Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
LOU
A week of shows goes by, followed by another and another. Every concert makes me feel like I’m floating, while every interview and after-party drags me back down to earth.
Hard.
In each city, I spend an hour with the press, laughing and smiling through clenched teeth as they compare me to Winona.
“So, Lucy,” one interviewer says, “everyone’s been talking about how much you’re like your mom. I mean, there’s a real resemblance there, right? Is it hard living in her shadow, or is that something you embrace?”
I force the same smile I’ve used a hundred times already tonight. “I don’t think about it much. I’m not trying to be anyone but myself. Winona’s Winona, and I’m… well, I’m Lucy Jane. That’s the most important thing to me.”
The same questions, the same backhanded compliments, over and over. They’re so busy comparing me to my mom, I wonder if they even hear me.
It’s enough to make me miss being anonymous.
But the comparisons don’t stop in the press room. After each set of interviews, Manny invites VIPs into the green room, where it’s more of the same.
"You know, I can’t help but think of Winona when I watch you perform. You’ve got that same star power, but with a bit more grit. It’s like you’re carrying the torch for her, huh?" a middle-aged man in a designer suit says.
He’s from the label, so I can’t turn on my heel and walk away … but I wish I could get my hands on some medicine and a Dr Pepper Zero. I’m not sure my head can handle much more.
"I’m not sure about all that. I’m just trying to do my own thing. Make my own name, you know?"
"Oh, sure, I get that,” he says dismissively. “But it must be tough, right? I mean, living up to what she did—those shoes are pretty big to fill."
I pause, trying to ignore the weight his words put on my shoulders. My heartbeat flutters in my ears.
“Yeah, well … I guess everyone expects me to fill them. But I’m not her. I just want to know if I can stand on my own, without constantly worrying about how my performance affects her legacy.”
The man chuckles. “If you want people to stop making that connection, you need to turn their attention away from your music.”
I swallow a retort—isn’t my music the entire point?—and smile. “And what should I have them turn their attention to?”
“A story. You and Connor Nash, for instance.”
My fake smile falters. “What about him?”
“You two are practically made for the headlines— The Golden Boy and the Legacy . People eat that stuff up. It would take you from being the ‘daughter of’ to the one everyone’s talking about. Think about it. Drama sells, Lucy. People don’t just want your music, they want a narrative they can follow.”
My hand tightens around my water bottle, my breath shallower. “I don’t need a story. I’m not a tabloid headline.”
The exec chuckles to himself, like I’m too naive for words. “You’ve got talent, but an extra angle never hurt anyone. Right now, everyone’s talking about you because you’re Winona’s daughter. But if you could become Connor’s girlfriend …” He spreads out his arm, like the story sells itself.
“And here I thought they were talking about me because of my music,” I say, trying to laugh instead of set him on fire with my eyes. “Remember, I had hits going viral before anyone even knew who I was.”
“That’s right,” he says, appeasingly. Patronizingly. “And that’s what I mean. You were so mysterious! It was a brilliant hook. You know how to craft a narrative already. So take control of this one.”
“By dating someone the label tells me to date?”
He laughs. “Come on, Ms. Williams. We’re not in the business of telling people what to do with their love lives. If Connor hadn’t started flirting with you online, it never would have occurred to any of us that you two could be this generation’s power couple.”
My stomach twists, and I want out of this conversation—fast.
“Thanks for the feedback,” I tell him. “I’ll take it under consideration. And in the meantime, hopefully, I’ll win some fans by creating great music, not just theories for fans.”
“That’s the spirit,” he says.
As soon as he turns away, I head for the exit, not caring if I’m leaving the party an hour early, not caring if anyone thinks I’m rude. My stomach is roiling, my head is pounding, and I have to blink to fight back tears.
But people waylay me. They stop me with more comments, more jokes, more comparisons.
I laugh them off, but each one chips a piece of me away.
I keep my eyebrows perked up, fighting the weight of exhaustion pulling at me.
I perform more for the media than I ever do on stage.
When I finally leave the room, my head is pounding like a drum, and I feel like I’m about to throw up. I dig my thumb into the soft spot in my palm, rubbing circles into the tight muscle, trying to squeeze out some of the tension as a ringing in my ears starts.
“You okay?” Patty’s voice cuts through the fog in my head.
He’s sitting on a chair right near the green room, ever on guard.
I still my hand, forcing a bright, too-wide smile. “Always.”
His eyes flick down to my hands, then back up, watching me carefully.
“Glad to hear it,” he says, his voice soft, but with that certain knowing in it.
He stands and thrusts a steaming coffee cup into one of my hands and places a migraine pill into the palm of the other.
I look at him, surprised.
He doesn’t react—doesn’t explain how he knew. He just stands there, waiting.
And that makes the back of my eyes burn.
To know that someone sees me …
I pop the pill into my mouth and swallow dry, the bitterness of it matching the sensation in the back of my throat.
“I don’t drink coffee,” I mutter, my voice quieter than I meant.
“I know,” he says. “It’s tea. Chamomile tea, specifically.”
He knows? My nose stings, making me sniff. “Thanks.”
Did Alicia put him up to this? No, I bet it was Ash—although I can’t see him and Ash texting like old friends. Either way, I take a sip and sigh.
I don’t love chamomile tea, but Patty must have put an unholy amount of honey in it because it’s delicious.
I take another sip, and my shoulders relax as the warmth spreads through me. I open and close my mouth, trying to make the ringing stop.
“May I?” Patty asks me, holding his hands up like he’s about to touch my face.
Why is he about to touch my face?
