Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
LOU
“ G ive Ash an extra hug for me,” I tell Rusty. Then I turn to Patty, and suddenly, I don’t know what to do with my hands. Do I reach one out to shake his? Do I hug?—
My pulse stutters at the thought.
Nope. No hugs.
I try to stick my hands in my pockets, but my denim mini skirt, the same style I’ll wear in concert, doesn’t have any. My hands slide awkwardly down my sides, and I recover by patting my legs like it’s a completely normal thing to do. I square my shoulders and hold my head high, fully committing to the leg-patting. Nothing to see here.
Rusty snorts, but my eyes jump to Patty’s. I catch him glancing away, all casual indifference. Then he slips his hands into the pockets of his naturally distressed jeans, and something flares in my gut, like kindling catching fire.
He might not think he’s acknowledging me, but those hands in the pockets? Dead giveaway. They tell me more than he knows. That both steadies me and ignites something I can’t explain. It’s an itch to prove myself—not to the world, but to him. To the guy who went to NECM and who has bands all over the South lining up to play at his bar. Then, the second I have his attention, his approval, I’ll stop caring. I always do.
That’s my pattern: the thrill of the chase. But everyone knows, once you catch the rabbit, it’s time to move on.
I recognize it’s not a healthy view of attachment. I don’t care. It keeps me safe. It lets me stand close to the fire without getting burned.
I pat his firm shoulder. “See ya on the inside,” I say, and with a wave to Rusty, I stride into the theater. I don’t look back, but I feel Patty following three steps behind me.
I’m rehearsing in the roper boots I’ll wear tomorrow night—lower and shorter than cowboy boots, with more of an “outlaw” feel than traditional country. Like me. But Patty’s in black combat boots, paired with his usual jeans and white T-shirt. I swear it’s all I’ve ever seen him wear. Is he like Detective Monk, with a closet full of identical outfits? He’s not wearing the exact same jeans and T-shirt every day, is he?
Have I mentioned I look for red flags everywhere?
The hallways split ahead, and I glance back at him as I take the left fork. No, these jeans have a small hole in the knee. The ones he wore at the bar didn’t. And the pair he wore the night we met were torn enough to belong in the trash.
Phew.
Well, not phew because I care about Patty—just phew because I don’t want a dude with poor hygiene stinking up the crew bus.
It isn’t until I’m a few steps down the hallway that I realize Patty isn’t behind me anymore. I stop and look around. Crap. Did I go the wrong way?
“It’s this way,” he says from the opposite hall. I grumble, turn around, and stride to catch up.
I don’t hear him chuckle, but there’s a spring in his step as he reaches the door and holds it open for me.
“You’ve worked this venue before, haven’t you?” I ask as we walk up the stairs to the stage.
And because he’s Patty, he shrugs.
I roll my eyes and step onto the stage, where my band is gathering. It’s only ten a.m., but we’ve been rehearsing daily for weeks. Even more so since my tour was originally scheduled for September. It sold out in twenty-seven minutes, prompting my label to reorganize everything. They pushed it back to December to book bigger venues, then doubled the stops to maximize profit. They also booked a dedicated tour bus for me, while my band and core team share another, and the crew has two more.
In other words, there’s a lot of money behind this tour.
A.
Lot.
It’s fine, though. It’s not like I’m already under so much pressure it feels like a tour bus is parked on my chest.
When the stage and production managers see me, they call everyone over: the artistic and music directors, sound and lighting techs, and more. Patty shakes hands with a few of them before talking to the front-of-house engineer, Rick. Then he puts on headphones, listening to my music, maybe for the first time. Which is insane, considering he has until tomorrow to get the mix right.
Manny pulls me back into focus. And then, for the next hour and a half, we run through everything. Blocking and movement, lighting, transitions. We review breaks and my costume changes (two, and that’s two more than I want), as well as tomorrow’s schedule. Final rehearsal, sound check, then showtime.
And all the while, I sneak peeks at Patty as he listens to the lyrics and melodies that make up the essence of my soul. He doesn’t react, but something about the way he tilts his head sends a ripple of tension down my spine.
After a long day of prep, a sleepless night, and more prep today, it’s finally time for sound check. I step on stage before the rest of the band, standing at the edge, looking out over the orchestra seats and up into the mezzanine. We chose a theater for this concert on purpose—I need to work out the bugs, and an intimate setting will be more forgiving than a stadium full of screaming fans.
A knot forms in my stomach thinking of how packed this place will be soon. Sometimes, I can’t get over the fact that I have fans. Millions. And all because I uploaded some videos to YouTube in college with my face obscured by a curtain of pale blonde hair.
Anonymity was a shield. It let me create without scrutiny, let me pour my heart into music without worrying about what my face, body, or last name added to the equation.
Now, there’s no hiding.
Noise behind me spins me around, and where I expect my band, I see Patty. He’s not looking at me, though. He can’t see me from where he’s standing.
He’s looking out at the seats.
Something about his posture makes me pause. His shoulders aren’t squared like usual; he’s shifted to the side, almost hesitant.
Before I can dwell on it, a stage tech with long, stringy hair sees him and nods in that casual, dude-to-dude way. “Hey, man,” the guy says. “I’m Jay.”
Patty nods back. “Patrick.”
The tech jerks his chin toward the stage. “Can you believe all this hype for a studio act? It’s gotta be because her mom, right?” He snorts. “Or do they give any influencer a tour these days?”
The words cut through me like a blade.
It feels like he plunged his hand straight into me and pulled out my greatest fear, and now he’s displaying it for the world to see.
Except, it’s not the world.
It’s Patty. Patty, who’s already dismissed and judged me, who thinks my music ain’t his scene.
And somehow, that makes it even worse.
Humiliation settles like a stone in my stomach.
Patty doesn’t tense up, doesn’t even tilt his head. “Don’t you have a job to do, Jay?” he asks flatly.
It’s not a defense. Not an agreement.
It’s a dismissal.
He’s good at that.