Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
LOU
I don’t remember the last time I didn’t have a headache. It’s like white noise. Elevator music. Always there, just quiet enough to ignore—until it threatens to explode.
Like right now.
I press my fingers against a pressure point at the base of my hand, willing myself to stay calm as I sit in my F-150, parked in the dirt lot of Donegal’s Bar, halfway between Sugar Maple and Mullet Ridge, South Carolina. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and listen to my tour manager’s latest update.
“I don’t care if my monitor engineer dropped out of the tour three days before the first show,” I say, pinching the pressure point in my hand a little too hard. I shake it out. “I get final approval on anyone we add to the crew.”
“Lucy, it might be in your contract, but I’m juggling a hundred different balls getting ready for the tour. We don’t have time to let you interview every sound tech who applies.”
“A monitor engineer isn’t just some sound tech, Manny,” I say, keeping my voice even. I’ve only been rehearsing for a few weeks, but I’ve already figured out that a monitor engineer is the difference between sounding incredible and sounding like an out-of-tune garage band. And since I’ve never performed for an arena crowd in my life, I need the best.
Manny sighs. “Okay, but you should know there aren’t many people willing to embark on a six-month tour with some of your … stipulations.”
“They’re non-negotiable. No drugs. No distractions. No chaos.”
I can almost hear him slamming his head against whatever wall he’s closest to. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Manny.”
When he hangs up, I pop two Excedrin and breathe slowly, willing the medicine to work faster than humanly possible. This is my last night with my friends before my life completely changes, and I refuse to let pre-show drama ruin it. I channel a smile—a real one, even through the blooming pain—and step out of the truck just as my friends arrive.
“LOU!” Ash cries, tackling me in a hug. Her cinnamon-brown curls smother me as she squeezes tight. “I’m going to miss you so much!”
I laugh. “You have backstage passes to Columbia and Charleston this week.”
“It won’t be the same, and you know it.” She loops her arm through mine as our friends Jane, Millie, and Parker join us, and together, we head inside.
We all share a middle name—Jane—except for Jane herself, who doesn’t have a middle name at all. It’s a strange quirk of fate that bound us together in college. A few years ago, we started our own marketing agency. Well, they started it. As the lawyer, I’ve been the least involved in the agency work, but it gave me time to secretly build my music career online. And when I say secretly, I mean secretly . I pulled a full-on Hannah Montana—nobody knew who I really was until a few months ago.
I signed a massive record deal before ever playing a live show. Now I’m about to launch a major tour, and it’s all happening so fast, I barely have time to process it.
Lucy Jane, at your service.
But my friends call me Lou.
Donegal’s Bar is dimly lit and decorated with Celtic signage that lets you know it takes its Irish pub aesthetic very seriously. I’ve never been here before, but Ash’s boyfriend is tight with the owners, and she leads us confidently inside.
“What’s past that door?” I ask her, nodding toward a set of interior double doors.
“The lounge,” she says. “A lot of great bands play there. The 77’s did a couple of months ago.”
I look at her in surprise. “They’re opening for me on tour. Why would they play a honky-tonk Irish pub?”
Ash shrugs. “Patty.”
My stomach does an involuntary flip.
No. No fluttering.
“How so?” I ask.
“He’s a total music snob. Went to the New England Conservatory of Music.”
That stops me cold. “Patty did? That’s one of the best music schools in the country.”
I try to square that with the man I met over the summer. The guy who helped break down the stage after my concert and barely spared me a glance. I didn’t even apply to NECM because I was afraid I’d get rejected. And he went there?
“I know,” Ash says. “Musicians call him, asking if they can play here. It’s like a rite of passage for Southern rock bands. You should check with your mom.”
The butterflies in my stomach drop dead.
Not because I don’t love my momma.
Because I’m terrified I’ll never live up to her.
“Winona Williams knows all,” I say lightly, forcing a smile.
“That’d make a great TV show,” Jane says from across the table. “Winona Williams Knows All.”
“I’d watch it,” Millie agrees.
