You'd Be Mine(28)
Some nights the whiskey ain’t enough—
Nights after days spent with you
Tonight the whiskey ain’t gonna be enough—
I only wanna spend my days with you
From here on out, they’re all for her.
* * *
After we perform, Lora is waiting in our trailer. Guess she got impatient. I bite back a groan; Fitz doesn’t hold his back.
“Dang, Lora, you have a tracker on my man here or what?”
She takes a sip of her drink, licking her glossy lips, and flips Fitz the finger. “Don’t you have somewhere you can hole up, Fitz? I have big plans for Clay, and they don’t include you.”
Fitz shoots me a look, and I shrug. “Never mind that we share a bus, Lora. I’ll just pitch a tent out front here so you won’t be inconvenienced.”
She’s ignoring him, though, her eyes fixed on me and her fingers already working the buttons on my shirt.
He slams the door behind him in a huff, but I give in easily to the distraction she’s offering me tonight. I can always apologize later.
* * *
The next morning, Lora’s gone. There’s a note on the minifridge from Fitz that he went on a run with Jackson. I grab a water and a banana from the basket Trina always stocks up for us and open the bus door to sit on the steps. It’s early yet, before eight. Usually a hangover and late-night date with Lora wear me down, but I’m restless.
I finish my banana and decide to go for a walk down the coast. I slip inside and grab a thin hoodie that smells like cigarette smoke and perfume. I walk the three blocks to the shore and immediately step off the boardwalk for the packed sand. I start off at a stroll, letting the sun warm my lids, but my lungs itch to burn, so I tighten my laces and move into a sprint.
I pump my legs as hard as I can, hoping to drown out my noisy, senseless thoughts with my heavy breathing. After a quarter mile, I rip off my hoodie, Lora’s scent irritating me. It’s too … something. Usually I love how easy things are with Lora. She’s a sure thing. A night of release with someone who knows better. I don’t have to send her flowers, and she doesn’t have to explain any late-night texts from strangers. She’s a big fan of the Clay Coolidge brand. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever even bothered to ask where I’m from originally or what my real name might be. I know I’ve never asked her.
I never wanted to know.
Suddenly, I wish someone knew me as Jefferson. The only people who ever called me Jefferson are all dead. Maybe that means Jefferson is dead, too.
Annie would probably be crazy for Jefferson. Christ knows he’d have been over the moon for her.
Even if I am better than Clay, I might still not be good enough. I’m not Annie Mathers. I don’t have her guileless charm or last name. That’s not fair. Maybe her name grabs attention, but her talent is what’s growing the crowds and selling out our shows. Just as many people are coming early for her as are coming to see me. At this point, I’m barely more than an eighteen-year-old working on a drinking problem.
I slow to a walk, scrubbing a hand down my gritty face. God, I’m such a mess. I can smell the alcohol oozing out with the sweat from my pores. I kick at the wet sand, sending it flying into the choppy blue waves lapping at the shore. Here I am, having a pity party on a beach in Daytona. I have one summer. The tickets are already sold. The stands are already filling. Maybe I can do both—have both. The stadiums and the real music. Amber waves of grain and the neon strip. Clay the frat boy and Jefferson the farm kid.
It all starts with a song. Maybe it’s time I finish mine.
10
Annie
friday, june 14
atlantic city, new jersey
I wake up in a real bed and stretch languidly, savoring the way I can reach my body in every direction and not run out of mattress. The late-morning sun slants in through wispy drapes, painting my surroundings in a soft buttery yellow. I turn on my side and curl my toes in the cool sheets, reaching for my phone. I flip idly through Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, and the CMT home page, not really taking in anything but seeing it all nonetheless. My stomach growls low, and my bladder protests my neglect, so I roll out of bed and set my bare feet onto the carpeted flooring of my hotel room. I move first to the bathroom, cleaning up enough that I can be considered presentable, and then make a call to the front desk for room service. I order enough breakfast for three people and then send a quick text to Kacey and Jason before flipping on the TV for background noise.
A few minutes into a Maury Povich rerun, there’s a knock at my door. I flip it off before letting Jason in right as our breakfast is rolling down the hall. I lean out, peeking toward Kacey’s room. “I haven’t heard from Kacey yet,” I say. I hold open the door farther for room service.
Jason snorts. “I imagine not.”
I hand the hotel employee a tip and close the door behind them. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jason pulls the lid off the steaming stack of pancakes and leans forward to inhale. “I saw our sweet Kacey sneaking off with a certain redheaded man last night after sound check.”
My eyes widen. “Really? Wow.”
“Yeah, wow is right. I’m sort of shocked it took them as long as it did. My guess is the appeal of privacy was too much. They’ve had weeks of being cooped up on a tour bus. Probably worse for privacy than having a nosy roommate.”