1. Jace
JACE
The squeal has me leaning out the kitchen window. Muddy children roll around in the backyard in the warm April rain. I count them to make sure all four are alive.
And Paige questions my babysitting skills.
I’m doing a chicken nugget inventory to make sure I have enough food for the kids when one of my nephews howls, so I drop the bag of frozen food on the counter and sprint outside.
“Who got hurt?” I squint through the droplets.
My nephew Gabe points to his little brother Austin, who’s rubbing his elbow and sniffling. “I hit it funny.”
I inspect his boo-boo. “What’s that Spanish thing Aunt Baylee says?”
“Sana sana, colita de rana.”
“Yeah. That.” I think it’s something about the ass of a frog. “Feel better?”
Austin nods and gives me a sideways grin. “I slid from one side of the mud pit to the other.”
“Way to go, bud.” I hold up my hand, and when he high-fives me, mud splatters all over my face.
He giggles, and I pretend to be mad and chase him.
But Gabe comes from behind, and next thing I know, the three of us are on the ground.
I scrape the mud out of my eyes and see that Rhett’s youngest, Ella, and Baylee’s toddler, Leo, have joined the ruckus.
I break free from Gabe and Austin and grab the two littles, one under each arm, and race away from the big kids. “Hurry! They’re gonna get us!”
Gabe plays along and roars as he stomps behind us.
Ella squeals with laughter. “Go, go, go!”
At their age, my brothers and I were basically unpaid ranch hands. While the older boys know how to do a lot of the basics around our family’s ranch, Rhett doesn’t work them into the ground like our asshole father worked us.
Which is why I want the kids to enjoy their childhood. If that means they get dirty, so be it. They’ll grow up soon enough.
We stomp around the backyard until I remember I need to reserve some energy for tonight. I line everyone up by the house and grab the hose. “I’d better clean y’all up before your parents get home.”
“Too late.”
I turn to find my oldest brother Rhett scowling at us, and I shake my head. “Don’t give me that look. You said to let the kids play outside and keep an eye on them.” I wave my hand to my line of mudlings. “All alive and accounted for.”
“I figured you’d bring them inside when it rained.”
“You figured wrong.”
Just then, Paige joins us. “Good gravy, what’s going on here?”
I chuckle as I turn on the hose. “You got here just in time for the fun.” I aim the water at my big bro and his wife, and they run inside, laughing. Lightweights.
After I hose off the kids, I grab a stack of towels and dry them off.
Here comes the best part. Once we’re inside, I get to hand off the children to their parents. That’s why being an uncle rocks. I get all the fun and none of the responsibility. Just like God intended.
Smiling to myself, I head to my room on the other side of the house to shower and get ready for our show.
But when I think about tonight, my good mood wanes.
Because I know something no one else does—my band is on its last legs.
By the time I’ve showered and made it to the bar, the energy of the crowd filters down to the green room.
The guys sprawl out on a sagging brown couch, surrounded by scuffed-up guitar cases and crates of beer.
Behind them, sickly green paint peels off the walls.
But upstairs, fans are waiting, and when we hit the stage, that’s where the magic happens.
Lately, though, it’s been tough to remind my friends why we’re doing this.
When I see my bandmates’ faces, I groan. “Not tonight, okay? Just focus on the songs. Focus on why we started this thing in the first place.”
Cooper, my drummer and best friend, yawns. “So I could get out of mucking my family’s barn?”
“Don’t pretend you haven’t had a million groupies in your bed.”
His bushy black beard tugs up as he grins. “Yeah, okay. Point taken. We did it for the chicks.”
Maybe that’s what people say about me too, but that’s not why I’ve spent the last ten years busting my ass. “No, we did it because we love music. Because it’s in our fucking souls.”
“Don’t know about that anymore. Life on the road sucks. Gina complains I’m always gone. I’d like to spend a Saturday night with my girlfriend for once.”
Therein lies the problem with having a girlfriend.
“I hear you, but we gotta keep the wheels on this bus a little longer. We agreed we’d do this through the summer.
” One last shot to make it. To get the big record deal or level up some other way.
But we need something significant to happen or we’re done.
My bassist Shane takes a pull of his beer. “I’m tired of living on fumes. I gotta get serious about life if I want to move out of my parents’ basement.”
Living on fumes. I feel that. “You think I want to live with my big brother?” Since Rhett married Paige and they had baby Ella, the house feels cramped. If I’m not careful, I’m gonna overstay my welcome.
Shane chuckles. “You have nothing to complain about. I know about all the groupies who climb in and out of your bedroom window.”
“Paige made me nail it shut. She got tired of finding random women’s clothing around the house.
” I pick up my guitar and rush on before my bandmates give me shit for still being on my sex cleanse.
“But that’s not the point. I need us to give this summer a hundred percent effort.
If we don’t make it, fine. But if we half-ass the next few months and miss a big opportunity, that’s wasting all of our hard work leading up to this point. And we’ve come too far to fizzle out.”
Because then what? I’ll return home to wrangle cattle and be the little ranch hand my father beat into submission?
Frank knocks on the doorframe. “You’re up in ten.” He scans the room, pausing on my keyboardist who’s sulking in the corner, pissed we dragged him down here tonight. Frank holds out a flashlight to me. “So you don’t kill yourself backstage. The steps are steep.”
“Thanks, man. You’re the best.”
Nodding, he heads for the door. “Let’s have a great show tonight, fellas. Never know who could be in the audience.”
I don’t need to ask what that means. There might be an important A&R rep at the show.
Over the years, we’ve had dozens of leads fall through.
Reps who loved Wayward Sons only to blow smoke up our asses when it came down to doing something with our music.
Managers who told us if we ditched Frank, we could go far.
People in the industry who wanted us to change our sound, who said we were too country or too rock.
No, we do it this way or it’s over. We’re true to ourselves. We don’t fuck over our friends, and we don’t sell out.
And we make it this summer because there’s no other option.
My only focus tonight is singing my fucking heart out on stage and praying that makes a difference.
Because if it doesn’t, I’m not sure what I have left.