true.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic.”

I frowned her words away. Truthfully, falling for Chap was the most uncharacteristic thing I’d ever done. Since high school I kept potential love interest at bay because I wasn’t going to let my heart get me stuck in Hume Tennessee, a two-stoplight town with a Gas Guzzle Convenient Store and a Farm Basket chicken and ice cream spot. I was destined for bigger things. My future did not include carrying a baby on my hip while I waited for my husband to purchase horse feed.

But Chap wasn’t from a small town. He was from the city, and he was showing me things I’d only seen in the magazines I flipped through at Welborn’s Grocery Mart while shopping with my momma. Dining at fancy restaurants and hanging out with other celebrities as they trekked from one hot party to the other. You know that feature in Us Weekly called “Celebs Are Just Like Us”? I can guarantee you they are not. Most spent insane amounts of money and didn’t bat an eye at the thought of chartering a private jet just so they could go swimming in the crystal blue waters of the Seychelles.

Chap would often have to remind me I was a star and I needed to stop with the small-town girl attitude and lean all the way into my big boss energy. So I treated myself to an Aston Martin that often sat idle in the garage of my high-rise, luxury condo because we were always on the road. But when I was in Los Angeles, I would hit the freeway in my convertible roadster.

This festival was packed, Heritage was the biggest country music festival of the year. Every power player in the country music industry was in attendance or performing on stage. And it was a diverse gathering of acts with legacy artists like Rich Nickles, the country group Desdemona and new artists such as Josie Rae and Wyatt Harlow. Heritage was the festival any young country artist would offer up their left arm to attend. After our first appearance, our records sales saw a steady increase and doors we were once told were closed to us started to open. Late night television appearances, big budget videos, and features with country heavy weights.

“Just think in a few weeks we’ll start the final leg of our tour and then after that start working on the fourth album.” Our future was so bright it made my head spin.

“I still think we should call it Pitching a Fit,” Darla said.

“You know how this goes. We write the songs then we name the album.”

“Well can you write a song called Pitching a Fit so we can name the album after it?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I was the primary songwriter of the group. Darla mostly provided support and catchy ad-libs. Our next album needed to capture our growth as women and artist. My hope was to delve deeper into love and the complexities loving someone entailed. The good sign of an artist was being able to evolve from one project to the next. No one wanted four projects that all felt homogenized. This fourth album should be grown, sexy, and vulnerable.

We’d learned a whole lot in these past few years and there was an interesting story to be told. Plus, the fans and music journalists were all hoping for something big. When we were new there were no expectations, we could do whatever we wanted. I secretly missed that time because we could just riff and take risks. Now those big swings had to be planned and run by everyone at the record label before it was green lit, which stifled the creative process.

It took us several minutes to cross the patchy grass to get to the parking lot reserved for talent. When we finally rounded the corner of the line of trailers and buses that included ours, I was hot and sticky. Even at night the desert temperatures, which had been in the hundreds most of the day, cooled a bit at sunset, but not by much. The tour bus was emblazoned with our faces and group name in cursive. I told Chap I thought it was over the top, but he insisted that’s what country music was all about, bluster and big dick energy.

Upon entering the trailer, the cold air chilled my sweaty skin. I released a relieved sigh. Darla pushed past me on her way to the half bathroom. Grabbing a soda pop from the fridge, I headed through the bus toward the back in search of Chap. At the bedroom door, I could make out the faint sound of moans and giggling. You know the moment in the movies when the character’s life is about to change irrevocably? I was seconds from my “Oh Shit” moment. The voice in the back of my head told me to run. To get as far away from the bus as my feet could carry me.

I’d never been one to follow instructions. I reached out a shaky arm and when I opened the door, my world came tumbling down. You’re probably far smarter than me and can guess Chap was not alone in that room. He was butt-ass naked and balls deep into some pussy that was not attached to me. They didn’t even notice the door was open. Chap was just thrusting his pale ass off and telling this woman how good she felt. Words until this moment I’d only heard him utter in my ear.

My stomach turned. I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out.

Darla came up behind me and broke the silence. “What the fuck?”

Chap turned and all the blood drained from his face. The woman underneath him screamed at the presence of an audience. Jumping up, my boyfriend’s still erect penis bobbed up and down.

Chap lifted his arms in an attempt to tamp down what I’m sure he suspected was my rising rage. “Fancy, baby. This is not what it looks like.”

“It looks like you’re fucking around.” Darla’s expression was one of anger.

Chap climbed into his jeans. “Fancy, let me explain. She came on to me.”

So now he thought I was na?ve and a bitch he could sneak on? I should have commenced to whooping his ass within an inch of his life. But I was never my best when caught off guard. If I’d had a warning, I would’ve been prepared to eviscerate him with my words while raining down closed-fist punches that would leave lasting bruises. When confronted with the unexpected, I did the only thing that would allow me to save face and not give Chap and his side chick the satisfaction of witnessing me break down. My feet were already retreating, tears threatening to stream down my face. This fucking bastard. Why do men make you fall in love with them only to do some shit like this?

Chap pursued me hard. I was resistant to mix business with pleasure, but he was charming and handsome and as our manager he was an integral part of making our dreams come true. “If I was your man, I’d let you know every day what you meant to me.” His words when he was courting me. Shit sounded good then … real good. When I got to the bus door, I tossed a glance over my shoulder and witnessed Darla slapping Chap and screaming, “How could you do this?”

He didn’t lie. Today at eleven fifty-seven on a Saturday night, Chap showed me I meant nothing to him.