Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
PATTY
O n Friday morning, the crew and band all take off for Charleston to start setting up while I wait for Lou to do a local radio interview. She tells me I can stay on the bus, but it’s just her and Manny, no security in sight. I like Manny, but he tips the scales at five-seven and maybe a hundred forty pounds.
I decide to stick around.
The radio station has two security guards, so I stand down in the lobby and wait for Lou to come out. While I wait, I check the scores from Sean’s game last night. The Mullet Ridge Blue Collars shut out the Savannah Gators, and Sean had twenty-nine saves. I’m impressed, as always, but I feel sick, too. He should be playing in front of packed barns five times the size of the Ridgeyard Ice Plex.
If I could do it over, I’d choose my family.
Course, I’m here now. Am I really choosing them or me?
I give myself a shake. I’m choosing them. I’m here to make things right for my family, not for me. My jaw clenches, and I drag a hand over my beard, exhaling hard. I shove my phone in my back pocket, as if putting it away will shut down my thoughts.
“Thank you for comin’ out, Ms. Williams,” a beefy talking head says as he escorts Lou out to the lobby.
“My pleasure,” she beams, giving the man a hug before they part.
I stand up, and if I had a hat on, I might hold it over my heart.
Lou’s wearing a pair of loose jeans with riding boots and a thin black T-shirt that reads, “You be Johnny, I’ll be June.” I like it more than I should, tucked into her jeans, showing off a big ol’ buckle. Her light blonde hair is loose in waves around her shoulders, and she has a deep red gloss on her heart-shaped lips.
If I were to design the perfect woman …
Not that I’m designing her. Or thinking about it.
“How’d it go?” Manny asks, looking up from his phone to stand. The three of us walk out to the street, where a black town car is waiting to take Lou to the audiologist.
“Real well,” she says. “I hope they’re all like that.”
“They won’t be,” Manny and I say at the same time.
Manny gives me a wry chuckle as he climbs into the front passenger seat.
Lou and I climb into the back.
Manny’s on the phone with the venue in Charleston, firing off questions while the car hums along to our next stop.
“Will their crew be cleared out at noon? Ours needs to start load-in right away, or we’ll be late for sound check.” He pauses, nodding. “What about the rest of the rider? Can I assume you read it?”
“Ah, riders,” I say. Lou shifts, and something about her body language makes me keep talking. “I saw a stage once that got loaded past its weight limit, and it collapsed during sound check.”
Her eyes pop. “Seriously?”
“Scariest thing I ever saw. After that, the band added a canary in the coal mine to that rider. What’s Manny’s ‘gotcha’ request? You have one, right?”
“Of course I have one,” Lou says, though her voice dips just slightly, hesitantly. And she shifts in her seat again.
She has no clue what I’m talking about.
Most people think the list of requirements artists send to a venue is just a diva’s wish list—colored candy, scented candles, that kind of thing. But really, it’s the artist’s way of making sure every detail, from tech setup to safety to backstage needs, is handled in advance. A good rider keeps people safe and shows whether the venue actually read the fine print.
Lou’s expression hits like a quiet bruise. She straightens, shoulders back, but her fingers curl in her lap, like she’s bracing for something.
I can’t be sure, but I think she feels … stupid.
I shift on the leather seat to see her without craning my neck. I keep my voice calm—matter-of-fact. No teasing, no judgment. Just enough to give her a foothold.
“People love hearing about how Van Halen or Mariah Carey have the most demanding, specific requests in their tour riders. They think it shows how entitled those musicians are, but they don’t get that it’s the band’s way of trusting that the venue is safe and up to standard. Van Halen didn’t care about brown M&Ms. They cared about the stage not collapsing and killing people because the specific line items weren’t followed correctly.”
Lou nods, like she gets it now. “Yellow daffodils.”
“Hmm?”
“The random thing in my rider Manny added. The canary in a coal mine. It’s yellow daffodils.”
“Not roses, huh?”
“I’m not a roses kind of girl. They’re pretty but … generic.”
