Either way, the music is the only thing keeping me from unraveling.
But is it enough?
Am I?
That’s the eternal question, the one that’s haunted me since the first time I uploaded a song to my channel.
I strum the opening chords ofDouble or Nothing—the song that started it all. The crowd erupts, their screams filling the space between my beats. I turn to my band, lifting my hand high, ready to bring the song to life.
And then, I let go.
And we’re off.
I’m singing into the mic with everything in me, trying to channel every ounce of ferocity I’ve ever had on stage. But by the third song, I’m running on empty. My voice still works. My hands still move. But I feel like a wounded bird flapping in vain, desperate to stay aloft.
No mental pep talk helps.
“I didn’t realize Queenie was takin’ the night off,” Patty says in that flat, needling voice that always riles me up.
Except tonight, it doesn’t just rile me.
It cuts.
My grip tightens around the neck of my guitar as I switch my mic to his channel during one of Bailey’s fiddle solos.
“I heard you and Connor.”
A beat of silence.
Then—too careful—“What did you hear?”
“You offering to sell him our songs.”
The words leave my mouth like glass. Sharp. Already slicing.
Patty exhales through the mic, the sound low and rough in my ear. “I wasn’t offering to sell him our songs. I was?—”
He stops. Because I have to sing.
I force the words out, keep my voice steady for the crowd, even though my entire world is tilting beneath me.
I don’t know if I want this song to end or stretch forever—because the moment it’s over, I’ll have to hear the rest of what he was about to say.
The final chord rings out. I step back. The band transitions to the next song.
Patty’s voice is waiting for me.
“I think it’s time I tell you something.”
The air between us tightens.
He’s unraveling, and I can feel it.
But Patty’s too in control to unravel by accident. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Do I?
“The songs I told Nash I’d sell him weren’t ours,” he says. “They were his. Well,mine.”
