Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LOU
O oh-wee, I am on fire in Charleston.
The air feels warmer here, buzzing with anticipation even before I step on stage. The lights that seemed so blinding last night in Columbia are less daunting tonight. I can hear everything well enough, and with the vibrating plates Patty expertly rigged near my feet, I can feel the roar of the crowd surge through my boots whenever I want, a direct connection to the energy in the room. Patty doesn’t pipe the audience in again, but the plates do plenty. I feed off the crowd’s energy without needing to see or hear them directly.
That isn’t to say I’m not overwhelmed.
I am. Dreadfully.
Every few songs, the shine wears off, and my nerves creep in. My cold hands grow clammy against the neck of my guitar. I play a wrong chord, then start getting in my head in a way that leads to more wrong chords.
But every time I start to spiral, Patty chimes into my ear.
“That was terrible. You should probably quit now,” he says, his voice drier than the desert.
It puts a smile on my face and emboldens me like no pep talk ever could. I roll my shoulders back and dive into the next song.
After the show, the band and our VIPs meet in my huge dressing room. Even though my show tomorrow is in Greenville, South Carolina, this is the last one my friends will be able to attend until they meet up with me in Memphis in a few months.
I talk to the VIPs as long as Manny forces me to, but then I make my way to my friends.
I want to make the most of every minute, and I’m glad to see Patty actually talking to Rusty, Tripp, Duke, and Sonny. The room hums with overlapping conversations and bursts of laughter, a chaos I hope I’ll find comforting soon enough.
“I can’t get over the fact that because a picture went viral, Patty now has to act as your bodyguard,” Millie says as the two of us load up our plates with snacks—veggies and hummus for Millie; tortilla chips and guacamole for me.
The crunch of the salty chips is satisfying as I scoop up a generous helping of guac. This room, like the one the other night, has added all sorts of cute rustic chic touches that I didn’t need but find charming anyway. The scent of fresh yellow daffodils fills the air.
“Tell me about it. Balancing a fandom is already harder than I expected.”
“Imagine what it would be like if people knew you and Nash are texting.” Millie’s elbow pokes into my ribs. “People would lose their minds.”
Nash responded to a Get Ready With Me post my social media manager put up before the show. His comment was a string of heart-eye emojis, which has people freakin’ out as much as Millie’s suggesting.
The Lucy Jane fandom is already shipping us.
Am I?
Do I even want to entertain this?
I’ve had a crush on that man for, what, fourteen years? Since his Duncan and Nash days. When their band broke up after maybe the best debut album of all time (sorry, Momma), I literally cried in my room.
They were such an inspiration to me.
Duncan was always a recluse and kind of a jerk with interviewers—he kept his hair in his face like some Kurt Cobain wannabe and refused to ever take a picture where he was actually looking at the camera.
Dumb, right?
Yet his reluctance to be seen—his refusal to be known—empowered me to create my Lucy Jane account and keep my face hidden.
Nash, on the other hand, was the voice of the band—its charming (and undeniably hot) face, too. His effortless charisma and impeccable manners made him an instant media darling. When he went solo, I was nervous he wouldn’t live up to the hype. Somehow, he exceeded it.
His songs had the grit and soul of blues, the toe-tapping charm of classic country. It was like he’d poured a bit of himself into every note and chord.
The only problem—and I would never tell anyone this—was his voice.
It was smooth and polished as a river stone, while Duncan’s was a jagged rock tumbling down a cliff. When it hit you, it didn’t just hurt—it cracked you open. Left you bleeding with every lyric that poured out of him.
But Nash’s voice is beautiful, like silk or warm honey. And let’s be honest: he’s beautiful.
If his texts and social media flirting are any indication, he feels the same way about me.
I ain’t mad about it.
“How are you and Patty getting along?”
I give an ugly snort. “He’s a burr in my saddle.”
Millie laughs and grabs a Diet Coke from the ice bucket. She cracks it open, and the hiss makes her smile. My girl loves her some Diet Coke. I grab a water—no headache for once. The cool bottle feels good in my hands, and I’m relieved not to need caffeine to fight off a migraine. Maybe tonight, I’ll get a full night’s sleep.
