by Erin Hahn
Annie gives me a wry look.
“What?”
“Nothing. Going to be an interesting summer, is all.”
* * *
Moments later, an attendant slams the door to our carriage with a loud click, and my gut swoops as we lift in the air. Annie watches out the side, and I take in the sight of her frizzed curls whipping in the warm breeze.
“I saw you perform once, a few years back,” she says suddenly. She doesn’t look at me, still staring determinedly at the scenery.
“Where?”
“Chicago? Young Stars.”
That was the last place I’d expected. My face scrunches, and I shift on my bench. The carriage rocks in response, and Annie grips her side tighter, tensing.
“I’m surprised you remember that. I try to forget it myself.”
She lets out a soft laugh, still holding on. “I doubt anyone who saw you that day would’ve forgotten. You left your audience in a puddle of hormones.”
I groan, rubbing at my face. “Don’t remind me.”
She’s merciless. “If memory serves, you wore highlights in your hair back then. Sort of Bieber-esque. In fact,” she continues, moving closer to the middle of her seat. “Didn’t you sing Bieber?”
“Please stop,” I beg, but I can’t help the grin twitching at my lips at her snark. “For your information, it was Hunter Hayes.”
Her blue eyes dance. “My bad. You’re right. Hunter Hayes is much better. The twelve-year-olds went wild.”
I let her have her laugh before raising a brow. “And yet you seem to remember it quite well.”
“Naturally.” She shrugs. “I was barely older than twelve myself.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, laugh all you want. That’s the show that got me the attention of the label.”
“Okay, fine. Full disclosure. I was fifteen. And I didn’t even see you or the atrocious highlights at first. I remember because I was in the middle of prep on a smaller stage when I heard your singing over the loudspeakers. I missed a step and fell down the stairs. Had this totally embarrassing purple bruise from here to here.” She gestures from her knee to her upper thigh. “A medic rushed over, and there was this small crowd of onlookers, but I just plowed through them, bleeding and deranged, trying to get my eyes on the owner of that voice. It was no shock to me when I heard you on the radio last year.”
“I don’t know if I believe you.”
She tilts her head to the side, squinting. “Maybe not. We’re our biggest critics, aren’t we?” She tugs her shorts up on one side and points to a thin scar about three inches long. “Believe it, man.”
I clear my throat. “I heard you before, too. In Michigan, last summer. We were local for our tour, and I like to hit the county fairs on my nights off to scope out new talent … or competition, as it were.” I nod in her direction, and her mouth drops open comically.
“I didn’t think anyone knew we did those. We certainly didn’t have scouts turning up and offering us contracts at that point.”
“Would you have signed if they had?”
She shakes her head, easing back into her bench. We’re nearing the top now, but neither of us are taking in the view. “No.”
“Why? You obviously love it. I saw you—not only at the fair but at Lula May’s. You’re a performer; it’s in your blood.”
She speaks quietly—so quietly I can barely make it out. “I do love it, more than anything. That’s what scares me. I know it’s hard to understand, and I don’t think I really get it myself, but it’s like music is tied to everything happy and awful in my life. All my highs and my lows. I mean, look at all of them down there.” She peeks over the side and gestures at the throngs of people milling around like tiny, faceless insects. “Can you imagine? They don’t have to sing and parade around onstage to be happy—to feel whole.” She looks back at me, her eyes wide and piercing. “But I do. My parents did, too. To the point that they died for it.” She shakes her head. “I tried to do something else—be something else—but I couldn’t. I can’t shake it.”
I’m speechless. Part of me feels what she’s saying so hard. The other part of me, the part that throws empty beer bottles at my brother’s headstone, doesn’t want to hear it. That kind of passion for anything scares the shit out of me. I might die because of country music, but not for it. Inadequacy churns in my stomach, and I want off this ride.
“Yeah, lucky bastards, all of them,” I say, looking out the side but not seeing anything.
“What about you?” she asks, shaking herself. “Enough of my dreary backstory. What are you here for?”
“Booze and girls,” I reply automatically. I don’t bother keeping the sardonic slant from my tone.
“Of course. But, like, besides that. You can get booze and girls in college.”
I grin as though the thought hadn’t ever occurred to me. “College. Now that’s an idea.”