My heart starts pounding for a different reason. We’re far enough from the exit that I’m not worried about anyone seeing, but …
What is happening?
And why aren’t I stopping it?
“For your headache,” he says, and then he puts his fingers on the sides of my jaw and presses, his fingers crawling up and down along the muscle, easing the tension with a firm, careful touch. I close my eyes at the pressure, and after only a minute, the ringing in my ears lessens. Some of the throbbing in my head dies down, too.
I sigh. “How do you know how to do that?”
“One of the perks of major jaw surgery,” he says. “Better?”
My eyes are heavy when I open them. I cover his wrists with my hands, pulling them from my face. “A little, actually. Thanks, Patty.” I take another sip of the tea. “Do you mind if we go back to the bus? I’m done in there.”
He nods and starts escorting me.
“You missing your friends?” he asks as we walk through the belly of the arena.
His head is on a swivel, scanning for potential threats, even though another bodyguard—Rafael, who used to be Special Forces—meets up with us in an adjoining hall.
“I’m fine,” I say. “You?”
His scoff is quiet, barely leaving his throat. “I’m always fine.”
“How’s Sean? Didn’t he have a game tonight?”
“Blue Collars won, three-two. Sean had twenty-five saves.”
“Twenty-five! That’s insane.”
“A little more than average, but yeah. He’s killin’ it.”
We’re almost to the back doors, where the bus is waiting.
My show in Augusta isn’t until the day after tomorrow, so normally, I’d be able to take a break from overnight travel and sleep in a hotel, but I want to wake up in my childhood home.
The rest of the band and crew will stay in the hotel here tonight and travel straight to Augusta tomorrow for their day off.
I almost feel bad dragging Patty with me, but it’s not like either of us are big on bonding with the crew.
I get the sense Patty won’t ever make that mistake again, and I won’t make it the first time.
Rafael pops outside, checking for threats, before he opens the door and waves us through.
Once we’re on the bus, he pats the door twice, signaling to Jimmy that we’re good to go, while he stays back to travel with the rest of the security team.
I fall onto the couch and kick my boots off.
“How’s your dad?” I ask.
Patty must be as tired as I am—it’s not like he’s been lounging all day—but he doesn’t sit on the couch. He stands a few feet over in the kitchenette, leaning against the counter as he rolls out his shoulders.
“Oh, Danny’s always good. He wouldn’t tell me if he weren’t. When I talked to him after his accident, he kept going on about how he was lucky to be alive and how he met the nicest nurses. I wish I’d had half that attitude.”
“Cut yourself some slack.”
“I’ve done that plenty in my life, Queenie.”
“The self-loathing is gettin’ old.”
He exhales a small, loud puff of air and taps his fingers on the counter. “Your friends are right—you need outlets that aren’t me. You’re gettin’ too sassy for your skirt.”
I laugh. “That’s not the saying.”
“It should be.”
“It’s a great line for a song,” I say, yawning.
I close my eyes and rub them, sleep descending quickly now that I’m relaxed, now that I don’t have to be on for anyone.
It’s a funny thing, balancing that love for performing with the need to recharge. I’m an ambivert—half extrovert, half introvert—and after the interviews and that conversation with the record exec, the introvert part is taking over.
“You sounded good tonight,” Patty says. “Your playing was crisp, and your voice?—”
He stops, and that makes my eyes fly open.
“Yes?”
The kitchenette light is the only one we turned on, and it backlights Patty, so I can’t see his face.
With his arms folded and his ever-disheveled presence, he looks like the brooding hero of a gothic romance… without all the problematic bits.
At least, I don’t think he’s secretly a red flag.
Is he?
“You sounded good,” he repeats.
“You said that.” A yawn ruins my attempt at a smirk.
He drops his head and ruffles his hair, and for a second, I have déjà vu. It’s so familiar, that move. But it’s like I’m trying to grasp a memory out of smoke. Where have I seen that before?
“Get some sleep, Lou. One thing every musician agrees on—you can never get enough sleep.”
I put my hand up for him to grab, and he steps forward, taking it. As he pulls me up, I feel calluses on his thick fingers. Guitar calluses. I’d bet my career on it.
I pop up closer than expected, and he looks me in the eyes before taking a big step back.
“What about monitor engineers?” I ask before he can walk away.
Is it concerning how much I like needling him?
Maybe I really do need another outlet other than him, but I’m not about to pursue one when poking Patty is so fun.
“Do they ever get enough sleep?”
“No. But they haven’t earned it.”
He waits for me to walk past him before he flicks off the kitchenette light, leaving only the low floor lights that offer just enough illumination to allow people to move around the bus without overhead lighting.
I turn around before I close the door to my suite and catch Patty grabbing a toiletry bag from his bunk bathroom.
“Good night, Patrick O’Shannan.”
“Good night, Lucy Williams.”
I smile and close the door. I take a long, lazy shower and get ready for bed slowly, savoring the quiet after the high-octane day. I braid my hair the way my stylist taught me so it’ll dry in the waves she likes so much.
As I’m brushing my teeth, I leave the brush dangling from my mouth so I can pull on thick slipper socks. Even though the bus is set at my ideal temperature, my hands and feet are always cold. And it’s the act of putting on socks that reminds me I left my boots on the ground in the lounge. And because I wasn’t raised in a barn, I walk out of my suite to put them away.
But when I get there, my boots are gone.
I check under the coffee table, then around the floor, until I spot the backs of them poking out of a cubby near the front of the bus.
Patty must have put them away.
Huh.
I smile as I head back to my suite, rinse out my mouth, and climb into bed.
Patty put my boots away, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I’m not saying they’re all green flags.
But that one is.