Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
PATTY
E veryone has separated after a long day, but I stay at the soundboard after rehearsals to finish tweaking the mix and noting my show cues. I give the stage tech and a few backline techs a hand as they finish up, and then I ask them to keep an eye on the band during tomorrow’s concert—let me know if they need anything so I can keep my focus firmly on Lou.
Lou Williams.
That girl ain’t making it easy on me. I know I’m rusty from only doing sound at the bar over the last several years, but I’m not that rusty. No, she even hears differently than other people. Something tells me she has tinnitus, probably from the last idiot who sat in this seat and told her she didn’t need IEMs while she was standing in a tornado of noise for a week or two straight of rehearsals. If I ever meet that clown, my fist might meet his jaw at the same time.
I glance around to make sure I’m alone, then play the recording I took from tonight, stripping Lou’s vocal track. I don’t know the lyrics to any of these yet, so I pull them up on my phone and sing along.
It’s a trick I learned from a veteran monitor engineer after I dropped out of music school—back when I had dreams of being exactly where Lou is now. The guy would do a run-through of every song to see how easy his mix was to sing to. His theory was, if the sound engineer can’t sing to it, the artist can’t either.
My mix isn’t as good as I thought.
And, as much as I hate to admit it, her lyrics have more bite than I thought, too. Even that Baby Llama Drama nonsense. It should be mindless fluff, but she twisted the chord progression just enough to keep it from being predictable. Almost like she knew exactly how to get under a snob’s skin and make him hum along anyway.
I’m gonna be madder than a hornet if I can’t fall asleep tonight because I’m stuck singing:
“So kiss me now and save the tears for your momma, cuz” —stomp, stomp, stomp— “it’s all just baby llama drama.”
If only she’d played Last Train to Midnight . The chance to sing along to that?—
A tap on my shoulder jolts me out of the music. I yank out my IEMs and whip around in one motion to see the woman herself.
“What are you doin’ here?” I demand.
Her eyebrow raise is so saucy, it belongs in a jar. She looks me over. “You were singing my songs.”
“It’s a sound tech trick,” I mutter, thankful my beard hides any traitorous color climbing up my neck. Not that I’m embarrassed. But I don’t sing in front of people. Ever.
“Uh-huh.” She crosses her arms, tapping a finger against her bicep. “So tell me, Patty—do you always put that much emotion into your sound checks? Or just when it’s my music?”
I shoot her a flat look. “You’re hearing things.”
Her smirk is full of mischief. “Oh, I know I am. That’s why I have a monitor engineer. But you should sing more. You have a great voice.”
“I can’t. I don’t.”
“The last three minutes would suggest otherwise.”
Three minutes. I’ve been singing along for probably half an hour, at least. Had no idea anyone else was here, or I’d have, well, not. “Most anyone can carry a tune, and that’s all I was doing.”
She puts a hand on her hip, and the movement draws my eyes. Her denim mini skirt makes it obvious she’s been training hard for this tour. Performing takes stamina, and her legs look strong. Capable. It’s an objective observation. Nothing more. Nothing about the way that mini skirt fits her or the way she stands like she owns the world?—
Eyes up, idiot.
They snap to hers, and she has a smug smile on her face, like she knows I was checking her out.
She thinks she knows, at any rate. I wasn’t checking her out. I was taking note of the shape she’s in—because she’s the artist I work for now, and if I’m uprooting my life to follow her, I need to know she can cut it.
In the years since I came home, I’ve gotten so used to not wanting anything, I almost believe myself.
“Did you need something, Princess?”
“Don’t be ugly,” she says, with a head snap worthy of any Southern matriarch. “Rusty and Ash asked me to check on you. Rus said if I didn’t, I’d find you here tomorrow morning still double-checking the crew’s work.” Her eyes rake over me like I’m dead leaves on dirty ground. “And would your momma let you get away with calling a grown woman ‘Princess’?”
“My momma didn’t stick around long enough to care how I treat anyone.”
The words are out before I can bite my tongue.
What is it about her that has me talking out of school? Thinking and noticing things I haven’t let myself think or notice in a long, long time?
