Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PATTY
I ’m up before the crack of dawn after a long night of staring at the bottom of the bunk above me. Bleary-eyed, I roll out and quietly make my bed, pulling the comforter tight and crisp, fluffing up my pillow.
It’s nothing fancy, but I’ve come to like a tidy space over the last several years—a far cry from, well, every year before them.
The disregard for cleanliness and order I got from my mom. We’re both “tortured artists” who think passion and art are the highest pursuits of humanity, who acted for too long like caring for others was something for lesser mortals.
The difference between my mom and me, though, is that, while she had a nice singing voice and could play the guitar well enough, I was an actual prodigy. I had perfect pitch at three and was figuring out how to transpose pieces before I could even read. I was eight when my piano teacher told my parents I had progressed beyond anything she could teach me.
“You’re gonna be Momma’s little star, ain’t you, baby?” Momma said when she picked me up from lessons that day. She squeezed my cheeks and let out a happy whoop.
In the key of A.
I have enough memories of her, but I have plenty without her, too. She was a wanderer, leaving to chase a dream every few months, breezing back in weeks or months later like nothing had happened.
She had a hunger to be seen, a need to be adored, and my daddy worshipped her. Sean and I did, too. But it wasn’t enough.
She was from a small town in the Ozarks where her family had always lived, but she was larger than life—or at least, she thought she was.
If she’d had any discipline, she might have stopped relying on her looks and actually honed her craft—maybe even built a career.
But she was like a feather floating on whatever breeze seemed most exciting.
Those winds never took her anywhere beyond a couple of state fairs or a gig as a backup singer for some has-been act with ulterior motives.
When she came back, she claimed she was “recharged” or a “changed woman.”
And my dad always let her back.
“You gotta chase your dreams,” she’d say. “Don’t let anything stop you.”
Anything.
That included your bills.
Your responsibilities.
Your family.
Even your husband—laid up in a hospital bed after a near-fatal accident.
“You understand why I can’t stay, right? It breaks my heart to leave him like this, but I have to be true to myself!” she cried on my voicemail when she left.
I know why she called me instead of Sean—she thought I’d understand.
After all, wasn’t I doing the same thing?
Living on a tour bus, seeing the inside of bars, then theaters, then finally arenas and stadiums all over the country? The world?
And it was that realization—that I was exactly like my momma—that had me downing drink after drink that night.
Not knowing one of them had something in it.
A rooster crows outside the bus, pulling me from the bleak corners of my mind.
An actual rooster.
After a quick shower—before Lou or her assistant are up—I grind beans, fill the filter, and hit the button on the coffeemaker.
With the coffee brewing, I look out the window at the Williams’ homestead.
Lou’s childhood home.
The rambling farmhouse is the color of creamed butter, with wooden rockers and a porch swing near the front door on the wraparound porch.
And Christmas lights. Wreaths on every window. A dead spruce tree on the driveway that looks like it’s waiting for the garbage truck to collect it.
On the road, time becomes a blur and dates don’t mean much beyond the next stop.
It was one thing for us to wish each other a Merry Christmas on the bus a few days ago. I hope the reminder of what Lou missed doesn’t hurt her.
The vastness of the landscape makes the sprawling home feel downright cozy, especially with the Christmas lights. Pines and whispering oaks meet rolling pastures that seem to extend into the pre-dawn light.
Lou may resent her mom’s life now, but I can’t help but envy it. I drink my coffee at the window, marveling at the view.
My fingers itch with the desire to create, to play, to sit down at a piano and let out every emotion inspired by the slow battle between the dying night sky and the stubborn brilliance of the rising sun.
Its rays illuminate the clouds on the horizon, promising that first blast of light so bright it burns.
No matter how hard the night tries to cling to the day, the brightness overtakes it.
“Good morning, Sunshine.”
A low, sultry voice breaks my concentration, and I turn to see Lou rubbing her eyes.
She joins me at the kitchenette window, and a smile breaks over her face just as the sun rises on the horizon.
The bright rays kiss her skin, casting an ethereal glow on her bare face, and I get a glimpse of her I haven’t seen yet.
It’s extraordinary.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asks, sighing. But there’s a weight to her sigh I can’t ignore.
“What is it?” I ask, even though I shouldn’t.
Being with her on tour is supposed to be a means to an end, but the longer I’m on this bus with her, the longer we’re in each other’s ears every night she performs, the less excited I am about that end.
Lou fancies herself an island, but she’s not.
She cares about people.