I nod. “Smart. That’s specific enough that they wouldn’t have those on hand without having checked.”
Why do I like that she picked something other than roses? I don’t know a thing about flowers.
And why do I feel the need to validate her at all?
“What page of the rider’s it on?”
“Page twelve,” Manny says from the front seat. He’s covering the speaker so he can talk to us. “Tucked between microphone and amp requests.”
Manny chuckles, and I find myself doing the same as he goes back to his call.
“Very smart,” I repeat.
Lou smiles.
We reach the audiologist’s office, and Manny points out Lou’s shiny, nondescript metallic tour bus as it pulls into the parking lot of the medical complex. Bus drivers are held to a strict ten-hour driving day, so a good driver never starts the bus until he absolutely has to. The thing is spotless, reflecting the morning light like a polished stone, the tinted windows giving away nothing.
Manny heads toward it, talking rapidly to the person on the other end of yet another call.
I follow Lou inside, where the doctor has agreed to open two hours early for privacy.
“Thanks again for gettin’ us in so quick,” Lou says as a short, fit doctor unlocks the door and leads us into her exam room.
“Thank you for the tickets,” Dr. Reed replies with a grin. She carefully injects the soft impression material into Lou’s first ear, pressing gently to ensure a good seal. “My daughters haven’t forgiven me since I told them I couldn’t get tickets to the show in Columbia. They’re going to lose their minds when they find out we have tickets for Charleston.”
“What will they say when they find out you’re my new audiologist?” Lou asks as Dr. Reed moves on to the next ear, the first mold beginning to set.
“They won’t,” Dr. Reed says, smiling as she carefully removes the first mold from Lou’s ear, placing it in a small tray to harden. “I don’t mess around with HIPAA.”
“If you wanted to ensure I’ll be your patient for life,” Lou says with a relaxed smile, “you succeeded.”
When we’re through, Dr. Reed puts a rush order on the IEMs with my contact from NECM.
“Thanks again for the help,” I tell her.
“Really is my pleasure,” Dr. Reed says. She escorts us toward a back door. “Anything to redeem myself to my daughters.”
We say our goodbyes and step out into the bright morning light. I put on a pair of sunglasses to mute the glare bouncing off the buildings and the tour bus waiting for us at the edge of the medical complex.
“So I’m stuck using the garbage earpieces for my next couple of shows?” Lou asks.
Cars are starting to pull into the lot, which tells me at least a couple of the offices in this complex must open at seven a.m. instead of nine, like I assumed.
“Nah, Dr. Reed gave me a couple of different brands to try while we’re waiting. We’ll test them on the bus.”
“Oh, thanks,” she says, sounding surprised. “That was thoughtful of you.”
I give her a wry smile. “That’s what you pay me for.”
“That’s what Manny pays you for.”
“And what you pay him for.”
She snorts. When she reaches the door, it opens with a hydraulic hiss.
Lou starts climbing aboard when a noise cuts through the sounds of early morning traffic.
“Oh my gosh, is that Lucy Jane?” a young woman in scrubs cries.
Lou spins to wave, but her boot catches on the step.
For a second, she’s weightless, tilting back, arms flailing. My arms shoot out instinctively, and I plant them on her back, catching her. I hold her at an angle that allows her to grip the railing and pull herself back up.
“Whew,” she says, sounding out of breath as she turns her head toward mine, which is close because of my rush to save her. “Nice catch.”
“You sure you weren’t out drinking last night?” I say, my hand on her back as she steps up into the bus.
“Hilarious,” she mutters.
At the top stair, she waves at the fan, who’s still calling her name and walking this way now. A few other people in the parking lot have their phones out as they run over.
I step back down and hold my hands out in front of the stairs, like I’m her bodyguard.
Where is her bodyguard, anyway? Did Manny not book security for the road?
“How do you wanna play this?” I ask Lou.
She puts her thin hand on my shoulder. “There’s only a half dozen people. I don’t mind signing stuff and taking a few quick selfies.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, shaking my head so my dark brown hair falls in front of my face.
