Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
LOU
T he next morning, Patty and I listen to music on his phone while we get ready in the honeymoon suite. When it comes time for me to put on my Winona disguise, he sits in the bathroom and watches me. And all the while, his playlist scores our every move.
“I didn’t realize you were such a blues fan,” I say. “Is this Blind Boy Fuller?”
“Mississippi John Hurt,” he says. “But I think Pistol Annies are next.”
I smile, adding contour to my jaw. “You know I love Pistol Annies?”
“Like anyone could hear Baby Llama Drama and not immediately think of Pistol Annies?”
I line my lips to make them look thinner than they are—my lips are a bit fuller than Momma’s—and then grin at his reflection. “Why are you so obsessed with me?”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “A guy analyzes your musical influences song by song for months, and suddenly he’s obsessed?”
“You can’t deny it.”
He stands from where he’s sitting on the side of the tub and takes two steps forward, planting his hands at the dip of my waist. My pulse speeds up at his touch, his nearness, the absolutely starving look on his face.
“No, I cannot.”
He kisses my neck, trails his lips across my jaw, and leaves a final kiss on my cheek, right next to my mouth. Then he squeezes my waist.
“But it wasn’t sudden. It was slow, methodical, and inevitable. At first, all I wanted was to hear you sing. But now, every time you open your mouth, I want mine on it.”
Heat overtakes me, but I don’t let myself get swept away in the fire. I close my eyes as he kisses my neck, just below my ear.
“Put those masculine wiles away,” I say with every ounce of strength I have. “The car will be here any minute.”
He grumbles something about the car waiting. I expect him to kiss me, but he is almost obnoxiously respectful of whatever boundaries I give him. I’ll need to watch my mouth around him so I don’t unwittingly make a joke—no kissing on days that end in -y!—just to have him take me too literally.
Ugh. What a green flag.
He hooks his fingers into my belt loops, tugging me forward. I stand on my tiptoes and let my lips graze his.
He pulls me in for a kiss, but then a phone alarm goes off, and he releases me with a groan.
“You are more tempting than water in a desert.”
I smile and walk out of the bathroom, and Patty follows. I lean down to get my bag, but Patty moves my arm and takes it—ever the grumpy gentleman.
He really is all green flags.
The bus isn’t fixed yet, but the mechanic takes a break so the Country Soul Sisters—Annie and Miranda Ray—and I can do our interview. The women are huge social media influencers and early fans of my work. So early and so influential, in fact, that I did a “stitch” post early on using one of their videos. When they reposted it, it took off and finally made one of my songs go viral, after a year of my laboring in obscurity.
To say that I want to keep these women happy is putting it mildly.
Which is why it’s driving me uniquely crazy how much they’re talking about someone else in this interview.
And for the first time in my life, I wish it was Winona.
“I keep seeing one name pop up on every one of your posts. A fan who has quite the fandom,” Annie says in a light Missouri accent. Her denim jacket and faded rust tee with the Country Music Soul Sisters logo are the perfect blend of country glam and vintage. She purses her lips—making her burnt-orange lipstick pop against her cool brown skin—and her eyes crinkle at the corners in a conspiratorial smile.
“Any guess who that might be?”
“My momma?” I ask, pretending I don’t know exactly who she’s talking about.
“Nice try,” Miranda says. She’s the edgier of the two, rocking a sleeveless denim romper with flared legs and a deep V-neck. Her teal leather cowboy boots add a bold pop, while a red scarf tied around her locs gives her a vintage flair—making her a favorite among their younger fans. The two are the granddaughters of a famous Black country star who was big in the ’70s, and they have voices that could easily launch music careers of their own.
“Why did y’all never get into music yourselves?” I ask, making one final pivot that makes the girls laugh.
“Lucy Jane Williams! Do we need to call your Momma?” Miranda says. “Are you or are you not currently dating Connor Nash?”
I know I should think of what my label wants. Of what the fans will want. Of my career and the way that prolonging any tie to Nash will only elevate me further.