She’s a digger. She’s not content with whatever’s on the surface. Must be all that legal training.
She can’t let things go.
I need her to let things go.
“Shame on her,” Lou says, her pale blue eyes colder than ice. “But you still don’t get to call me Princess.”
I snort, thankful she’s not pushing this, at least. “You got it, Darlin’.”
Her flat blink could almost make me smile.
But then she chuckles. “You’ve been around Rusty too much. All those adorable nicknames he gives Ash are rubbing off on you.”
“What woman doesn’t love a nickname?”
“This one,” she says, holding my gaze hostage. “At least not when you say it like it’s a four-letter word.”
I can’t help the smirk that wrinkles my eyes. “Is that what you heard?”
“Is that what you meant?”
The air between us is as thick and dense as humidity but as fresh as an ocean breeze.
“You should rest,” I say.
“You should learn to answer a question.” She gives me one more look before walking off.
I exhale more easily without the weight of those light eyes on me. But something about her doesn’t let me watch her leave. Least not without getting the last word.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say to her back. “In your set.”
She does a half turn and looks at me outta the corner of her eye. “How so?”
“Your encore. It’s Always Sonny might be your biggest single, but you should finish with Last Train to Midnight .”
She steps back toward me. “I thought you hadn’t listened to my music?”
“I have to. It’s part of the job,” I say, even though I know what she’s getting at. And that makes me feel like I’m swallowing glass.
“ Last Train to Midnight isn’t on my setlist.”
“It should be,” I say, swallowing down the shards. “It’s good. Great, even.”
The corners of her sharp eyes soften in curiosity. Uncertainty. “It’s hardly the anthem you end a night on.”
“Who says you have to end the night with an anthem? Why can’t you end it with a prayer?”
Her eyes release their hold on me as she leans back. A small move, but noticeable. She always leans in when she talks to me—like she’s ready to pounce. I’ve caught her off guard with this comment.
I don’t know how I feel about that.
“The label doesn’t like it.”
“Because you didn’t give them the rights to it? I noticed it’s not on the album.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. They said having people leave the concert in tears instead of an emotional high is a mistake.”
“With all due respect, they’re idiots. And you were smart to keep that one to yourself. It’s…” I stop, not sure why I feel compelled to tell her this. Except that the song is so bloody beautiful. “It’s the kind of song that stays with someone.”
“Thanks, Patty,” she says quietly.
“It’s Patrick.”
Her smile is like a ray of sunshine peeking through clouds. She looks at me for another long moment, then backs away. “Don’t stay up too late. I’d hate to get in trouble with our best friends.”
“Don’t you mean you’d hate to have me fall asleep on the job?”
“That’s a close second, but I’d do anything to avoid upsetting one of the Janes.”
“Good to know your priorities are straight,” I say.
“Always,” she says, but when her eyes tighten, I wonder if she’s stating an aspiration or a fact. And then I push that curiosity aside.
Lou is a study in contrasts, and I’m getting sick of the homework. She shouldn’t get under my skin like this. But something about her—the way she fights for every inch, the way she stands tall even when she’s uncertain—tugs at something buried deep. Something I was sure had died.
It’s not supposed to matter. It can’t. Because I have a job to do. A job that means leaving behind the people who actually need me. A job that’s supposed to get me one step closer to fixing my past. Not wrecking my future on a girl who is way too dangerous for a guy like me.
And that means I’m gonna have to pluck those roots one by one.
Lou might know how to get under my skin, but she ain’t staying there.
My priorities are straight, too.
I take back everything I said about not being rusty. I’m practically an oxidized mess.
Her first show’s going well enough, but these generic IEMs are a disaster, and Lou is visibly frustrated as she shoots me a look between every single song.
When it’s time for a wardrobe change, she runs off stage. Sweat drips from her face, and her hair sticks to her forehead as she rushes past me. Our gazes lock for only a moment, and her icy blues are full of fire.
“I’m rippin’ these things out,” she tells me through her headset mic. I’m glad she figured out how to switch lines so easily, but I’m annoyed that this is our constant fight. “I’m missing half my chords keeping these stupid things from falling outta my ears.”