“Me too,” I say, trying not to think too hard about it. But my headache pounds harder. When the server comes to take our orders, I get nothing but soup and a giant Dr Pepper Zero, which means my friends immediately know something’s up.
“You have a migraine?” Parker asks.
“It’s nothing,” I say, pushing back from the table. “I’m just gonna hit the ladies’ room. Be right back.”
After a quick bathroom break, I round the corner back into the bar and stop short. I see a shaggy mess of brown hair. A white T-shirt stretched across a broad chest.
Patty.
And those traitorous butterflies come right back to life, swirling like a tornado.
I glance at my table. I could walk away. I should walk away. My biggest tour rule is no distractions.
Not that Patty could be a distraction. I leave town tomorrow morning so my band and I can rehearse at the venue.
If I can only get a monitor engineer.
I slump onto a stool and press my fingers to my scalp, massaging away the tension.
“Bad day?” a voice drawls, smooth and smoky as burnt molasses.
Oh. Oh my.
I missed his voice the first time we met, when I called him “a roadie for hire.” I was too distracted by the way he managed to hide in plain sight, in spite of how attractive he could be … if you could notice him at all.
How did I miss that voice?
I lift my head and meet Patty’s eyes, and he reacts by blinking twice. Something tells me that’s straight up shock in the language of Patty.
“You could say that,” I tell him.
He pours a drink for someone and turns back to me. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing.” I nod toward my table. “I have a Dr Pepper waiting for me.”
“All right,” he drawls. Someone gets his attention on the opposite end of the counter. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I’ll take a monitor engineer, if you have one of those handy.”
He stills. His hand tightens around a glass for half a second before he gestures for another bartender to cover him. Then he turns back to me, amber eyes sharp.
“What would you need a monitor engineer for?” His voice is steady, but something thrums beneath it.
I let the moment stretch, watching the curiosity creep in, watching him almost take a step closer, like he’s toeing the edge of something dangerous.
“I’m a musician,” I say. “My tour starts this week.”
Something flickers in his gaze. Then it’s gone. “I was packing up your concert over the summer.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re Lou …” His brow furrows.
“Williams. But I perform as Lucy Jane.”
“Ah.” His eyes rove over my face, not in a “shoot, this girl’s hot” kind of way, but rather a “there’s something familiar about her” kind of way. And I can see the moment it clicks. “You’re Winona Williams’ daughter.”
“Guilty,” I say, acting as though it doesn’t bother me, like I’m not already tired of how often I’m going to have this conversation in the coming months and years.
He doesn’t blink, though. Doesn’t react at all. I don’t know what I expected when he made the connection, but it’s not this, this … utter disregard. Frustration builds in me, though I don’t know why. We don’t know each other. I don’t need to impress him.
Yet, somehow I hear myself add, “But no one knew I was her daughter until after I got my record deal. Including the label. I earned it.”
“Good for you.” He says it without a hint of sarcasm. Flat, yes, but not cruel. Just quiet. Like he’s not sure what to do with the information—or with me. For a second, something flickers behind his eyes, gone before I can name it. “Well, good luck with the tour.”
That’s it? No double take? No curiosity? I should be relieved—but instead, my jaw tenses. “Ash told me bands come through fairly often. Ever run sound for ‘em?”
He takes someone else’s order, and, with the patience of a cat watching a mouse, I wait for him to get a glass, pour, and take payment.
“Your music … it ain’t my scene,” he finally admits.
I swallow. I bet he was a huge fan of my momma’s. A purist. Not someone who likes the blend of pop-folk-indie I bring to the country scene.
But because I’m me, I push him anyway. Maybe it’s because I’m desperate. Maybe it’s because he’s the only person who doesn’t seem dazzled by the name “Lucy Jane.”
Or maybe it’s just habit—prove myself, win the challenge, move on.
“Well, that’s too bad,” I say, clicking my tongue. “Because I hear you’re quite the music fan, and I’m performing at Hot Strings Hall with Connor Nash in three months.”
Patty goes still.
Not just still—frozen. It’s like someone pressed pause on him mid-breath.
