by Erin Hahn
He rolls his eyes. “Grow the hell up, man. No. Lula May’s. I wanna show you something. In fact”—he glances at the time on his phone—“we should get the check.”
I finish the last of my fries, intrigued. Lula May’s is one of those legendary bars in Nashville. Old as the country music scene. All the greats got their start there. It’s a dive nowadays, but just as sacred to the locals. Which I’m not.
We pay our tab and decide to walk to the bar. It’s a warm night, though the breeze is cool and feels good on my face. I tilt the rim of my ball cap up and then spin it around backward, allowing the fresh air to wash over me. I love this town. The bright lights and city streets so full of history and straight-up soul. The air smells like barbecue. We pass a dozen different patios playing a dozen different versions of Southern into the night. Laughter rings out, couples kiss in dark corners, and girls clatter around in heels and boots. No one recognizes me. At night, on the street, I’m one more barhopping kid. Everyone’s in the business. Either in front of the mic or behind it, but they are involved somehow, someway. No one pays attention to Fitz and me, and I relish the feeling. We cross, turning down a side street that’s less crowded. A small neon sign reads LULA MAY’S in old-fashioned script.
Fitz pulls open the door, and her voice pours out. The bar is a seedy kind of dark, and once the door closes behind us, it takes more than a moment for my eyes to adjust. At first, I think she’s alone onstage, because there is a dim blue spotlight focused solely on her and casting the bar in an ethereal glow. But her hands are clasped on either end of the stool she’s perched on, and I reluctantly look past her to the guitarist strumming off to the side.
Patrick Royston, former country mega-superstar, is playing backup, unobtrusive and 100 percent acoustic. This guy was making millions while I was still in braces. Annie winds down a song, and it’s completely silent. My face tingles hot in sympathy for her before Patrick transitions into the next song. But she doesn’t seem uncomfortable at the lack of ovation. She doesn’t even open her eyes.
Fitz nudges my shoulder and points to two chairs in the back of the room. I head for the table, and he goes to grab us a few drinks at the ancient bar. Every inch of the walls is covered in bric-a-brac and framed photos of Nashville’s earliest celebrities. I slump into my seat and pull my cap around and tug it farther down over my eyes. The history is palpable in this place, and I’m an imposter in overpriced clothes. The song I’m working on comes back to me, and I have a sudden urge to pull out my guitar and play it right here right now—to prove myself to this silent and assessing crowd. After all, if she can do it …
She’s singing again, and I recognize the lyrics to “I’ll Fly Away” and swallow hard. It was my granddad’s favorite hymn. I shut my eyes, focusing on Annie’s smoky voice. She doesn’t sound seventeen. She sounds timeless. No showy vibrato, no American Idol–worthy runs. Her voice is pure. Unadulterated. Untainted.
It’s the sound of sweet salvation.
I don’t realize until she gasps for breath, I’d been holding mine along with her. I’d been mouthing the lyrics without even realizing I remembered them. When she finishes, she’s met with silence again, but as I open my eyes, I find it’s not because they don’t care for her. They’re overcome. There isn’t a dry eye in the place.
I startle as Fitz slides a soda in front of me. I nod to him, and he opens his mouth to say something, but the music starts up again.
“I’m gonna play just a few more tonight. If you’ll indulge me,” Patrick says with a humble grin. “Today’s this talented young lady’s eighteenth birthday.” Small cries of enthusiasm ring out, along with a loud hoot in the front row. From the mess of dark hair, I’d guess it’s Jason, the drummer, though I’ve only seen him on video.
Patrick blows into the mic, rubbing at the back of his neck. “There’s lots of things I wish for you, Annie, not in the least that Robbie and Cora could see you up here. They’d be so proud. We’re all so proud of how you’ve grown. But—” He drops his hand and looks at Annie. The light reflects a blue sheen in her eyes. “But your momma used to tell me the strongest roots grow through adversity. You’re a hell of a young woman, Annie Mathers.”
Everyone breaks into cheering and applause, and Annie throws her arms around Patrick’s neck, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek before returning to her stool.
