Chapter 3
KATE
NEW GIG, NEW CITY
“I’m standin’ on hallowed ground/Where the brave have fought and the lost are found.” Kate Riggs
It feels good to be here. I need to leave the past where it belongs—in the past. But it’s easier said than done.
The thing about men like Wade is that they don’t show up empty-handed. Not at first.
They show up with charm and “potential.” With big talk and half-built dreams. They make you think you’re building something together. Like you’re a team, and their ambition matches yours.
But eventually, you realize you’re just the gas in their tank. I’m the meal they keep returning to because they know I’ll feed them. And I do because I’m nice like that.
Wade used to say, “When I make it, you’ll never have to lift a finger.”
Meanwhile, I was lifting everything: rent, groceries, date nights, and his ego. Every time the world knocked him down, I built him up. It became a full-time job.
I paid for his weed when he said he needed to “relax before a game.” I paid for his future as the quarterback while he watched me work to make something of myself.
The night I left him, he had the nerve to call me selfish.
Said I was “changing.” Like that was some kind of crime.
And maybe to him it was. But I grew tired of dating someone who was a dead weight in designer sneakers, being the only one who knew how to budget a dream. And at night, I would lie awake, running the pros and cons of him through my head, wondering why I was still with him.
Why did he have to treat my passion for music like it was a threat and not a gift?
Now, when men look at me like I’m the prize, I clock the hunger behind their eyes.
Some want the shine. Some want the shortcut. But none of them want me, the real me. I don’t blame them. I didn’t grow up with much. Daddy only came around when he needed money to gamble or pay for a night at a homeless shelter so he could take a shower.
I know better than to trust anything a man says. Mama still falls for every line. But me? I will smile and keep my wallet zipped and my heart zipped tighter, and my legs crossed.
I’m done being someone’s quick ride to being relevant. I’m done dating men who see me as a meal ticket instead of a partner. I worked too damn hard to climb out of the hollow to let another man hitch a ride on my back.
From now on, if someone wants to stand next to me, they’d better already be standing on their own.
The lights blind me before the first note ever leaves my lips.
It’s always like this—too bright, too loud, and overwhelming. But when I step up to the mic, heels planted, and my heartbeat thudding in time with the bass, everything stills. I don’t see the crowd. Not really. Just silhouettes, phone screens, a sea of mouths already waiting to be fed.
They want heartbreak. They want to feel something. And lucky for them, I’ve got plenty of it living in Pine Hollow. I might be young, but in a trailer park, dreams mostly die on the wooden floorboards.
I can feel the heat of the stage lights baking into my shoulders, even though it is warm enough without them. Vegas nights don’t cool down the way people said they did. They get darker and louder.
The field is dressed like a dream—glowing fairy lights overhead, golden moonlight rippling across the sea of people. The air is filled with a soft hum of anticipation that buzzes under my ribs like a caffeine rush.
This isn’t my usual scene. But tonight, I am the voice before the voice.
The crowd stretches out before me, clustered in the open-air arena. The summer breeze greets me like a long-lost friend. I take a deep breath, inhaling this moment before I step up to the mic.
Rose Maghee, my teenage idol. And I’m opening for her!
There’s a moment before you speak into a mic — when the air is holding its breath, and so are you — that feels like I’m standing on a ledge.
It’s not fear, exactly. It’s the anticipation of becoming someone people are about to look at, listen to, and, if I’m lucky, maybe even remember.
I’ve seen Rose live in that space like it’s her home.
For me, it’s still a possibility that’s buzzing.
People stand fanned out across the courtyard, drinks in hand, laughter in the corners, and the energy is coiled tight enough to snap. The lights are soft amber and gold, framing the stage in a way that makes everything look a little too magical to be real. Vegas knows how to dress for a moment.
I step up to the mic.
“Hey y’all,” I say, steady and clear. My voice is warm, as if I’ve practiced it for years, but I haven’t.
Shay always says ‘fake it until you make it,” and tonight, that’s what I’m doing.
I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve the billing under Rose’s name.
I don’t deserve the fancy hotel room. But I’m willing to earn it. “How’s everybody feeling tonight?”
A roar rolled back at me, louder than I expected. Good. They’re excited. I look out, and everything is a blur with lights colored like confetti. They’re here for Rose, not me. But maybe if I sing perfectly, they’ll like me.