I’m glad I have my sunglasses on. I hate the spotlight, hate social media and tabloids. The last thing I need is my face on any of the images these superfans will post or, worse, try to sell.
“It’s fine, Patty,” she says.
Reluctantly, I step out of the way and let the fans approach her one at a time, but I keep my body in between her and the crowd, unwilling to risk something happening.
Because she’s my meal ticket, obviously.
Nothing else.
Lou takes a selfie with a girl of maybe twenty.
“I love you!” the girl cries. And I mean actual tears.
“ Don’t Go Faking My Heart is my favorite,” another woman says. Also with tears.
“I didn’t think I could love anything more than Lovestruck , but then you wrote Off Script , and I’ve never felt so seen,” another says as she takes a picture with Lou.
I take mental note of both songs, as I haven’t heard either.
For her part, Lou is professional and way too warm.
“Between us, I wrote that at a really emotional time in my life,” Lou tells the gushing fan, putting her hand on her shoulder. “I’m so glad you connected with it.”
“I did. I felt like a screw up, but Off Script was a kick in the pants that I could change the path I was on. Thank you for writing it.”
Lou gives her a hug, letting the girl cry on the shoulder of her T-shirt.
I don’t know Lou well, but seeing her hug crying fans while her own eyes water feels authentic, like this is the girl she is at heart but won’t let herself admit.
She’s a natural performer—I saw that last night—but this doesn’t feel forced. She’s signing people’s scrubs and taking pictures, and the grin on her face is captivating.
And all the while, more and more people are flocking to her.
Lou doesn’t show any signs of stopping.
We don’t need to be in Charleston for four hours, but the energy is shifting from excitement to desperation, and people are starting to get pushy.
Including a man in baggy jeans who comes from the sidewalk, not the parking lot.
There’s no way he works here, and that makes a siren go off in my head.
“Time to go. It’s about to get ugly,” I say just loud enough for Lou to hear me. She whips her head toward me, a question forming on her lips, but then her eyes widen as the newcomer pushes another person to try to get closer to Lou.
In a quick, firm motion, I grab Lou’s waist and shift her behind me, and then I hold my hands back out, blocking people from getting at Lou while she climbs the stairs.
“Hey!” a few people shout. “We haven’t taken pictures with her yet!”
“And you’re not going to,” I bark. “Ms. Williams is done.”
“Come on! Let us at least take a picture!” the aggressive punk in his stupidly baggy jeans says.
I don’t answer him. I walk backwards up the stairs, and Lou’s driver closes the door the moment I’m on.
A few of the fans smack the bus with the palms of their hands, and Baggy Jeans is screaming obscenities as we start to drive. Anger makes the blood rush faster in my veins, and something ugly tightens in my chest.
“Where is the bodyguard?” I snap at the driver.
To his credit, he was standing at the top of the stairs and looked ready to spring into action. His name tag says “Jimmy,” and, although he’s probably in his early fifties, he’s in better shape than I am, honestly.
“He’s in the lounge with Manny, going over security details,” Jimmy says with a snort.
“Next time, call him up here,” I growl.
But I look at him closer—his broad shoulders, the buzz cut, the sharp awareness in his posture. “Were you law enforcement?”
“Military,” Jimmy says, and that makes me nod. A lot of drivers for high-profile musicians have a military or law enforcement background, adding an extra layer of protection for the star. I’m glad Manny had the sense to hire this guy, but I’m gonna throw that useless bodyguard out the window.
“Good,” I say. “I don’t want to see fans that close again.”
Then I feel Lou’s slim hand touch my shoulder, and my anger cools. I didn’t realize she was here in the narrow entrance, waiting for me. A smile plays on her lips.
“Didn’t you say last night I need to remember who I’m performing for and not shut ‘em out?”
“I was wrong,” I say with a hard laugh. “Shut ‘em all out. They’re crazy.”
Lou’s playful smile stretches into a grin. “They’re not crazy. They’re over-eager.”