“Thank you,” she says in her simple way. “Now, enough of that. I’ve got one more song for y’all before I pass this mic back to Patrick. I want to thank you for coming tonight. I see a lot of familiar faces, and I’m tickled y’all turned out. It’s no secret I’ve been in hiding these past five years or so. Truthfully, I never really was sure I’d make it back to Nashville, but … well…” Annie scrunches up her face and releases a slow breath into the mic. “Performing’s in my bones … so … here I am. I don’t usually like to sing my momma’s songs. In fact, I never sing my momma’s songs—but since I wouldn’t be here today if she hadn’t given birth to me, I suppose I could just this once.” At that she looks back to Pat and counts down from three.
I recognize this one, too. Of course I do. Cora Rosewood probably had a collection of Grammys to rival Prince’s. I prefer Annie’s version, though. It’s softer. More hopeful. She stands and cradles the mic stand between both of her hands. It almost looks as though she’s going to kiss it.
I shake my head and swallow the last of my soda. “I should get out of here before it’s over,” I say.
Fitz’s eyes widen, but I get the impression he approves. He leaves his drink, barely touched, on the table and leads the way out. When we get to the door, I look one last time right as Annie’s eyes open, and then I duck out.
I don’t know how to feel about what I’ve witnessed tonight. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and yet, I’m feeling sick over it. Annie is meant to do this. If ever there was a person on this planet meant to perform, it’s her. But at what cost? What are we asking of her? This city swallows so many. It’s already stolen her family.
I recognize that haunted look in her eyes. It’s the same one I wear every single day—the look of someone outrunning their demons.
When the label sent me to Michigan, I told myself I was doing us both a favor.
Now I’m not so sure.
4
Annie
may
nashville, tennessee
I’ve barely landed in Nashville, and I’m kicking myself already for the half decade I’ve spent tucked away in the north woods of Michigan. I’ve flat-out lost my immunity to Southern boys, and Clay Coolidge is fixing to kill me with his dangerous charisma. In my kitchen, Clay was arrogant and hungover, but now, just yards away onstage, he’s an enigma. He wears dark shades, broods always, and makes love to his mic. He’s cornered the market on females age thirteen to ninety.
Of course, he is so aware of it, which puts a slight damper on his appeal. For me anyway. I mean, objectively, my dad was plenty swoon-worthy in his time, if his hordes of admirers were any indication. He was also a raging pill junkie with control issues and a mean jealous streak.
We arrive early for sound check because I was too antsy to sit in my hotel room all day. I toyed with the idea of hanging out in a coffee shop until noon, but Jason has the manners of a toddler in public, and I’d rather not risk the extra attention. I have plenty of contacts in Nashville. My parents’ old friends—the few I’ve kept in contact with over the years—have offered everything from a place to crash to any greasing of palms I might need. I don’t know why I don’t take them up on it.
Well, maybe I do. I just feel plain stupid about it. The truth is, my parents ran in a pretty tight circle in their heyday. And by tight, I mean practically incestuous. After my parents’ deaths, I had multiple offers from “aunts and uncles” to take me in. To raise me up in Nashville. To carry on my parents’ legacy. But I can’t think of a single one who didn’t see me as anything other than their bankroll. Imagine the boon to their careers, taking me in
as their own? I’d be dressed up in Cora’s clothes and taught Robbie’s swagger, and then, when I’d reached the ripe age of sixteen, I’d be pushed the label’s drugs and they’d own me. The tragic heiress in their silk-lined pockets.
So, no, thank you very much. My way might be clumsier and less lucrative, but I may make it out with my old age intact. There’s just one tiny hitch I hadn’t counted on, and he’s laughing into his mic, making my palms sweat. Truthfully, high school boys held little interest for me. Aside from Jason, I barely dated, and I only kissed him because it seemed the natural thing to do at the time. But I didn’t get so much as a spark out of it. The next morning, I found him hanging around Meredith Norgaard and it barely stung. I wasn’t in love with him, and besides, I got a great song out of it.
But high school boys had nothing on Clay Coolidge and his jeans.
