by Erin Hahn
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!”
A mom speaks up with a knowing grin. “Well, I would have stuck around for Clay, but these girls wanted to make sure they were back here to see you instead.”
A sudden rush of emotion has me biting my lip. At once, I’m backstage with my momma after one of her performances. She’s all glitter and leather, and her hair floats in a gorgeous, feathery halo around her sleek bare shoulders. “Hold tight, Annie May,” she’d whisper to me. “Grab on to my fringe now and don’t get lost. This will only take a minute.” I would peer from her shadow, amazed at the sheer number of fans who would wait for hours backstage for the chance to see my mom for even a second. She’d beam at them all like they were individually precious to her. As a kid, it’d make me jealous to have to share my mom with the world, but right now, I almost understand it. Maybe she couldn’t help herself? The gratitude of another person—a lot of other persons, even—wanting to connect with you over your music?
It’s the best kind of overwhelming.
“Girls. You’ve made my night!” I turn to catch the eye of one of the scary-looking guards watching us curiously. “Can you take our picture?”
The girls let out a collective squeal as the giant, uncomfortable-looking man slowly trudges over to us. I hand him my phone, and the mom hands him hers. Before he can object, I hop over the gate and wrap my arms around the vibrating preteens. “Come on, Momma. You, too,” I say with a wink. “Maybe if we’re lucky, Clay Coolidge himself will walk through that door.” Her face lights up in a full-on beaming grin. “There’s the smile!” I tease.
I take my time, signing whatever the girls shove into my hands, and take a few more pictures. “Did you know y’all are my very first fans?” I ask. “I won’t forget you ladies.”
A light casts over us, and I can tell the back door is opening. I glance out of the corner of my eye. “See? I told you they’d be around.” I wave Kacey over, and she skips to my side. Clay and Fitz trail at a slower pace.
“You guys! My first fans!” I say, feeling a little giddy. Fitz gives me a high five while Clay allows himself a small flicker of amusement. I’m positive he’s rolling his eyes so hard at me, but I don’t care. Even his cool cynicism can’t ruin my moment.
Kacey and I pose together with the girls, and then the mom asks if I would take her photo with Clay, who obliges with a kiss on her cheek, and I have to grin at the thought that her life is basically made with his small gesture.
“Can we get one more of you two?” Since the show is over, the crowd has grown substantially. Now there is plenty of press around, too. The guards are getting edgy, and I know it’s about time we hit the buses. I glance up.
“Which two?” I ask, distracted.
“You and Clay.”
I shrug, and he moves closer to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I try so hard not to blush, thinking of the mom, but he smells unbelievable. Like cologne and spearmint and man-boy, and I’m dizzy with it.
Flashes break out around us, blinding me. “You guys are my favorite new couple!” someone gushes, and I blink, trying to clear my eyes.
“Oh, well—”
“That’s all the time we have for tonight!” Trina announces over the crowd. “These guys have to hit the road. Thank you all for coming out and supporting Clay and Annie!”
My teeth click together, and Clay steers me away before I can say anything. Once we clear the crowd, he drops his hold and hisses under his breath at Trina.
“What the fuck was that? ‘Clay and Annie’?”
“For the record, I was all for clarifying,” I say.
Trina waves us both off, but Clay rounds her and stops her in her tracks. “This isn’t some publicity stunt, Trina. These are our lives we’re talking about.”
My heart starts thrumming in my ears, and my feet stick to the ground, immobilizing me. I’m taken aback at how livid he is. It shouldn’t hurt, but of course it does. This summer is about to be death by a thousand paper cuts.
“Listen, Clay, I can clear it right up. I’ll tweet something tonight, and by tomorrow, your groupies will be all lining up again.”
He does roll his eyes this time. “That’s not the problem. I don’t care about that.” He narrows his eyes at Trina. “It’s one thing to do publicity shoots to garner up press, but the shows are booked. Annie has more than proved her merit tonight. There’s a difference in letting the fans make their own assumptions and feeding them a fake relationship.”
I’m at a loss for words. He’s sticking up for me? Did I hear him say I have merit? It’s not a secret Clay’s in trouble with the label—that I’m part of Operation Clean Clay’s Rep—so his defense of me is all the more stunning.
He huffs at whatever expression is on my face. “Jesus, Annie, don’t look so shocked. I’d have to be an idiot to not see you have talent. And I can promise you Trina knows it, too, so why”—he turns back to her, and I notice she’s leveling him with a calculating glare—“would you use that tone?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She just said, ‘Clay and Annie,’ Clay; it’s not a big—”
“Oh, she knows. Trina does nothing by accident.”
Trina smirks. “If you must know, your photo shoot went live this morning. Social media has lit up with speculation. Whether you two play it up or not, the world is convinced your chemistry is what this tour is about. Now.” She raises a long-nailed finger. “I’m not saying you need to play up the fake relationship or anything so classless. Clay is right. You both have gobs of talent, and that’s enough. I’m just saying, maybe don’t deny it. Leave the mystery. The inevitable speculation can only be good for you.”
