You'd Be Mine(27)
Believe me, the irony hasn’t been lost.
“What do you want, Lora?”
I feel her fingertips trail up the back of my thigh and around. “Same as last year. You up for it, or are you busy lusting after the Tragic Miracle out there?”
My eyes snap to hers, and she smirks knowingly. “It’s not like that between us. She’s talented.”
Lora takes a half step back, leaning against a giant black speaker stand, amusement clear on her pretty face. “I see. We’re all talented, Clay.”
“I’ll be at your trailer around midnight,” I say tersely, turning back to the stage.
“Well, aren’t you the charmer.” Her voice has an edge to it. “I won’t beg for it, Clay. I have plenty of other options, even if you are my first choice.”
“I’m sorry, okay?” I try to sound like it, but I probably fail.
Lora narrows fine brows before squeezing my hand and letting it drop. “It’s fine. This is just for fun, Clay. No strings. No pressure. If you’re no longer up for that…”
“I am,” I insist. “I’ll see you after the show.”
Lora slinks off, and I return to my watching. Annie’s kicked off her boots and is hopping along to her own song, twisting this way and that, making the crowds fall in love with her. I think of the deviously stubborn pride painted across her face when she first sang “Coattails” last weekend. A big old fuck you to me after I’d tried to put her in her place in my trailer.
I grin at the memory. As they often do—far more than she realizes, I’m sure—her eyes dart to the wings, where I’m standing in the shadows. I touch the brim of my cap in salute, and she winks, spinning back to the audience lightly.
When the song ends, I realize I’m still grinning like an idiot after her. I swallow my smile, suddenly uncomfortable, and reach around, patting my back pocket where my grandpa’s old flask is settled.
I have my own show to get ready for.
* * *
Lora was right: I was meant for stadiums in the summertime. We’re two birds of a fame feather, Lora and me. She’s not one to care for the softer side of music. Give her booze, big hair, and prewritten tracks to work her impressive vocal runs over. She’s Vegas country. Carrie Underwood spliced with a Kardashian. She’s good for a last-minute hookup, top-shelf liquor, and a pragmatic view of the industry.
We’re what stadium tours are all about. Lora wouldn’t be caught dead in a tiny little dive bar like Lula May’s and would never let me hear the end of it if she ever caught me singing some hills song in my bus. If Annie is the good angel on my shoulder, pushing me to do better, Lora is a heady compromise of all sorts of things I’m not legally old enough to know about. Not bad, necessarily, but probably not good.
That about sums me up. Not bad, but probably not good. Tonight, I happen to be a little inebriated—but if I forget some of my own lyrics, the crowds don’t mind. They live for it. We’re a stadium full of sinners who desperately want to feel better than we had when we came in.
That’s my job, and I’m the fucking best at it.
It’s not like I have to sing. They’re all chanting the lyrics at the top of their lungs anyway. I just laugh and hold the mic out like I can capture their individual melodies and amplify them over mine.
Fine tanned legs in daisy dukes,
Pretty girl, come on closer, give a scoot
Honey sweet tea glistens on your lips,
Lean in, baby, wanna give you a kiss
Holes in jeans,
Mud on my tires
Fish on my line
Cold beer, hot fire
But ain’t nothing compare to you, baby
Nothing in the South can compare to you and your—
Fine tanned legs in daisy dukes,
Pretty girl, come on closer, give a scoot
Honey sweet tea glistens on those lips,
Lean in, baby, wanna give you a kiss
Thankfully my fingers move of their own volition, plucking out the correct chords after more than a year of almost constant play. Even so, by the time we hit the encore set, I toss my guitar to the side and motion for Fitz to take the lead. His nostrils flare for a split second, and he presses his lips together before turning a blinding grin toward the screaming crowd.
This is where I know she got to me. Suddenly, after two years on the road, I feel like I have to prove my salt. Which is ridiculous. This crowd, seventy-five thousand strong, should be proof enough.
But it’s not. It’s like she’s created this fissure in my self-worth. As Clay, I sing songs people like. There’s never been anything wrong with that. What does she expect from me?
Fitz starts with the steel guitar, and I step up to the mic, cradling the stand between my fingers and closing my eyes to the crowd’s intent stares. The words start in my gut, swirling with the burning churn of alcohol and erupting past my gravelly throat and out my curled lips. My boots stomp and hips sway involuntarily, keeping time with the swing of Fitz’s chords. My face scrunches as I give the lyrics my screaming all. She might publicly call me out with her words, but I’ll tuck my intentions away. I don’t feel much like inspecting this seething need inside of me for her approval—to care why impressing her, why winning that shining respect she showed me in the bus the afternoon we fought, is suddenly important to me. Why I can’t just be content with Lora and the crowds and the glimpse of happiness they offer? Since the tour began, I’ve been in the wings, watching Annie. Rooting for her. Admiring her. I doubt she’s doing the same, but in case she is, this is for her.