“Annie Mathers?” An elegant blonde with six-inch stilettos strides toward me, her bloodred manicure outstretched. I take her hand, and she does that thing where she brings her other hand around so I’m wrapped in her embrace. She beams a matte shade of hot pink, and I can’t help but gape at her. I don’t know whether to feel underdressed or plain intimidated.
“Holy hell. Are you for real?” Jason blurts next to me, and the magic is broken.
“I am, thanks,” the blonde answers with a wink. “I’m Trina Hamilton, your tour manager. I can see you three have been up north for too long. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the hair spray and Botox.”
I think I like her. She has a refreshing bluntness I dig. “It’s nice to meet you in person, Ms. Hamilton. Please just call me Annie.” I can feel my accent already drawling out even after being gone so long. It makes me a little self-conscious. “This blithering sack of hormones here is my old friend and drummer, Jason Diaz, and this little talented beauty is my cousin, Kacey Rosewood.”
I turn and keep turning. Kacey’s gone. Out of the corner of my eye, I see she is already shaking hands with a stocky, bronze-haired man in a faded green T-shirt and well-fitting jeans. Wherever these boys are finding their denim, I want a lifetime membership to their mailing catalog.
“Ah, yes. That’s Fitz Jacoby. He’s fiddle and banjo and basically all strings for Clay. He’s been on the lookout for your cousin. Fell in love with her YouTube videos.” Trina gives the couple a cursory glance like a major musician hitting on my cousin was a totally normal occurrence.
Which maybe it should be. Kacey is a catch, after all. But that was quick even by her standards.
Jason is still gaping after Trina, and Clay is onstage doing a sound check. He huffs, bleeps, and checks into the mic before belting out a line a cappella. I recognize the lyric, but hearing it live and up close sends chills along my spine. His vocals are razor sharp and burn going down. I feel them deep in my bones and reverberating in my skull in only the best possible way.
Sweet mercy. I don’t even realize I’m fanning myself until Jason snickers next to me and my hand stops midair.
“And that, boys and girls, is the story of how stone-cold Annie Mathers found her lady parts.”
I smack Jason in the arm with a loud thwack and shake off my reverie. A quick look over my shoulder confirms no one else was close enough to hear. I shoot him a glare. “Hush, you.”
He stifles his smirk just as Clay jumps off the stage and heads in our direction. His long legs eat up the distance in three strides, and I’m not really ready. He tugs a ball cap out of his back pocket and stuffs it on his head before holding out a hand. “Glad you didn’t chicken out.”
Something about his tone jabs. Not quite condescending but not quite friendly either. More like how your big brother’s best friend would talk to you. Not a business partner. This time I let loose on my accent—making sure it’s sweet as spun sugar.
“As if you could scare me away.”
He raises a dark brow under the shadow of his cap, and I catch a glint of something in his gray-blue eyes. “Good, then.”
Jason clears his throat and reaches out a hand. “Jason Diaz.”
Clay shifts his focus and shakes Jason’s hand. “Right, the drummer. Nice to meet you. Where’s your third?”
Jason grins in his affable way and jabs a thumb to where Kacey is still chatting it up with Fitz in the Jeans.
Clay’s lips quirk to one side in an almost grin. “Right, Kacey Rosewood, the fiddle prodigy who stares a lot. Looks like she’s gotten past that.”
My stomach slips a little at his seeming admiration of my cousin. How come she’s the prodigy?
How come I even care? Ugh. I will not be one of those chicks on this tour. Clay is just another guy with a guitar who thinks he walks on water. I knew something was up when the label sent him directly. Kacey confirmed it, telling me he got into trouble when a fight broke out after his show a few weeks back. Apparently, it was all over the news. Turns out Mr. “Clay Coolidge ain’t a bad name” almost lost his tour if it hadn’t been for me and my sparkling-clean image.
He needs me. He needs me. Of the two of us, he’s the one taking advantage of my name. I’d be smart to remember that and quit losing my head over the way his voice raises the little hairs on my arms.
“You’re welcome to the stage for sound check after lunch. We’ve called in catering,” Fitz offers with a wide grin, finally making his way past my cousin, though I notice she’s close behind.