She wants to attach, but she’s terrified.
So rather than getting close to her band or even her assistant, she’s decided I’m the only safe person to get close to.
She couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’m the last guy she’s safe with.
The last person she should trust.
A part of me knows I need to push her away, but the other part of me is just so … fascinated by her.
She’s like storm clouds rolling in from the ocean—mesmerizing and dangerous.
At least to me.
“You know how it is. What grown-up doesn’t come home with a little baggage?”
“Not this one,” I say. I hold the mug up to my mouth, letting the steam waft over my face, leaving tiny droplets of hot water that cool rapidly, almost making me shiver.
She gives me a wry smile, but without the dark eye makeup, she looks younger. Also, her eyebrows are so light, they’re almost nonexistent. Her eyelashes, too. She doesn’t even have freckles—just those pale blue eyes and that mouth.
It’s a different kind of beauty than her made-up look.
After weeks of seeing both, I’m liking this one more than I should.
“How much sugar did you put in that coffee, anyway?” she asks suspiciously.
“About ten pounds. Why?”
She lunges for my mug, pressing into me as she reaches up on her tiptoes, her chest bumping into my torso. “Let me see that!”
I let out a laugh. “Why, so you can dump it out again?”
“I will not have you develop diabetes from eating too much sugar on my watch. I think Ash would kill me.”
I snort and bring the mug down, showing her the straight black coffee. “It’s nothing, see?”
She looks at it, sniffs. “So there’s no cream. How do I know you didn’t add ten pumps of syrup to that?”
I hand it to her. “Try it.”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “Ew. No thanks. Coffee tastes like headaches.”
“Come again?”
She opens the mini fridge and pulls out a Dr Pepper Zero. Then she crosses to the couch and kicks her feet up on the coffee table.
Big pink fuzzy socks cover her feet, and she’s in gray joggers and a bubblegum pink hoodie. She looks… soft. Comfortable. Not like Lucy Jane, country megastar, but Lou Williams, girl-next-door.
The whole package is a level of cute I didn’t expect from someone with that velvet-and-ash voice.
“I have chronic migraines. When I was a teen, my momma was worried about getting me on a preventative, so my neurologist said to have a cup of coffee every day. I hated it. Nothing I added could mask the taste, so after a couple of months, we tried teas and then settled on Dr Pepper. Well, Dr Pepper Zero, to be exact.” She tilts the can toward me, tapping the label. “I don’t drink sugar.”
“Sugar is delicious. You’re missing out,” I say, joining her on the couch.
I put my feet up next to hers. Bare feet next to fuzzy socks. I’m already dressed—jeans and a gray T-shirt—but I haven’t pulled on my socks or boots yet. It feels … casual. Like a couple sitting together before work, or at the end of a long day.
I like the idea a little too much.
She cracks the tab on her can, and it releases a satisfying hiss. “I know exactly what I’m missing.” She takes a long drink, and I can hear the bubbles fizzing. “I’m an ‘abstinence is easier than moderation’ kind of girl, so I limit sugar a lot. As long as I don’t see cinnamon rolls, I’m fine.”
I smile at this. “Cinnamon rolls are your kryptonite?”
She closes her eyes, almost wincing. “You have no idea. I will eat an entire row. More, maybe. It’s not good.”
I shrug, and we both take a drink of our respective poison.
“I finally get it.”
She chokes on her drink and coughs enough that I pat her back. “It?”
“You.”
She sets down her can and plants her elbows on her knees, narrowing her eyes at me. Her expression is different without her penciled-in eyebrows. Sharper. More assessing.
“Do you like this back and forth we always do, where you constantly have some provocative four-word comment or wildly unsatisfying one-word answer?” She clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m a lawyer, so I like a good question as much as the next girl, but did you know you’re allowed to just … say what you mean? You don’t have to be such a provocateur.”
My eyebrows jump, and I lean back on the couch. Whether to get some distance or to process what she said, I’m not sure.
I’m lying.
I am sure: it’s both.
“Huh.”
She groans, tilting her head back. “Seriously?”
I chuckle. “I’m not trying to … give one-word responses just to get a rise out of you. I’m thinking.”
She smirks. “ Thinking I’m right is more like it.”
I hold my mug on my lap, wrapping my hands around it. I still have over half left, whereas I think Lou’s just about finished her can.
“You may be right,” I admit. “I have a thought, so this is me … saying it: I reckon your whole ‘abstinence is easier than moderation’ mindset is how you operate, top to bottom. You’re all or nothing. It colors how you view your career and the relationships with the band and crew. You’re all-in with your friends. But no one else gets past the guard stationed at your front door.”
