You'd Be Mine(17)

“Yeah, but I don’t want to play it safe. It’s on YouTube. It’s not totally unheard. Plus, I think it will play well to a young crowd.”

“You mean a female crowd.”

“You’re only hesitant because you know the song’s about you,” Kacey says with a giggle.

“Come on, Jason. It’s got a killer solo for Kacey in it, and if you want to throw in a drum solo, I’m down. Please?”

“Are you going to tell them all it’s about me?”

“Probably. Will you hate me for exploiting you?”

Jason purses his lips, considering. “Probably. Unless … maybe it can work in my favor. Might make me a heartbreaker.”

I give an unladylike snort. “Whatever you have to tell yourself, dude.”

Another knock at the door. “Five minutes, Willows. Time to hit the stage.”

I inhale sharply, grabbing my guitar. “We’ll pray backstage. Let’s do this.”



* * *



“Good evening, Hot-Lanta!” I shout into my mic, adrenaline rushing through my veins and spreading out to my fingertips. I strum a chord on my guitar and still the strings with my palm. “My name’s Annie Mathers, and I’m sure glad to be here in front of all your gorgeous faces, kicking off the summer.”

A cheer rises up, plastic cups and bottles sloshing into the air, held by tailgaters making a day of the show. No surprise with this tour. Summer concerts are in a league of their own. The sheer number of people calms something inside of me. They turned up. For us. The weather showed up for them. The sweet summer air is glorious and balmy. A group of a half dozen tweens scream out from the front row a few feet away. They’re holding a sign with glittery block letters that reads OUR BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKIN, and I wink at them in their hot-pink cowboy hats and strum again, nodding at Jason over my shoulder, who takes my cue and strikes the snare.

I can do this. I can play my heart out for this crowd. The rest is biscuits and gravy. Kacey raises her bow and starts to rub out the tempo, and I grin. “This song’s for every gal who ever got tired of her guy messing her around.” The crowd roars in response, and I give Her Majesty, Loretta Lynn, my best shot.

The next half hour passes in a blur. The best dang blur of my life. By the second song, the stragglers had found their seats, Kacey’s fiddle a siren to their sensibilities. I doubt they even realized they’d come in until they had to fetch their next overpriced beer. Just as promised, Jason’s heartbreaker status seemed secured after I told the story of our song, and when he tossed his cheap Ray-Ban knockoffs into the crowd, a catfight broke out.

After the lights shut off, I practically skip stage left. I glimpse a ball cap across the stage. Clay lifts the brim in a casual nod before sinking back into the shadows. It takes me a second before I see Fitz had been standing next to him. Had they been in the wings the entire time? Was he watching our performance? It bothers me how much I want to know what he thinks of me.

Sings like an angel, plays like the devil, he’d said. Was he just being flip? Clay’s smooth, for sure. Hundreds of people cheer my name, and I still only want to know his opinion.



* * *



Since we don’t have to leave right after the show, I allow myself a sneak peek from the wings into Clay’s performance. If I thought Fitz was charming offstage, his onstage antics are adorable. He’s the comic relief to Clay’s heady sensuality. It’s not that Clay doesn’t smile—he does—and Lord, when he does … but Fitz has a way of making it seem like it’s well and truly a party onstage. Clay balances on the precipice of a jagged cliff, and Fitz secures the carabiners just in case. Midway through the performance, Fitz jumps upstage next to Clay, and they play at trying to stump each other with classic hits. It’s like Name That Tune brought to you by Jack Daniel’s. The crowd goes crazy for it, and I have to admit, it looks like a blast. I’m halfway tempted to jump onstage and join them, but I doubt Clay would appreciate my intrusion on his spotlight.

Maybe later in the summer when it’s too much of a hassle to replace me. The ladies of country are sorely underrepresented in their shtick. It’s about time I mixed things up a bit.

I haven’t forgotten what happened between Clay and me on the Ferris wheel. I’m not an idiot; I saw how he watched me afterward, all nerves and guilt. He might say he’s a jerk, and I’m inclined to agree, but I don’t think that’s all there is to him. Something’s got him rattled. There’s a lot unsaid between Clay and me. Well, there’s a lot unsaid by Clay, period. I’m just not sure I’m the one to open that particular can of worms.

Still, I’m drawn to him. Annoyingly drawn. Like a bruised and wayward moth flying into a flickering light bulb.

I skim the set list taped on the side of an equipment trunk and see things are wrapping up. Time for me to head back to my bus. Kacey is singing at the top of her lungs, so I nudge her, and she waves me off. I lost track of Jason a few songs back. He headed off with his nose in his phone screen.

Sneaking out the back way yields a small crowd. There’re two ginormous security guards dressed in black, blocking the exit. Shoving through the stage door, I’m hit with some cheering and flashes of light.

“Only me, sorry!” I say with a grin. My smile falters after the flashing continues and I recognize the tweens from earlier. I walk over to where they are standing behind a waist-high metal barrier. “Goodness, have you girls been out here all night? You do realize there’s still a show going on!”