Chapter Three
· Adriana ·
I didn’t get to see Brooks before his show.
I’d made sure the biggest country superstar of our generation played my tiny hometown, and it had cascaded into a wild array of domino effects.
People were suddenly a little nicer to me—after two weeks of Gil being unable to find a single free hour in his oh-so-busy schedule to tow and fix my car, all of his customers cancelled short-notice on the day of the show.
No matter Gil’s feelings about me, he showed up to take care of my trusty nineties station wagon.
I’d count it as a win.
People in town had gotten first dibs on the concert tickets, but the saloon only had limited capacity, so a lot of Brooks Monroe fans camped outside the building first thing in the morning.
The town had even been crawling with more tourists than last week—and we were already in the height of summer season, so it was busy to begin with.
There had been petitions to make it an open-air concert in the theme park itself, but neither Bravetown nor Wild Fields actually had the health and safety resources to deal with a festival-sized concert.
Gil fitted my car with a new front tire and replaced my spare, and I made it home in time to change into a dress with a crocheted bust and flowy skirt, topped off with all my favorite jewelry.
I wasn’t on duty today, and I had every intention to enjoy the hell out of the gig.
Not only live music—but Brooks. He was…indescribable on stage.
He’d earned his fame with more than a decade’s worth of bangers, and considering he was technically retired and just coming back for a One Night Only show, I was going to make the most of it.
A lot of the younger Bravetown staff stuck together on the balcony tonight.
For the most part, they were the easiest group to be around.
People naturally gravitated to Sinan. He’d moved to Wild Fields a couple of years ago, which earned him bonus points for choosing to live in the middle of nowhere, had gotten engaged to Zuri, the ultimate girl next door, and genuinely seemed to like everyone.
And everyone liked him back. Happy and optimistic and nice.
He was pretty much the complete opposite of me.
I was fun to party with, but I wasn’t great at being nice.
I was the girl you stole horses with, not the girl you introduced to your family—neither romantically, nor platonically.
But I’d befriended Esra, his little sister, a few months ago when she’d been looking for someone to show her the fun side of Wild Fields, and Sinan had been making an effort to include me in his friend group ever since.
He’d even invited me to his birthday party a few weeks ago.
I still hovered by the edge of the balcony and leaned on the railing instead of sitting around the table with all of them.
There was a strange disconnect that happened once you were treated like a star and had to come back down to earth.
I’d seen and heard so much fucked-up industry shit, had dodged two stalkers, and gotten training on blackmail, kidnapping, and bomb threats ahead of an arena tour—I couldn’t care less about leaky faucets or noisy neighbors.
Pretty sure that was why so many actors and actresses became mindfulness gurus and yoga teachers when they retired, or started selling crystal bracelets or something.
The need for something, anything, less mundane than a nine-to-five and a picket-fence house.
A thick crowd filled the Rattlesnake Saloon and even Esra—looking less like a flu-zombie than when I’d last seen her—showed up with her boyfriend, Noah.
They both worked in Bravetown too, playing two of the main characters in Bravetown’s daily horseback stunt show.
Esra—when not sick—embodied Annie Lou, the resident damsel in distress, who got kidnapped and held for ransom by a group of bandits.
Noah played Ace, the leader of the bandits, and the theme park’s main villain.
Over the last few months, he had whisked her off her feet both literally and figuratively.
The lights dimmed.
People jumped from their seats. Applause and screams filled the room.
Everyone zeroed in on the stage in anticipation.
One after another, the band took their spots, greeted with cheers that grew louder and louder.
The drummer, AJ, hit the bass once. It was a drop of blood on the tide and the audience were sharks circling the boat, swimming faster, circling closer.
Raw hunger crackled through the air. AJ hit the bass again.
From up here, I could watch the audience push tighter toward the stage.
Every hair on my body stood to attention.
God, I’d missed this.
A G-chord erupted from the speakers, followed by an A minor, accompanied by a low rumble on the drums, and the audience lost it.
Sharks in a feeding frenzy. “Hard Work” was an anthem.