“But … it was just a photo shoot. It was all staged. They get that, right? I mean, we haven’t even been seen together.” I’m unsettled. Seriously uncomfortable. Clay is trouble. He’s too smooth and drinks too much. I can hear my gran’s voice in the back of my mind—Cocky cowboy strutting in and taking my little girl away—can feel the comparison to my mom. Cora Rosewood was a megastar. She held the world rapt with her vocals, but my father held her rapt with his charm, at least in the beginning. Too good-looking and far too connected. On their own, they were sparklers in the hands of children on the Fourth of July. Together, they were a house on fire.
Trina gives me a patient look. “Until tonight.”
“That wasn’t … I was just excited. Those girls…” I feel like crying. The buzz I felt earlier is now pooling around my feet in a puddle of terrible dread. I’ve s
pent years honing my craft, preparing to do this and do it right—better than they had. One show in, and I’m tabloid fodder.
“Trina, knock it off,” Clay bites out.
“I’m not my mom.” My breath catches, and I feel like my vision is tunneling. “This was a mistake. I’m not like her.” I’m rambling, and I try to slink away from Trina’s wide-eyed assessment. It’s embarrassing how quickly I’m unraveling.
“Annie! What happened? Annie. Look at me.” Kacey’s face swims into view. She takes my cheeks in her warm hands and drags my eyes up to focus on hers. I blink and start to calm down. She leads me in a few calming breaths while speaking in soothing tones. “Annie. It’s okay. It’s all okay. You aren’t like her. I promise. No one thinks that. At all. It was a misunderstanding.”
“I know,” I say, feeling stupid. I wave my hands in front of my face in a sorry attempt to cool my burning skin. “I overreacted.”
I hear Jason somewhere behind her, his voice raised. Suddenly he’s there next to Kacey, a candy bar and water bottle in either hand. I take the water and sip, shakily.
“I’m fine,” I insist. “Just humiliated.”
His lips spread a big goofy grin. “Every rock star has a meltdown at some point. Best to get it out of the way early on.”
“Shoulda had that shot,” Kacey teases before her face falls serious. “You aren’t Cora, you know, but the comparisons are inevitable. This won’t be the first time fans show up, and it’s not the only time people will make assumptions about you. This business is built on assumptions. You can’t let that prevent you from taking what’s yours.”
“You were great out there tonight,” Jason says.
My lips curl. “I had good backup.”
“And you’ll keep having us. Don’t forget that. This isn’t just you, even if you are the star of the show.”
Jason stands, holding a hand out, and I take it.
Kacey shoots a glare at Trina, who still looks gobsmacked, before wrapping an arm around my shoulders and leading me back to the bus.
“I feel like I should apologize or explain or something.” I slump onto a bench seat, dropping my head onto my arms.
“To who? Barely anyone even saw anything.”
I raise my head. “Except Clay and Trina.”
“And Fitz, but that’s okay,” Kacey says. “They needed to see it. Everyone needed to get on the same page. To everyone else, Cora and Robbie were a sad song, but to you, they were real life. In the meantime, you killed it tonight and proved to the world—and your headliner, by the way—that you deserve to be on this tour. You’re the real deal in your own goddamn right. So drink your water, and then grab your guitar and write your feelings. Jason and I can handle the rest.”
There’s a knock on the door of the bus, and Jason and Kacey exchange looks. Jason grabs my hand and tugs me up to his wiry chest. “Come on, girl. I’ll get you all settled in.” I smack his shoulder playfully.
“Don’t you try those eyes on me. You know they’re wasted.”
He flashes a blinding white grin. “Oh, I know. Your taste in men has evolved in the last few years. You prefer crooners over drummers, I hear.”
With anyone else, I would sink into dismay all over again, but with Jason, I can laugh.
“Holy mother, it’s gonna be a summer, isn’t it?”
7
Clay
After the Meltdown, Fitz went to help console his new fiddle-playing friend, and that left me in my bus. Alone. Well, not totally alone. I have my guitar.
I could go out and find some company, but watching Annie collapse in a trembling heap of tears and grief sort of killed any urges I might have had.
Not that I blame her. I think we all learned a valuable lesson tonight. Annie Mathers is not just some eager beaver starlet. No, sir. She’s messed up.
Having my early suspicions from her birthday performance confirmed doesn’t change anything. She’s still too talented to stay home. She deserves this place on the tour. I wasn’t bullshitting tonight when I argued with Trina. Annie’s proven her worth. I haven’t forgotten how much I need her here, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe she needs me.
Which is some first-class tomfoolery, but nonetheless rings true. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s putting on a performance. If Annie Mathers is going to survive this tour, she’s gonna need to put the performance first and forget the rest.
