Chapter 3
THREE
June
I hide behind a stack of crates backstage for the rest of the show.
I’m not proud of myself. But I need time for the sting of humiliation to cool on my cheeks. They feel like they’ve been slapped. Now get off the stage.
Not only were Deke’s words harsh, his eyes were icy cold.
What happened to this man?
When he burst onto the country music scene as a young singer, he was known as a womanizer, sure, but also a fun-loving, good-humored man of the people.
Quick with a joke. Always had time for the fans, signing autographs and taking pictures after shows late into the night.
I had a file on my very first computer filled with nothing but YouTube videos from fans documenting his big personality.
My favorite one depicted Deke coming up behind a group of senior citizens at a restaurant.
They were celebrating a birthday and Deke?
He was drunk as a skunk. He came up behind them, threw his arms around the guest of honor’s shoulders and sang her happy birthday while camera flashes went off all over the establishment.
Meanwhile, this version of him might as well be auditioning as the next grim reaper.
Now more than ever, I want to leave, but I’m more stubborn than I realized.
When I’ve finally gotten my poise back in place, I emerge from behind the stack of crates and beeline for the wardrobe department.
I return the denim dress they loaned me, along with the cowboy boots, and I change back into my jeans and tank top.
Purse over my shoulder, I mosey through the backstage area, planning to go sit in the very last row of the tour bus and wait for the show to end.
I’m looking down at my phone, so at first I don’t notice the way everyone seems to be staring at me, from the roadies to executive-looking men in suits.
Was I that bad on stage?
Whit rushes up to me and yanks off his headset, gripping both of my shoulders. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, June.”
Oh boy.
Am I fired?
I bet my bottom dollar Deke requested they throw me out on my butt.
“Why were you looking for me?”
He whips his phone out from the back pocket of his jeans, tapping the screen a few times and holding it face out.
From the perspective of the front row of the concert, there are me and Deke, singing “Sweet Venom”.
“Y’all’s performance tonight has gone viral.
Over five million views in the last hour. ”
My double take almost gives me whiplash. “Five million?”
“I can’t believe it, either.” He pauses before qualifying. “Well, I can believe it, actually. Just look at the two of you. Who knew you’d be so…explosive.”
I lean in and take a closer look at the video.
Explosive is a kind way of saying that Deke and I look like we’re one millisecond away from getting down and dirty.
I have no recollection of getting so close to him, my head tipped back, mouth and eyes inviting, while he leans down and sings an inch from my face, that famous upper lip in a snarl.
To put it in the crudest of terms, we are eye fucking each other up on that stage and holding nothing back.
One tap of my finger tells me that the commenters agree. Wholeheartedly.
If he’s not banging her, I’ll shave off my eyebrows.
Didn’t know Daddy Deke liked them so young.
If the tour bus is rockin’, don’t come a’knockin’.
My face turns roughly the color of my hair. “Whoops. I forgot the comment sections on the internet are the bad place.”
“Oh God, never read the comments,” Whit said, hastily returning his phone to his pocket, his expression betraying his excitement. “I’ve already been contacted by a bunch of media outlets wanting to know who you are. June Bug is a great stage name.”
“Oh, I mean, it was just the one time. Because Lorna couldn’t make it—”
“Yes, but who knew we would get this kind of response? This is music industry gold.”
I’m already backing away from the manager, even more determined to go hide in a dark corner somewhere. “I’m pretty sure Deke hates my guts. I doubt he’d be interested in an encore.”
Whit glances toward the stage while considering my words. “Let me worry about Deke, all right? Just make sure you’re on that bus to New Orleans tonight.”
It’s not lost on me that the manager doesn’t deny that Deke hates me.
Cool.
When Whit walks away, even more people are looking at me backstage.
A few people give me fist bumps or hold up their phones, showing me that they’re watching the performance.
For the first time, I notice my own text app has blown up.
My notifications have been turned off so I could focus on covering for Sandy, but there is a green bubble with the number 504 inside of it. 504 text messages?
Quickly, I respond to my mother’s message only, then drop my phone back into my purse to deal with later.
I exit the arena through the rear entrance—and I immediately notice something is wrong.
There are two giant luxury tour buses. A group of men in coveralls are huddled around the engine of one bus, looking endlessly stressed.
“It needs a new camshaft. I won’t be able to get the part here until tomorrow morning.”
“How are we going to get everyone to the hotel? Plus, we have to be on the road again early to New Orleans!”