No barbecue, no honky-tonk, no tailgate party could escape that song.
It was the one that had catapulted Brooks Monroe into the mainstream.
He stepped onto the stage, guitar in front of him.
His cowboy hat lowered, he kept his face from view for the moment.
Every leisurely step dialed up the volume of the crowd.
People were screaming at the top of their lungs before he even made it to the mic.
Still, he easily drowned out the noise when his head snapped up, he flashed them a smile, and he started to sing.
His voice poured through the sound system like smooth gravel.
“Faded jeans and worn boots, they tell the story right. Of earnin’ every minute, and livin’ for the night. ”
Despite the millions in his bank account, Brooks still looked like the man who wrote “Hard Work.” Blue denim that frayed at his heels, leather boots worn soft, a plain white tee, and a classic scuffed Stetson.
His brown hair curled out from under his hat just a little grown out, and the five o’clock shadow gave his mustache just the right amount of rugged charm.
The song still worked for him.
Brooks still worked, period. His stage presence hadn’t dimmed at all over the last few years.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he drawled into the microphone once the song was over, the audience hanging on his lips, “or how the fine folk of Bravetown would say, howdy y’all.”
He tipped his hat at the crowd, and the responding cheer was deafening.
“You have to forgive me and my band if we sound a bit rusty tonight. We haven’t played a show in a little while. Are y’all having a good time so far?”
Again, cheers.
I glanced back over my shoulder. Everyone at our table was standing too, swept into the excitement.
My chest swelled with pride that had nothing to do with me.
Maybe Brooks and I weren’t close anymore, but he deserved this.
He was the kindest and most talented person I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting, and his retirement had been a hard and sudden choice.
If this was the last show he’d ever play, I wanted it to be great.
“Do you know this song?” he asked and plucked a few strings.
The reaction was instantaneous. If “Hard Work” was his party anthem, “Whiskey Lips” was the one that ended up on everyone’s bedroom playlist. Playing those songs back-to-back was evil genius.
He had enough hits to keep everyone singing all night long, but those two would really get the crowd worked up.
Brooks had taught me a lot of things, but his crowd work was on a level I could only dream of reaching one day.
It was going to be a short show at a small venue that served alcohol—he’d burn them fast and bright, get their energy out, so he could launch into some slower songs, then probably end the night on upbeat but older comfort tracks.
Two songs, and he’d already ensured no drunken brawls, and a happy crowd heading home way before midnight.
“All right, all right, before we launch into that”—he cleared his throat and waited for the audience to listen—“I’m honored to be here with you tonight, Wild Fields.
You probably know that I don’t really do this anymore, but I got a text from a friend telling me all about what an amazing crowd you are, how much fun it would be to play for you.
I gotta say, my friend was spot-on. Y’all are unbelievable.
So I need you all to make some noise for the lovely lady who made tonight possible: my dear friend Adriana who invited me to play the Rattlesnake Saloon! ”
I knew better than to think the cheer was truly for me, but Esra whooped and hollered behind me, and Brooks pumped his arm on stage to keep the applause going, and a smile tugged at my lips.
We hadn’t discussed the details of why I needed him to play here. He knew me well enough that I wouldn’t have asked if it hadn’t been important.
The rest of his show was a masterpiece.
The sole fact that the Brooks Monroe was on stage, playing music, was probably enough to get people excited.
But they would have gotten real quiet if he had croaked his biggest hits like a hoarse crow.
Instead, the audience was buzzing. It probably didn’t hurt that Brooks was eye candy.
Totally objectively speaking, that man was hot.
Between the white tee stretching tight enough to highlight his toned shoulders, and his deep dimples flashing whenever he smiled at the crowd?
That alone was worth some whooping and hollering.
Standing above the majority of the people, on the balcony, I felt their excitement rise. It gathered under the ceiling of the saloon like a thick cloud, seeping into everyone’s lungs whether they wanted it to or not. You couldn’t help but sing along. I couldn’t help but miss it.
Nothing was as intoxicating as hundreds of people singing with you.
It was a rush. It was a fever. It made you delirious.