“Not so fast. I’m gonna need Annie for a photo shoot this afternoon. Someone from the label will be taking publicity shots of Annie and Clay, and then they’ll follow back to get some shots of the sound check afterward. So meet back here at three?”
“Photo shoot?” I ask, my voice squeaking a little.
“I thought that was for headliners only,” Clay murmurs to Trina.
Her answering grin is slightly manic. “That was before, Clay. Now, they want Annie’s pretty face right there next to yours.”
He yanks off his hat and bends the rim between his long fingers. “How long are they going to hold that against me, Trina? It was one night.”
She flicks a glance at the rest of us, but he’s not budging, so I don’t either. Might as well know what I’m in for. “It was more than one night, Clay. It was the culmination of many nights, which makes you a calculated risk for the label. So either you cooperate and hold on to your career or you don’t. Make your mind up now so I can write my resignation of your Dumpster fire of a career before you take me down with you.” Trina’s smile is fixed as ever, but her voice carries a lash, and Clay cringes a little under her scrutiny.
He sighs. “Christ Almighty, Trina. That’s not what I meant.”
She glares.
“Let me grab a water, okay?”
“Fabulous.” She turns to me. “You’re coming with me, honey. Flawless takes time, and we’ve only got a few hours.”
* * *
Trina leads me through a back door—a solid, no-window affair—and down a dreary hallway. If it wasn’t for the fact I’m worth more alive than dead after her lecture to Clay, I’d be concerned. This place is shady as all get-out.
Like a low-brow movie set. Or a local access television studio.
Eventually the soft murmur of voices breaks in, and as we approach a well-lit hallway, I release a slow breath. A young black woman in smart eyewear grabs my arm from Trina and pulls me into a dressing room. She’s wearing sensible flats and cropped skinny slacks, and next to Trina, she looks like the student class president with her smooth hair and muted style.
“You’re late,” she says. She readjusts a clipboard under one arm and pushes me gently toward a stark vanity and one of those rickety-looking folding chairs. It seems I’ve stumbled upon the not-so-glamorous underbelly of show business. That took approximately two hours.
Trina examines her nails next to me, unfazed. “Good to see you, Beth, as always. I’m doing marvelous, thanks for asking. Just got engaged last month.” Trina flashes a giant, sparkling diamond. “Melody Parker? She’s an entertainment lawyer.” My eyes
flicker over to the smaller woman, whose expression sours comically, and I make a mental note to never, ever get on Trina’s bad side. “Anyway,” Trina plows on. “Blame Clay. Pretty boy needed a little come-to-Jesus.” She shrugs lightly and offers me a grin. “Annie, this is Beth Lewis. She’s from Country Music magazine and is running the shoot today. I’m going to find a sweet tea. Want one?”
I grimace. Sweet tea is one of those Southern things I cannot abide. If it wasn’t for my love of grits, my dad’s side of the family might have questioned his claim on me.
Trina pulls her keys out of a giant designer bag. “Suit yourself.”
Beth lets Trina out before peeking into the hallway and calling for a couple of assistants. She then points to the chair. “You. There.” I plop down, tucking my grungy satchel between my even grungier Keds. “This is Christian. He’ll be doing your hair, and Maria will be fixing up your face.”
Christian is tall and slender, wearing a loud scarf even though it’s probably a thousand degrees under the hot vanity lights. He sort of reminds me of Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast, and I want to be his friend. I feel like you can tell a lot about someone who wears vibrant accessories.
“I love your curls,” he gushes, running his fingers through my frizz. “How attached are you to the length? You’ve got this old-school Taylor thing going on, and I’m picturing you with a pixie.”
I shake my head quickly. “Nothing above the shoulders, thanks. I need to be able to pull it out of my eyes when I play.”
“No pixie,” Beth butts in from the door. I slump in relief. “Carl’s vision for this shoot is a modern-day play on Johnny and June. She’s gonna need a bouffant.”
I inhale sharply and choke on air. “I’m sorry, do you mean Johnny and June Carter Cash?”
Beth scribbles something on her clipboard and then tucks the pen behind her ear. “Good. You know of them? Some kids these days can’t see past Blake and Miranda.”