“What does your band think about him being your bodyguard and sound guy?” Millie asks.
I shrug, raising and dropping my shoulders. Millie’s furrowed brow tells me she’s thinking about this more than she’s letting on.
“You’re not getting close to them?”
“I’ve got enough friends.”
Millie shakes her head as we walk over to rejoin the Janes and their significant others.
Oh, and Patty.
“What are you two disagreeing about?” Ash asks, her head leaning on Rusty’s shoulder.
“We’re not disagreeing,” I say. “Just a friendly chat.”
“In which we disagree,” Millie adds with a pointed look. “Relationships aren’t a distraction.”
I pop a huge scoop of guacamole in my mouth.
“Tell Winona that,” I say through the food.
Millie gives me her classic therapist look—the one that works on everyone but the Janes… and her cute four-year-old daughter, who’s currently asleep on her daddy’s lap on the couch. That girl can sleep anywhere.
We’ve all seen Millie’s look so many times that none of us cower anymore (though we secretly acknowledge its genius).
“You’re acting like relationships are a liability instead of a strength.”
“I can’t blame you,” Parker says. She and Sonny dated in college, but she broke up with him because she thought she’d hold him back from his future NFL career. She also didn’t think she deserved someone like him (she was wrong on both counts).
“It’s hard to let people in,” Parker continues, “especially when you don’t need to.”
“Everyone needs someone,” Jane adds, slapping Tripp’s stomach.
Patty’s wedged between Rusty and Tripp, and I can tell by the flare of his nostrils that he’s not feeling this conversation any more than I am.
“What is this, an intervention because I’m keeping professional distance with my band?”
I look at Patty, silently asking for help, but he doesn’t speak up. His brow is flatter than usual, like he’s mulling over everything everyone’s saying. It’s fine. I don’t need him to back me up against my best friends.
I’ve got this.
I meet Millie’s gaze, locking into those bright green eyes that aren’t as intuitive as everyone thinks.
“You say relationships aren’t a liability, but I saw my momma give up everything for the man she loved.”
Millie sighs. “Why isn’t that a beautiful thing?”
“Because he never should’ve asked that of her.”
“Did he?”
The question comes from Patty, not Millie, and it throws me off.
I’ve never considered the possibility. I drop my shoulders and hold my head higher.
“I guess we’ll never know.”
“You could ask,” Patty presses.
He raises his right arm, scratching his head, and I notice a tattoo—three bold vertical lines that curve slightly at the end, like a tail.
“You have a tattoo,” I blurt.
He quickly drops his arm and adjusts his sleeve, before plunging his hand into his pocket.
“You’re avoiding my point.”
I grab another chip and more guacamole.
“I disagree,” I say, taking a bite and chewing obnoxiously.
“I thought y’all weren’t disagreeing,” Jane teases, half-smiling.
I snort. “That was Millie and me. Disagreeing with Patty’s totally fair game.”
Patty raises an eyebrow, looking mildly amused despite himself. “I’m honored.”
“Don’t be,” I reply. “I meant to shame you.”
“It failed,” he counters. “You’re two shows in. You don’t have to let anyone in yet.”
“Yet?” Ash asks.
“Yeah, yet,” he echoes. The warm dressing room lights soften the scruff on his face, making it look lighter. “It’s easy now—your friends and family practically around the corner. But after months of isolation on the road, things change.”
“This won’t,” I say firmly.
I’m getting tired of this conversation. When my best friends nudge me, I know it’s out of love. But with Patty, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s trying to steer me away from whatever path he walked.
Our paths aren’t the same.
He toured with the act.
I am the act.
He could afford to let people in.
But I know better.
“Whatever you say, Queenie.”
“Oh, I say, Sugar.”
His mouth quirks slightly, but he doesn’t fire back.
That’s … unexpected.
Ash fans herself with exaggerated drama. “Whew! Someone get a knife, because this tension is thick enough to cut!” Then she turns to Patty. “Lou’s an attorney. Arguing is what she does for fun.”
I swat at her.
“Enough. Patty and I’ll be fine.”
“‘Fine’ is generous,” Patty mutters.
Ash beams.
“See? Y’all are going to have so much fun.”