“Tomato, tom-ah-to.”
“But aren’t you afraid their adoration will turn my head? That I’ll get addicted to being worshipped by my fans?” She pokes my pec.
I grumble, but a wry smile finds its way to my mouth. “Don’t use my wisdom against me.”
She pokes me again, this time in my stomach, and I suddenly wish I were in better shape. Not like I’m some schlub who’s let himself go, but my brother’s a professional athlete. It’s hard to feel good about your body when you know that guy.
I grab her hand and peer down at her. Her boots give her a couple of inches, and I’m not as burly as Sean, but I still tower over her.
“We’re leaving. You should sit down,” Jimmy says, putting the bus into drive.
We shift when the bus lurches forward, and Lou plants her hands against the walls as she passes through the entry, where a couple of trucker hats, a jean jacket, and a bomber jacket are hanging.
The bus opens into a U-shaped lounge area, where a leather sofa wraps around a sleek, custom wood coffee table. A huge flat-screen dominates the wall opposite the sofa, framed by built-in shelves holding books, vinyl records, and mementos. Past that is a kitchenette that looks well stocked, but I’m not looking past the lounge—because the lounge is where Manny, Lou’s assistant Alicia, and the bodyguard are.
Manny and Alicia are working on their laptops.
The bodyguard is on his phone.
“Hey, Rambo,” I bark, and the guy’s dark eyes snap up to meet mine. “We got rushed by fans out there. Next time, keep your eyes on the star, not your fantasy football scores.”
Lou puts her hand on my forearm, and in a single minute, we’ve already established a pattern. I get all huffed up and defensive on her behalf. She brings me back down with a single touch.
“Unless your QB is Duke Ogden,” she teases. “I love that guy.”
And this tells me something I didn’t know about Lou: she’s diplomatic. Rusty told me she’s a cutthroat attorney no one messes with. Duke told me how she came in swinging when Millie was wrongfully detained in an airport when they were dating. Even Sean told me how she got the best of the Sugar Maple town council during some drama earlier this year.
During every interaction we’ve had, she’s been like a shot of hot sauce in my coffee—plain Tabasco—but now I’m sensing a hint of sweetness to the spice I didn’t pick up on before. She’s more like sriracha: spicy, but sweet and tangy, too. A fuller profile.
She’s making the effort to deescalate the situation, so the least I can do is comply.
“You have to like Duke. He’s married to one of your best friends.”
“Pfft,” she says, waving her hand in my face. “Don’t dismiss my football cred.”
She crosses through the lounge to the kitchenette and comes back with two bottles of water. She hands me one and then drops onto the couch next to her assistant.
“Y’all got a sec to participate in a security meeting?” Lou asks.
Manny and the security guard both nod. I sit on Lou’s other side, glaring at the bodyguard.
“Ron,” Lou says to the security guard. “I was surrounded by fans outside, and one of them got pushy. You need to be more diligent when you’re on call.”
“I knew you were with Patrick,” Ron argues.
“That’s not his job.”
“Maybe it should be,” Alicia says, looking at something on her laptop.
Manny takes it from her.
“What is it?” Lou asks, looking at me and then Manny and Alicia.
Manny flips the laptop around to show a picture someone posted, tagging Lou on social media.
The picture is from five minutes ago.
It’s Lou mid-fall from the stairs and me catching her.
You can barely see my face—thank goodness—but because of the way I caught her, my mouth is right next to her ear, and the small smile of relief on her lips coupled with my hand on her back looks intimate.
Lou pinches the skin between her thumb and forefinger, exhaling hard. Her eyes flick to mine, but I don’t know what she’s looking for. Reassurance? A joke? A fight?
I feel none of those things. Just a slow burn, steady and unwelcome, curling beneath the surface.
“And the rumor mill has already started,” Alicia says.
Manny flips the laptop back toward himself, staring at the image while he thinks.
“Okay,” he says, looking between Lou and me. “The way I see it, we got two choices: fake boyfriend or bodyguard. What’s it gonna be?”