“I’m Kate,” I said nervously. This is a huge venue, and it scares the Bejesus out of me. I keep my feet moving, or my nervous knees will lock. I’m almost afraid to take a step, fearful that I’ll trip over an electrical wire to the speakers. But I shake it off. I adjust my sweaty hand on the mic.
“I have the honor of getting this party started. I know you didn’t come here to listen to me ramble, so I’ll keep this sweet and Southern.”
There is scattered laughter. Good. I’m breaking the ice. They’re listening now, not just hearing me, they’re listening.
“I want to thank the person who brought us all together tonight,” I said, letting the room settle into my words. “The one and only, the woman who turns every event into something unforgettable — Rose Maghee!”
That name hits like a match. The field comes alive — clapping, cheering, and even a few people standing up to show her they meant it.
And there she is, walking out on stage, glowing in red silk and dripping with rhinestones, waving like royalty but winking like your favorite cousin at a family cookout.
I give her a nod, grinning. “You throw one hell of a party, Rose.”
She blows a kiss back at me before she leaves.
“Now,” I say, lifting my voice a little, letting it settle into something low and teasing, “I just have one question for y’all…”
The crowd leans in.
“Are you ready… for some country music tonight?”
That does it.
The noise hits like a stampede. Applause crashes into whistles, whoops, and a chorus of “hell yeah” that echoes off the hotel walls. People raise their drinks, phones flash, and someone near the bar lets out a cowboy yell that makes half the crowd laugh.
I just stand there, soaking it in. For a second, I’m not the warm-up act. I’m not the quiet girl who sometimes gets mistaken for someone’s assistant. I am the center of attention.
Vegas has a way of making everything feel shinier than it is. But this moment? This feels real.
And it is mine.
I can’t imagine anything making me happier, except perhaps the love of a man who sees me for me and loves me anyway.
I wait a beat to let the cheers settle just enough to tell myself that I’ve made it. I’m not rolling in Benjamins, but I’ve made it to the first mountain top. The rest? I’ll have to climb them all, one at a time.
“And if y’all are lucky,” I add, letting my voice dip into something a little more playful, “you might just catch a little surprise later tonight. Vegas doesn’t sleep, and neither do we.”
That gets whistles. Applause. Light but eager. A few hoots from the back, many are drinking from Red Solo Cups, which are making a line as if it’s a salute.
“Now,” I say, settling back into my rhythm, “I gotta ask the question every girl in boots has asked in this city — are y’all ready for some country music tonight?”
The crowd howls. Pure release. A wave of cheers that hit my skin like heat. Phones lit up, people raised their drinks, and I knew I had them in the palm of my hand.
From just off stage, I catch a glimpse of Shay — standing in the wings, already dressed in an outfit that looks like it was stitched together from rebellion and moonlight. Her eyes are locked on me. Not judging. Just…watching. Like maybe she forgot for a second that I could do this.
I take a breath so deep it cracks something in my chest, then I let the first lyric slide out slow, smooth, like honey off a spoon.
It’s a song about the boy who said I was too much and still left me feeling like I’m not enough.
It’s about motel goodbyes and lipstick on bathroom mirrors.
It’s about all the little ways a person can disappear and still sit next to you at dinner.
The crowd leans in, listening to my backstory. They think it’s just performance. They don’t know it’s a confession in real time.
I wrap my hands around the mic like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, and it is.
The music swells, and I let it carry me—letting the ache in my voice rise with the chorus.
Raw and unapologetic. I don't try to sound perfect. I sound honest because that’s who I am, and that’s what they’re here for. That’s what they clap for.
By the second verse, they’re singing with me. Drunk on their own hurt. Strangers screaming the words I wrote at 2 a.m. on the floor of a shitty hotel room with cigarette burns in the carpet. They don’t know where the song came from, but they know exactly how it feels.
The bridge hits like a punch, and I close my eyes for a moment. I’m not in Vegas. I’m not in this dress. I’m seventeen again, barefoot in a hayfield, screaming into the sky because I didn’t have the words to write them down.
But now I do. And they love me for it.
When the song ends, there’s a beat of silence before the roar.
The noise is the kind that shakes one straight through the bones.
Phones go up, hands clap, and whistles scream like fireworks.
But the part that sticks is the silence right before it—the way they held their breath with me, like we were all hanging off the same edge together, is priceless.
I smile. But it’s not the one I wear in interviews. This one’s real. They think I’m singing about heartbreak.
What they don’t know is—I’m singing my way out of it.