I hear footsteps and voices outside my bus and peek out the blinds. It’s that Jason kid. I surge to my feet and throw open the door. “Hey, man, where you headed?”
He stops, raising his brows, confused. “Uh, I’m hungry. Fitz and I were gonna get some pancakes. Wanna come?”
I shake my head. “How’s Mathers?”
He shifts on his feet. “Okay. She locked herself in her room to write.”
I hop down and stumble a little as I do.
“You’re not going over there.” He’s suddenly right in front of me. “Especially not drunk.”
I crack a grin. “Easy, Diaz, it’s just water.” Now it is, anyway. I spin, and with deliberate care, I place the bottle behind me on the step. I don’t know why I have to antagonize this kid, but I do. “What’s your deal? Afraid she mightn’t be able to resist me?”
Jason’s eyes glint in the parking lot light. “The last thing she needs right now is to be connected to you. You saw her tonight. She’s not some hookup.”
I rub a hand down my face. I’ve aged ten years since yesterday. “Look, if I were interested in a hookup, I wouldn’t be out here talking to you, and I definitely wouldn’t be knocking on Annie’s door. She’s a mess.”
“Then what do you want with her?”
“I only wanted to check on her. I’m not a complete dick. I feel somewhat responsible since it was our photo shoot and my tour manager that threw her for a spin.” I lean back against the bus, crossing my arms. “You don’t know me, but I swear only half the things they say about me are true. I happen to think you guys are pretty good. I wanted to offer some—”
Jason’s grin is shit-eating. “Some what? Advice? Yeah, you’re clearly one to talk.”
I’m annoyed. More annoyed than the situation probably warrants, and that makes it worse. “Know what? Forget it.” I shove off the bus and stagger back to the steps, swiping a grab at my bottle. “You’re right. What the hell do I know?”
Fitz comes around the corner with the little fiddler, Kacey, in tow. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I answer before Jason can. “Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. I was just about to finish my water alone because I’m an asshole who doesn’t care about anyone. Right, Jason?”
The kid looks uncomfortable but doesn’t disagree.
“Right. Enjoy your pancakes.” I let the door slam behind me and lock it. Fitz can find somewhere else to sleep tonight.
* * *
I wake up to banging on the door.
“We need to leave, Clay! Open the door and let me in!”
I swing it open, relishing the burst of fresh air it brings. The bus smells of staleness and sweat. I don’t say anything, just work my way down the windows, sliding them open.
“I slept in the Willows’ bus, in case you were wondering. Thanks for that.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure that must’ve been terrible for you. Did your fiddler friend lend you some pajamas or offer to take off hers instead?”
Fitz presses his lips together, and for a second, I think he might be mad. “I heard what Jason said to you. It was uncalled for. You weren’t doing anything wrong. They’re just super-protective of Annie.”
I shrug and open the minifridge, pulling out the orange juice. I take a long sip right from the carton, and it sloshes in my stomach. “Whatever.”
Fitz sits down on a bench, and I hand him the OJ and a glass. “Not ‘whatever,’” he says as he pours his glass. “You aren’t a dick, Clay.”
Fitz never calls me by my real first name. Never has. He tried to call me Jeff after
Danny died, and it never took. In the same way, I never call him Jacoby. It’s this unspoken pact we have—a refusal to overstep. Still, when he says it now, it feels like a lie because Clay actually is a dick sometimes.
“I was drunk. The kid was right.”
“That kid is the same age as you. He doesn’t know you.”
“Knows enough.” I look at my hands, picking at my callous.
Fitz sighs, cradling his glass. “Why did you want to see Annie?”
“Honestly? I don’t even remember.” A lie.
Fitz can tell. He raises a dubious brow.
“Fine. I felt bad for the girl. She looked really shaken up. She’s had a bad deal with her parents, and I sort of get it, but she shouldn’t quit.”
Fitz narrows his eyes. “I don’t think she’s going to quit.”
“Good.”
A telling pause.
“You’re such a pain in my ass.”
He smiles, and I can feel the corners of my lips twitch to match.
“We leave in fifteen.” He gets up and pats my shoulder, giving it a familiar squeeze. “You stink, my friend.” He starts for the flap of curtain that divides his bedroom and pulls it open. He plops on his bed, kicking off his boots before crossing his legs and placing his hands behind his head.
“Didn’t get much sleep last night, huh?”
He readjusts his hat farther down over his eyes. “Stop fishing, junior. I ain’t telling you a thing.”
8
Annie
thursday, may 30
biloxi, mississippi
We spent the days in between Georgia and Mississippi in the recording studio. Immediately after my panic attack, I was assigned a manager. I suppose it was completely naive of me to think I could get away without one for the duration, but I thought Trina was enough, even if she wasn’t technically ours. Thankfully, a quick call out to Patrick Royston saved the day. His lovely wife, Connie, has fifteen years of tour management under her belt after touring with the Dixie Chicks in the ’90s and early 2000s.