She looks at me appraisingly and then nods.
“Excellent armchair analysis.”
She’s not denying it? She’s not offended? I didn’t want her to be, but I dropped a doozy of a truth bomb. Except, she’s self-aware enough that it’s not a truth bomb at all. Not to her.
“Is that how you see yourself?” I ask.
She shrugs, but it’s in acknowledgment. “I hadn’t thought about it that way, but yeah. I told you when you signed on that I don’t do distractions, and when it comes down to it, everything you mentioned serves the same purpose: no distractions, all success.”
“I bet your exes had a field day with that.”
“If I had any, I’d bet they’d agree.”
“‘If?’” I pause, aware she’s about to bust my chops for my one-word answer. “You don’t have any exes?”
She drains the last drop of her Dr Pepper and crushes the can in one hand.
“Sugar, I’ve never even kissed a guy.”
No way.
Has she seen herself? Met herself?
She’s too pretty, too captivating, too … infuriating for that to be true.
“You can’t expect me to believe you’ve never been kissed.”
“I didn’t say that. I said I’ve never kissed a guy.”
“Same thing.”
“No it ain’t.”
Her accent gets thicker the sassier she gets, and the sassier she gets, the more Southern her grammar gets, too.
Knowing she’s retired from a successful legal career for some reason makes this habit of hers …
Hotter.
It’s hotter than a muggy day in August.
“Saying I’ve never been kissed sounds like I’ve never had a shot—like I’m some poor wilting wallflower waitin’ to be noticed so I can finally bloom. That ain’t the problem. I’ve never liked a guy enough to even let him try. I send ‘em packin’ like a bouncer with a blacklist.”
Her words keep pinging off me, refusing to sink in.
But it’s because I’m afraid to really see her—to view her as anything other than a diva or a man-eater, although I know she’s neither.
It’s easier to think of her that way, though.
Because this complex, driven, kind-hearted woman is too nuanced for what I want out of our relationship.
I’m her sound tech.
Her substitute bodyguard.
But she’s like an intricate sonata, with unexpected key changes and complex chords. And just when you think you have a hold on the piece, it surprises you with a new phrase that leaves you fumbling to catch up.
And that makes my fingers itch worse than ever to sit down and try my hand at playing.
She and I are looking at each other, that ever-present challenge in her eyes laid bare.
“That’s a great line,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “Sorry?”
“‘I send ‘em packin’ like a bouncer with a blacklist.’ It’s a great line. That’s a song, right there.”
Her red lips stretch into a beaming smile.
“That really is.”
She pulls open a drawer in the ottoman, grabs a notebook and pen, and starts scribbling.
And because I can’t help myself, I lean in, watching over her shoulder as she writes.
When she stops after a line, she opens her mouth into an O and flaps the end of her pen against her cheek, making a popping sound.
This is her thinking face, I realize.
Not her “I’m stuck” face.
I wait as she waits, keeping myself from making a suggestion until she looks at me.
“How do I want to say that?”
“Maybe, ‘You think you want in? Take a number, get in line.’”
“‘But don’t try to get under my skin, I’ll be—I’ll be fine,’” she says, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm.
She writes it down in a blurring scrawl, and we continue that way until we hear a knock at the bus door a half hour—and most of a song—later.
Her eyes fly to meet mine, and I don’t think I’m imagining the reluctance when she stands.
“That’s my family.” She laughs, shakes her head, putting the pen down. “I literally forgot where we were.”
I grab the pen and notebook and tuck them away in the drawer.
I close it firmly.
“I know the feelin’,” I tell her.
She holds her hand out for me to take, and even though I could drop her onto my lap with barely a tug, I let her pull me to my feet.
Her long, lithe fingers wrap around my hand.
“Want to go meet Winona?”
I frown.
“Are you sure you want that?”
“What, like you were going to stay on the bus all day. Even if I wanted that, Winona would tan my hide.”
“I’d actually like to see that …”
“Oh, stop.”
She swats my arm as the knocking at the door grows more insistent.
Her smile is small, showing nerves she doesn’t bother to hide, and I get the sense that I’m still on duty today.
Like a bodyguard.
Except for emotional threats.
And if that’s the case, I’ve got a job to do.
She opens her palm, waiting for me to take it.
And I shouldn’t.
I really shouldn’t.
But I do.
She nods, her shoulders relaxing.
“Let’s go.”