The mechanic shrugs.
Oh dear.
If I thought Deke was in a piss-poor mood the first time I met him, he’s Satan incarnate after the show.
I watch from the shadows behind the venue as he kicks open the door of the arena and stomps across the tarmac toward his tour bus.
He’s in a plain black T-shirt and beat-up jeans, that ever-present cowboy hat low over his face.
A toothpick hangs from his lips and that bottle of Jack is back in his loose, long-fingered grip.
Halfway to the bus, Deke notices everyone standing around, instead of piling into the buses.
“What the fuck is the hold up?” he rasps, scanning his surroundings.
Is he looking for me?
If so, he probably just wants to make sure I’m not there anymore.
That’s too bad, isn’t it?
Whit appears to the musician’s left, looking extremely nervous. For good reason. He’s staring down the barrel of a pissed-off superstar. “One of the buses is incapacitated.”
Deke jerks an impatient shoulder. “And? What does that mean for us?”
The manager looks like he’s going to be sick.
“It means we’re all going to have to cram onto one bus to reach the hotel, unfortunately.
It’s going to be tight quarters for about an hour,” Whit says over the groan of the crew.
“But we have a second bus commissioned for the morning, so we’ll have more space on the way to New Orleans, at least.” Everyone is complaining in earnest now. “Sorry, folks.”
Deke releases a withering sigh, hoists the bottle of Jack to his lips and climbs onto the bus, mid-swig. Impressive.
Everyone follows.
It’s right about now that I start to wish I’d hidden in the back row, like I intended.
Because when I board the bus a few minutes later, there are no more seats available.
As in, not a single one. I stand at the top of the walkway, my fingers bloodless around the straps of my purse, my stomach floating in zero gravity. What am I going to do?
“Looks like you’re going to have to pick someone’s lap,” says one of the roadies, and everyone breaks into boisterous laughter. “Here, you can have mine!”
“I’ll take her!”
“Come sit between us, girl. We’ll keep you warm.”
Am I the only woman on this entire bus? God, it appears so.
Laughing nervously, I stumble down the walkway, hoping I’m wrong and there is at least one opening. But there is nothing. The bus is clearly full to capacity.
A clammy hand shoots out and closes around my elbow, yanking me sideways across a man’s lap.
I don’t recognize him, but he smells like cigarettes and sweat.
Immediately, I scramble back to my feet.
Another stranger is already grabbing for me, though, and everyone is laughing at my expense, even as Whit yells from the front of the bus for the crew to knock it off.
I’m in the middle of struggling to withdraw my hand from yet another man’s grip when I sense a presence behind me.
“The fuck are you doing?” drawls a voice I would know in my sleep.
It’s Deke. He’s towering behind me, the heat of his chest scoring my back and shoulders. “Um,” I begin, swallowing. “I-I was just trying to—”
“Ain’t talking to you, June Bug.” Deke reaches over my shoulder and grips my assailant by the throat of his T-shirt, twisting it in a fist. “What the fuck are you doing?”
The blood drains out of the man’s face. “Just teasing her a little, Deke. She’s fine.”
“You don’t speak for her.” His breath ghosts along the crown of my head. “You fine?”
After a beat, I shake my head no.
“That’s what I thought,” Deke says, his voice noticeably harder. “Get the fuck off my bus.”
Assuming he’s speaking to me, I turn to leave.
Deke hauls me back by the rear belt loop of my jeans. “Jesus Christ, June Bug. I’m talking to him, not you.”
“Oh.”
I hear the bottle of Jack being tilted to his mouth. I tip my head back to watch Deke take a long swig from the bottle, his Adam’s apple taking a slow slide up and down, before he lowers the bottle to his side again. “Why are you still on my goddamn bus?” he says, looking over my head.
The man who grabbed me scrambles to his feet and exits the bus like it’s on fire.
It’s deathly silent on the bus after that. One could hear a pin drop.
“Thanks,” I mutter, moving to take the man’s place, even though it’s beside another big, bearded dude who looks decidedly peeved that I’ve just gotten his friend fired.
Before my bottom can meet the leather seat, however, Deke points the neck of the bottle toward the back of the bus.
“Nope. You’re sitting in back with me, June Bug.
” He urges me down the walkway. “Can’t send Sandy’s niece home traumatized, can I? ”
I’m relieved beyond measure to find the final row is completely empty.