Then, just as quickly, he exhales and turns away. “You a big fan of Nash?”
“Huge fan,” I say. “Duncan and Nash was the band that made me want to make my dreams a reality.”
“But let me guess,” he says, not quite scoffing, but definitely not smiling. “Nash’s first solo album is the one that sold you on his genius.”
“It’s my favorite album of all time,” I admit. “But don’t tell my momma.”
Another beat of silence. Another long pause. He’s looking at me like he’s searching for something in my expression, something I don’t even know I’m giving away. Then he nods. “When do you need an answer?”
My heart kicks up a notch. “Wait, do you actually have sound experience?”
“I have enough.”
“‘Enough’ isn’t good enough. This is a multi-million-dollar tour, not some roadside bar gig.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s just posturing.
If he really went to NECM—and if bands are lining up to play for him here—Patty is probably more qualified than half the engineers working stadiums.
The corner of his mouth twitches, but I don’t get the satisfaction of a full smile. “I have experience with names even bigger than yours. But let me remind you that you came to me because you’re desperate. I’m not looking to impress anyone for a job I didn’t apply for.”
“But you’ll take it if it’s offered? Because I need an answer tonight. And we’ll pay double the going rate if you’re half as good as you say.”
I can almost see him counting the dollars.
He pauses.
And then he shrugs.
Who does this guy think he is? How can he manage to make agreeing look like an argument? And why isn’t this a red flag?
“Patty, are you serious?”
“It’s Patrick.”
I file away that correction—the first thing he’s offered on his own—and continue. “I really do need someone, and I have a lot of stipulations to keep the tour free of distractions.”
He folds his arms across his broad chest. “Why are you telling me this? You worried I’m going to cause a distraction?”
My spine stiffens. He wasn’t flirting. Not even close. Was he accusing me of flirting? “No,” I snap. “I need to know you’re taking this seriously.”
“I take everything seriously.”
“You must be fun at parties.”
One side of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. It’s gone as fast as it appears, but not before I catch it.
He got the joke.
And for some reason, that lands harder than if he’d actually laughed.
Pull it together. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. You need him to do a job, and he can do it.
“Can you sign a contract stating you won’t touch drugs the entire tour?”
He answers slowly, firmly. “That won’t be a problem.”
“You’ll have to talk to my tour manager.”
“Who’s your tour manager?”
“Manny Ortiz.”
“What label?”
“Third Street Records.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes. If the tiny twitches and blinks are any indication, this jaw movement is practically a yell. Yet his response gives away nothing except that he’s annoyed he missed the context clues.
“Right,” he says. “You’re playing with Connor Nash.” He nods. “I can talk to your tour manager. I can talk to anyone you need.”
I have questions—so many questions—but I push them aside. Excitement squeezes my lungs and makes my heart feel like it’s bursting out of my chest. It pulses in my head, but it’s not as painful as it was only a couple of minutes ago.
“This is the last time I’m going to ask this: are you serious? You have obligations here. You own a bar.”
I wait for him to change his mind, and when he pauses, I wonder if he’s waitin’ for the same thing. When he speaks, his words sound like they’re being pulled from deep within the ground. “I own it with my brother and dad, and we have plenty of help. And you should know something: I always say what I mean.”
Why that makes me shiver, I have no clue. But I push that reaction aside and allow myself to feel the weight—no, the lightness—of his words. The thrill I’ve been keeping on a tight leash finally bursts through, and I take the first deep breath I’ve taken all day. “Okay. I’ll get your number from Ash and text you some details.”
His tone is flat, but his voice drops slightly, and the intensity there tells me he means every word. “Can’t wait.”
That same dangerous shiver runs over me, and I want to shake myself. This is the moment I should change my mind, walk away. But I can’t. Not because I want to test him or because I want to see how far I can push him before he snaps and admits he cares about something. That would be irrational. Crazy, even.
No, I can’t walk away because I need him. Need , not want.
I don’t want anything or anyone. Except to prove myself. To show I belong.
Can’t wait , he said.
And despite the warning bells, I have to admit the truth: neither can I.