But all I can think of is cuddling with Patty on the Ferris wheel; of laughing with him in the bathroom of the Velvet Antler Lodge; of hearing him bear so much of his heart and wanting all the pieces he was holding back.
I smile at the sisters, erasing all hints of pretense.
“I am not currently dating Connor Nash.”
“Girl, please,” Miranda says. “The internet is awash with people who claim to have seen you two together.”
I laugh, laying on the skepticism. “I don’t see how. We’re both on tour.”
Miranda pulls up a photo—clearly AI—and I groan. “Look closer. That photo shows me with six fingers. It’s fake.”
Miranda yanks the phone closer, inspects the picture, and then tuts. “Darn it. I thought we were gettin’ a scoop.” Then she puts the phone down and eyes me. “Although, that doesn’t mean you two ain’t still a thing. Someone from Third Street Records was asked about y’all just yesterday. Know what they said?”
“’No comment’?” I say hopefully. Tiredly.
“Nope,” Annie says. “They said they’re excited to see where you two go.”
That freakin’ label …
How can I be diplomatic while being honest? “Well, we are becoming friends, and we’re wildly supportive of each other’s careers. I’m pinching myself that I’m gonna perform with him at Hot Strings Hall.”
Miranda isn’t loving my response, based on those narrowed eyes.
“You know, I’ve heard this answer a lot of times. It sounds like what people who are secretly dating tell interviewers all the time. ‘Oh, he’s just a good friend. I adore him, but we don’t have any news to report.’”
I force a laugh, because she’s not wrong. But also because this is the nature of fame. Nothing I say will quell speculation. This answer is for me. Maybe Patty, too.
“I can see why you’d think that. All I can tell you is the truth. I’m enjoying getting to know Connor better, but that’s all there is to it.”
Annie and Miranda eye each other.
“Who wouldn’t enjoy gettin’ to know Connor Nash better?” Miranda fans herself, and Annie and I laugh. “I’ve had a crush on that man since my ‘Bama days.”
“Roll Tide!” Annie says, and we all laugh.
“But back on the subject, you’ve said previously that Duncan and Nash were huge influences for you. Tell us more about that.”
I fight a frown. I’ve answered this question a lot of times, but not knowing what I know now.
“Obviously, I grew up around the music industry, but my experience only showed me one path to being a recording artist. But I didn’t want to get famous through my parents, and I didn’t want to use their connections.”
“I get that,” Annie says. “It’s hard constantly being compared to your famous family member. It’s part of why we didn’t go the music route.”
Miranda nods, and so do I. “Exactly. I was an impressionable teen trying to figure out how to make my dreams a reality when Duncan and Nash’s first video came out. Do you remember the one? That split screen with Duncan’s back to the camera, wearing all black against the white backdrop, and Nash on the other screen facing the camera in that white T-shirt with the black backdrop?”
“Do I ever,” Miranda says. “Nash looked like an angel. Sang like one, too.”
“He did,” I agree. “But it was Duncan who fascinated me. Here he was, slaying on the guitar, playing chord progressions that shouldn’t have worked but did, singing harmonies in a way that enhanced the melody, doing something totally unique—and no one could see his face.”
I smile, remembering how captivated I was when my dad, of all people, showed me that video for the first time. He told me to keep an eye on them. That with chops and a hook like that, they were going to be huge.
“And I knew what I wanted to do.”
“And the rest is history,” Miranda says with a smile.
I smile back. “Maybe let’s wait a few decades before we put the bow on my career.”
They chuckle, and we wrap up the interview with only a few more questions.
When the interview formally ends, the dynamic becomes more casual and comfortable.
“Between us,” Miranda says, “are you sick of tour life yet? Grandpa always told us that he’d have kept playing forever if he never had to tour again.”
I cock my head to the side. “Really? I didn’t realize that. He toured well into his sixties, didn’t he?”
Annie nods. “Yeah, but he hated it. He signed a predatory contract early in his career, so touring was the only way he made money. But it was hard on him. He was constantly missing birthdays and anniversaries. He performed on Christmas more times than he could count. It got lonely.”