“Don’t take ‘em out,” I tell her, my eyes flicking between my show cues and the band. “That’s why you have another guitarist. No one will notice you missing some notes, but you won’t hear right for a week if you don’t keep them in.”
“I won’t do another show like this,” she says. “I can’t risk sounding like garbage out there.”
“You don’t sound like garbage,” I tell her. “Listen.”
I feed the thunderous crowd noise into her IEMs. The pulsing energy is a high more powerful than any substance.
“Is that—is that the audience?”
“It is.”
“Wow.”
A moment later, Lou is standing beside my soundboard. She’s swapped the outlaw-style T-shirt and cutoffs for a black bare-shoulder gown that fits her tight around the waist before flaring into a huge, billowing skirt—short enough in the front to show rhinestone boots.
She looks … distracting. Too pretty for words.
But the way she’s peering at the audience replaces her usual warrior princess vibe with something new. Something foreign.
Lou can’t see them from the stage—performers can’t see much of anything—but seeing and hearing them now is clearly making an impression on her.
She looks at me, and there’s awe on her face. Shock.
Her lips form a small “o,” and for once, she looks less like a rockstar and more like someone about to step onto thin ice. She swallows. Then, so quietly, I almost can’t hear it, she says to herself, “Don’t mess this up.”
The stage manager is counting her down, but Lou looks frozen.
How do I keep forgetting she’s new to all this? She’s never had the chance to get used to the spotlight—or to performing under dozens of them. She’s gotta be beyond overwhelmed.
Her spine is straight, shoulders back—perfect stage presence. But I see it. The tension in her spine. The way her hands tremble just slightly before she clenches them into fists. The way she blinks too fast, like she’s trying to steel herself before battle. I doubt anyone else would notice.
But I do.
And with ten seconds left, I know she’s about to walk into the spotlight feeling completely exposed. Bare. Alone.
Unless I can give her some armor.
I cut the audience feed from her IEMs and grumble.
“You sound good now, Princess, but if you pull that earpiece out, I swear I’ll march across that stage and hold it in place like you’re a naughty toddler. You wanna fire me? Go for it.”
Her breath hitches, and for one charged second, I think she might actually fight me on it.
But instead, a slow smirk spreads across her face.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She huffs and turns back toward the stage.
But she doesn’t rip the earpiece out.
Her shoulders loosen, and that straight spine of hers relaxes as she shoots me a look. “Naughty toddler?”
“If the IEM fits …” I give her a wry look I know will bug her.
“You mean if it don’t fit.”
Her sharp smile pierces me.
The stage manager says, “Go,” and Lou strides out onto the stage like a queen, settling at the piano.
I switch off my mic so she can’t hear me exhale.
One crisis down, a million more to go.
Fortunately, the next song couldn’t be easier, with only Lou and the piano to worry about. My pre-set mix holds as her fingers dance across the ivories of the grand piano.
Not that I care.
But she is stunning.
The production value is incredible, too. Huge screens behind her magnify the striking figure she cuts—light blonde hair spilling down her shoulders, pooling over the black gown. All of it set against a white grand piano and a black stage. The contrast is cinematic, hypnotic.
The hushed crowd is soaking in the moment, same as half the crew—who seem too captivated to remember what they’re supposed to be doing.
I wave at one of the stage techs and give him a stern No ogling on the job look. He gets moving.
Although, I sympathize.
I can’t tear my eyes off her either.
And I feel her playing. Deep in my ribcage.
The delicate, trembling notes in the upper register are like falling tears, while the harsh bass chords thunder beneath them. She’s not just competent—she’s connected. Present. And when she starts singing, that velvet-and-ash voice of hers floods the room, swelling into a tide of emotion, sweeping everything away.
Them.
The audience, I mean.
I rip my eyes from her to adjust the mix, pulling back on the piano and boosting her vocal channels to match the intensity she’s injecting into the performance.
This wasn’t in rehearsal, this unguarded edge. It’s electric.
It’s also messing with my levels.
But I don’t mind. The moment is worth it.