She rolls her eyes lightly. “Fine. Play the fool. I get it. I overshared, and now it’s your turn to shut down and pretend you’re a jerk.”
“Maybe I am a jerk, Annie.”
She shakes her head, more curls springing out of her pony. “I call bull. But that’s fine. Just remember, I’ve heard your voice, and I’m not some fangirl. You’re more than good vocals.”
We’re finally descending, and I can’t get off this thing fast enough. Before I do, though, I turn to Annie. “Look. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you overshared. It’s fine. I asked, and you answered. Don’t apologize for that. But I really am a jerk. I promise you that.” I run a hand through my hair, only realizing I’m wearing a hat. I tug on it uselessly. “That said, your future isn’t set in stone. Okay? If you don’t want to end up like your parents, then don’t.”
She doesn’t get up—just sits there and finally nods once, slowly, in response. Before I can say anything else stupid, I jump out, leaving her behind.
* * *
That night, we all eat together in the hotel lobby before deciding to rent a movie in our room to watch. For the first time in years, I feel my age, and I savor it because I know when I wake up, the feeling will be gone. Sure, touring is fun as hell. It’s a summerlong party. But it’s also a grueling job. Shows run late, and then you’re on the road to the next location through the night. You wake up in a new city every day. You rehearse, bullshit with radio deejays on their morning shows, make guest appearances, and squeeze in studio time.
At some point during the movie, we’d all piled up on one bed in a mass of pillows and blankets. Fitz and Kacey are sharing a pillow, heads tilted close together. Jason is sprawled across the bed, snoring softly.
“Poor guy’s all tuckered out,” Annie mocks. I was worried she’d hold this afternoon and the Ferris wheel against me. But again, I’m wrong about her. By the time she’d caught up with the rest of us, nachos in hand, you’d have never been able to tell anything had happened. To the point that I wondered if I’d imagined the tension in the first place.
“I wish we had a Sharpie,” I say.
“Ooooh, Trina would kill you.” Annie gently rolls to her side and pulls out her purse. She digs around a second and passes me a pink Sharpie.
“Who are you, Mary Poppins?” I say, not bothering to keep the awe from my voice. She giggles. “What should I write?”
“Nothing mean. How about facial hair? He’s being so annoying about his almost-stubble.”
I grin. “Nineties boy band or professional wrestler?”
“Oh. Boy band for sure.”
“Pink soul patch it is.”
6
Annie
friday, may 24
atlanta, georgia
opening night
“Aren’t you nervous?”
Jason glances up from his phone and shrugs. “Yeah. A little, maybe.” His fingers return to his tapping.
A huff slips past my glossed lips, and I lean back against the small leather sofa set in my temporary dressing room. We have approximately thirty minutes until
lights up. A toilet flushes, and Kacey steps out of the small bathroom, plenty green around the gills. I toss her a complimentary seltzer water, and she cracks the lid with a practiced wrist flick. She takes a small sip and moans.
“Nothing to be nervous about. They’re not here to see me,” Jason continues, speaking into his lap. “Someone asked me where the mic stands were again.”
Jason keeps getting mistaken for a roadie. It’s pretty annoying. Well, I’m annoyed; he’s … resigned. There’s not a whole lot of diversity in country music. At least onstage, anyway. We’ve always lived right near the university, and Jason’s dark skin is barely a blip among all the different cultures in Michigan. In Nashville and on tour, he sticks out. It’s a new experience for all of us, but of course, he’s the one left managing stereotypes.
“I told you your haircut looked shaggy,” I joke.
He looks up from his phone, his dark eyes piercing. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“I’m sorry. It’s nothing to joke about. How about I promise, by the end of summer, every person in the industry will know the name Jason Diaz, mega-genius drummer extraordinaire.”
“Sounds good, though, like I said, these crowds aren’t here to see Jason Diaz, drummer.”
“You’re right. Not yet, anyway. This is Clay’s tour, and he’s got a hell of a following.”
Jason throws his phone onto the counter and steals my water, taking a long swig. “Oh no,” he says after swallowing and passing it back to me. “Packed house already. They might’ve bought tickets for Clay, but word’s out. Those people out there are here for Annie Mathers.”
Kacey sprints for the bathroom again.