“Why didn’t the rest of the family go on tour with him?” I ask.
Miranda gives me a look that screams, Come on .
“Our grandma never wanted the kids exposed to tour life because there was so much… vice, as I’m sure you know. And in those days, even headliners didn’t get their own buses, so it was hard to shelter a family from it.”
Annie grimaces. “Our momma said she knew how to identify drugs before she even knew addition and subtraction. Musicians were always coming into the house or into the dressing rooms after shows and leaving their paraphernalia lying around. So Grandma had to sit the kids down and teach them what to stay away from, because heaven knows those musicians didn’t care what influence they were having on the kids.”
Just like that, a memory hits me—standing in the Green Room after one of my momma’s shows. She was cussing out her manager for having drugs that looked like gummy bears. The man had left the bag lying around on a table, and Nora had grabbed it and thrown a small handful into her mouth.
I’d tried to grab the bag from Nora and started crying that I wanted gummy bears, and that’s when Momma spun around—fear and horror on her face—and ran over to Nora, screaming, “Spit them out! Spit them out!”
Nora was crying as she spit them into Momma’s hands. Momma wrapped Nora up in her arms and sobbed as she held out her arms for me to run into, because I was crying now, too. She clutched the bag of gummy bears tightly in her fist and cried, “Never, ever eat something on tour that didn’t come from me.”
“Or Daddy!” I yelled.
A sob tore from her throat as she wrapped us tighter in her arms and cried, “No. Only from me.”
I want to cry just thinking about my mom’s fear and sorrow.
As brutal as the memory is, though, another memory fills out the scene, making it hurt even worse: my dad’s face.
He was standing behind my mom, and when those words burst from her mouth and he saw the bag, shock hit him like a tidal wave. He stumbled backward, his legs bumping into the couch. He stayed there, half sitting on the arm of the couch, looking dazed.
And ashamed.
Was that the night he tucked us into bed on the bus and told us he’d never let anything bad happen to us again? Was that the night I heard him cry during our bedtime song and tell us how sorry he was?
And was it the next day that Momma announced that Daddy wouldn’t be home for a few weeks?
Was that the day she canceled her tour?
Was that the day my mom chose her family—not over music, but over a life that could endanger a child?
Miranda and Annie keep talking, and I have to shake my head—shake off the memory—to keep from crying at the shame and fear I remember on my parents’ faces.
It’s the same fear Miranda and Annie’s grandmother felt day in and day out.
I can’t believe I forgot.
We walk over to the bus door, then down the stairs and out into the cloudy late-winter day. It’s unseasonably cold, and my suede blazer isn’t cutting it against the chill.
Patty stands outside the door, arms folded, scanning the area like the bodyguard they think he is.
“Ooh, is this the bodyguard?” Miranda says, eyeing Patty in his sunglasses like he’s candy and she’s fixin’ to cheat on her diet. “The LJ fandom was right—I could ship this.”
I laugh, even as my guts twist into a knot. “The LJ fandom would be better served wondering about the date of my next album. Which I don’t have,” I add with a smile.
Annie slaps my shoulder. “Now that’s just mean!”
She reaches a hand out to Patty. “I’m Annie Ray. And you are…?”
“Patrick,” he says.
“What’s it like being a bodyguard for someone so famous?” Miranda asks.
“It’s a job I take very seriously.”
“Would you risk your life for her?” Miranda asks.
His head shifts just enough that I can tell he’s looking at me when he says, “Without a doubt.”
His voice is so steady, his words so unwavering, that a ball of emotion swells in my throat.
“And what about you?” Annie asks me. “Would you trust him with your life?”
I look at Patty—at his folded arms, the set of his wide jaw, the furrow of his perennially flat brow—and I think of my mom.
How she traded her life for one with my dad, with us.
I think of the truths Patty’s still holding on to and about how he’s asking me to trust him, anyway.
But then I think of the two of us on stage together, of the feeling of playing a melody only he can understand, only he can harmonize with.
“Yes,” I say with a nod, tearing my gaze from Patty’s to look at Annie and Miranda.
“I would.”