The song is reaching its peak when something shifts.
Her playing falters—just a touch. She misses a couple of notes. Then a couple more. Her voice gets louder, almost desperate, but it doesn’t match the song.
Something’s off.
My eyes snap up. Her spine is stiff, rigid as a steel rod, her head tilting away from the crowd toward her shoulder.
Her IEM.
The front-of-house engineer points to his headset and gives me a sharp “Fix this now” look. The audience is starting to notice.
I make eye contact with the stage manager and gesture toward the stage. She nods and immediately starts speaking into her mic.
I grab a fully charged IEM pack and double-check the connections in one quick motion before darting out.
I keep low as I move.
No one’s looking for me; they’re focused on her. But years of instinct keep me in the shadows—unobtrusive.
My pulse is a jackhammer.
I haven’t been on a stage in a long time. I forgot how energizing and unmooring it can be, all at once.
But this isn’t about me and my broken dreams.
It’s about Lou.
I don’t know how it’s possible for her posture to go from stiff to even stiffer. To anyone else, she looks composed. Regal, even. Because she doesn’t let people see her nerves. Doesn’t let anyone know what distresses her unless she wants them to know.
But to me? She may as well be trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.
And that makes the hammering in my heart start to ache.
I bolt toward the piano, then slow as I approach from upstage—the side farthest from the audience—so I don’t startle her.
“I’m here,” I say into my mic, patched only to her. At the same time, I lightly touch her leg, just above the knee, to get her attention if the pack isn’t working at all.
Her eyes close in relief. Her shoulders almost slump.
A quick glance at the monitor pack confirms my suspicion—the power light is dead.
I pull the pack from her waist clip and swap it out, ensuring every connection is tight. Then I touch her knee again, hoping she takes it for what it is—me asking if we’re good.
She tilts her head slightly away from me, shaking her hair back, and I see it.
The earpiece is loose, too.
If I ever find the useless clown who had this job before me …
Easy. You’re here to do a job. Not to be someone’s white knight.
I stay in the shadows, lifting Lou’s long hair carefully, trying to be quick, precise. The bright heat of the stage lights beats down on her, the sweat on her skin making the adjustment harder.
A faint scent of lavender and vanilla drifts up from her hair as I gently guide the earpiece back into place, securing the cable to keep it from slipping again. I try to ignore the small goosebumps that rise on her skin where my fingers touch her.
It shouldn’t matter that her skin reacts to me.
It doesn’t matter.
Yet, when she smiles and drops her head in a slight nod, I exhale in relief.
She’s good.
She’s steady.
She’s back.
I follow the same shadowed path I took to get here, and her voice brims with confidence, filling the room.
Rick gives me a thumbs-up. The stage manager does the same. Then Manny finds me and pats my back.
I brush it off.
I don’t care how any of them think I did.
I care that Lou finishes her heartbreaking melody to rapturous applause. Because that’s how I get paid.
The spotlights shift, and Lou rushes back offstage, where the wardrobe tech tears off the billowing skirt along the quick-release seam, leaving her in the sleek strapless black dress beneath.
It looks spectacular on her.
If you care about that kind of thing.
The next thing I know, Lou is throwing her arms around me.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing me tight, her head against my cheek.
She lets go before I can process the feeling. Before I can memorize the way her breath feels on my neck.
Then she’s gone—off to the stage, leaving me there, rattled in a way I don’t like.
She unleashes the full force of her warrior princess smile on the audience.
And it hits me.
Whether I like it or not, that smile hits me. And no amount of reminding myself why I’m really here can stop it.
After a few more songs and a double encore, the house lights go up, and Lou stands at the edge of the stage.
She thanks the band. The crew. The fans.
And all the while, there’s an endearing look on her face that makes me want to shield her from the inevitable firestorms ahead.
Her parents left this industry. She should know better than anyone how dark it is. How it will chew her up and spit her out without a second thought.
Yet she stands there—bright, determined—and if the set of her jaw is any indication?
Defiant.
I’m an idiot for wanting to protect her from this world.
If anything …
I need someone to protect me from her.