Run, Rose, Run(68)

Five hours later, she was standing in the wings at the Knoxville Civic Coliseum, listening to Kip Hart and his band run through their sound check as roadies and technicians finished assembling the stage for the night’s big show. Two videographers kept their cameras pointed at Kip as he played “Runaway River,” and then his party number, “Chasin’ Tailgate.”

AnnieLee couldn’t help tapping her feet to that one, and she sang the chorus as she hurried back to her dressing room to get ready for her performance.

You and me in a parking lot

Let me pull you close, let me show you what I got



She laughed as she ran a brush through her hair. What a stupid song! And yet…it was catchy; she couldn’t deny it. It almost made her want to dance.

She was sitting in front of the mirror, putting on a touch of mascara, when the door opened. In the reflection she saw Kip Hart himself enter the room, without so much as a knock or an invitation.

“Hey there,” he said. “Sorry, but I figured since the door was unlocked…”

“Oh, oh, sure,” AnnieLee said, stammering just a bit, thinking, Ain’t you learned to lock doors by now, girl? And I can’t believe it. Kip Hart is in my dressing room.

In person, the singer was more handsome than she’d expected. He was tall and long-limbed, his clothes were carefully rugged, and he carried himself like a man used to being admired. As he strode over to the couch and straddled its cushioned arm, she couldn’t help but notice his hand-stitched boots. They’d set him back a solid four figures—she was sure of it.

“Do you know what happened when the country singer sang his song backward?” Kip Hart asked her. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped one into his palm. “He got his dog back, his truck back, and his wife back.”

AnnieLee laughed, though she’d heard Billy tell that joke about five hundred times. That, plus the one about how it takes two country singers to change a lightbulb: one to do the work, and one to sing a song about the good times he had with the old lightbulb.

“So you’re the famous AnnieLee Keyes,” Kip Hart said, gazing at her.

“Oh, I sure wouldn’t say that,” she said.

“Well, everyone seems to think you’re hot shit.”

AnnieLee turned back to the mirror and swiped mascara onto the lashes of her left eye. “Have you heard me before? What do you think?”

She knew it was bold to ask him such a thing. But it was also pretty audacious to barge into a girl’s dressing room half an hour before she was supposed to go onstage.

“Tonight’ll be the first time I have the privilege.” He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, winking at her.

“There’s a No Smoking sign,” AnnieLee blurted.

Kip laughed. “That sign’s not for me, pretty girl,” he said. “It’s for all the bastards who aren’t famous.”

“Oh,” AnnieLee said. She put a slick of gloss on her lips and then wiped it off again. She didn’t like being called pretty girl, but at least he hadn’t called her little.

Kip leaned forward as if he was about to impart a great secret. “You’re new to this game, so let me just say that the more successful you are, AnnieLee, the better life gets. I was once like you. Scrappy and hungry, begging for buy-ons like this one. Those were fun times.” He gave a great guffaw. “Just kidding. They sucked bull’s balls. But you know what? I miss ’em anyway.” He stood up. “All right, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck tonight.”

When he was gone, she let out the breath she’d been holding.

A buy-on? How had it not occurred to her that that’s what this was?

Of course Kip Hart hadn’t called her label and invited her to play with him because he was a big fan of hers. ACD had called him—and they’d offered to pay good money for her to warm up his crowd. And somehow no one had seen fit to tell her this, and she’d been too dumb to guess.

Damn it, she thought. You thought it was about your talent. But it was really about someone else’s cash.





Chapter

58



AnnieLee gave a final check to her outfit as she stepped out of her dressing room: Levi’s, a new pair of Frye boots, and a black T-shirt with sequined sleeves that Ruthanna had given her the week before.

“I bought it for Sophia,” Ruthanna had said, pressing it into AnnieLee’s hands. “I thought she might wear it onstage someday. But now it’ll be you to take it up there instead.”

The shirt looked good on her, but she would’ve worn a paper bag if Ruthanna had asked her to.

“AnnieLee Keyes on in three,” said a stagehand, brushing past her.

AnnieLee felt a jolt of nerves so sharp it was like she’d just touched something electrified. Closing her eyes, she took a few slow, deep breaths. Her heart was pounding so hard that it ached. But after a minute the pain lessened, and she slung the guitar strap over her neck.

She walked down the hallway, flanked by men with headsets and ID badges who were saying things to her that she didn’t catch. All her attention was focused on the murmur of the crowd, which grew louder with every step.

Right before she stepped onto the stage, she paused and sent a whispered prayer to the sky. Don’t let me screw this up.