I sigh. “Kacey, I’m gonna need you to get ahold of yourself, chickadee. This here’s a trio.”
A muffled groan and more coughing.
“Knock, knock.”
“Come in,” Jason replies cheerfully.
“It’s just me.” Fitz steps through the door, closing it behind him. “Aren’t you missing one?”
I nod toward the bathroom. “Kacey’s got a case of the pukes.”
“Nerves?”
“Thanks to Captain Encouraging over there,” I say.
Jason rolls his eyes, fiddling with his ever-present drumsticks. “I’m just being the realist.”
I aim a scowl in his general direction. “I’ll thank you to sit on your realism. I need my fiddler.”
Fitz casts a concerned glance toward the closed door. “I’ve got something that’ll help. Be right back.”
A minute later, he returns with a bottle and taps on the bathroom door. Kacey opens it a crack, and he holds the bottle in front of her face, wiggling it in his hands. “Liquid courage. Come on. It’s tradition.”
“Distribution to minors is a tradition?”
Fitz flashes a grin and waggles his rusty brows. “Only when it’s by other so-called minors.”
That little nugget gives me pause. “Wait, how old are you?”
Fitz smirks. “I turned the big two zero last week.”
“No shit?” Jason asks.
“Yes, shit. That’s between us, though. Ain’t no room for legalism on tour, Annie. That’s lesson number one.” He quirks a look at Jason. “Write that down, young apprentice.”
I smile despite myself and scoot forward on the couch. Fitz pulls a couple of shot glasses out of his back pockets and lays them out on the coffee table in front of us.
“Now,” he begins in a serious tone. “One is too few; three is far too many. But for our first night, we have to take queasy stomachs and all-around nervous jitters into account. So we’ll do two half shots.”
“So one,” I say, amused. Kacey is already reaching for hers as he pours.
He protects the glasses with a palm and looks at me. “Lesson number two: Fitz always knows best. I say two half shots, and that’s what we’ll do.” He passes the glasses around, and I see mine reads: Spring Break Panama City.
“Wait. Do you travel with these?”
“Lesson three: always be prepared. Drink!”
I watch as my band members drink. Kacey is dainty; Jason, full of false bravado. Fitz is already pouring the next. He raises a brow at my untouched glass.
“No, thanks.”
“Not nervous?”
“Oh, I’m full of butterflies. But I don’t drink.”
“How do you know?”
I offer him a patient look and point to my throat. “I’m not interested in finding out if golden vocals are all my momma left me.”
A dark shadow falls across Fitz’s face. “Fair enough. I won’t ask again.” He turns to Kacey, and Jason and lifts my glass. “For the rest of us, it’s best not to wait. To your first night of many. May you change the world with your music.”
“Wow, that’s lofty—” Jason mutters.
“Lesson number two!” He reminds him loudly. “Drink, apprentice!”
I swallow hard against the itch in my throat as I watch them. I’ve never so much sipped my grandpa’s Budweiser, but that doesn’t stop my brain from thinking it might be a good idea to try. I take a long swig of my ice water and shake out my fingers. I meet Kacey’s eyes. She’s no longer sweaty and green. Now she’s flushed, but smiling. “Feeling better?”
“Much.” She turns to Fitz with hero worship glowing out of her blue irises. “That was amazing, thank you!”
His face reddens under her attention, and I have to swallow my own grin. “That’s nothing. Just a little show biz trick. I always keep some on hand for Clay. He’s not technically allowed to pre-drink this tour, but if I don’t get a few shots in him, he clams up, and that’s no bueno for the party tour of the summer.”
“Sounds like a banner start to alcoholism.”
Fitz smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and he shifts in his seat. “Probably. That’s what I’m around for, though. Everyone needs a buddy. Do you all have your tour buddy? Someone to keep you out of trouble?”
I can’t help but smile at his antics. I’m grateful for devil-may-care Fitz.
“Let’s sing ‘Should’ve Been You’ tonight,” I say impulsively.
Jason groans. “We can’t change the set now; we have ten minutes.”
“Why? It’s not like we have backup dancers or anything. You know it, Kacey knows it, I know it.”
“I thought we agreed to stick to covers tonight,” Jason replies, looking anxious.
“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.
