I switch my mic to the Patty-only channel. “That’s good. Now let’s do my vocals.”
We go through the same rigamarole, and halfway through my next song, my voice comes through my IEM, clear as crystal. When he nails the mix, I grin.
And—do my eyes deceive me?—he grins back.
Well, he smirks, at least.
Good enough.
CHAPTER SIX
PATTY
Everyone has separated after a long day, but I stay at the soundboard after rehearsals to finish tweaking the mix and noting my show cues. I give the stage tech and a few backline techs a hand as they finish up, and then I ask them to keep an eye on the band during tomorrow’s concert—let me know if they need anything so I can keep my focus firmly on Lou.
Lou Williams.
That girl ain’t making it easy on me. I know I’m rusty from only doing sound at the bar over the last several years, but I’m notthatrusty. No, she even hears differently than other people. Something tells me she has tinnitus, probably from the last idiot who sat in this seat and told her she didn’t need IEMs while she was standing in a tornado of noise for a week or two straight of rehearsals. If I ever meet that clown, my fist might meet his jaw at the same time.
I glance around to make sure I’m alone, then play the recording I took from tonight, stripping Lou’s vocal track. I don’tknow the lyrics to any of these yet, so I pull them up on my phone and sing along.
It’s a trick I learned from a veteran monitor engineer after I dropped out of music school—back when I had dreams of being exactly where Lou is now. The guy would do a run-through of every song to see how easy his mix was to sing to. His theory was, if the sound engineer can’t sing to it, the artist can’t either.
My mix isn’t as good as I thought.
And, as much as I hate to admit it, her lyrics have more bite than I thought, too. Even thatBaby Llama Dramanonsense. It should be mindless fluff, but she twisted the chord progression just enough to keep it from being predictable. Almost like she knew exactly how to get under a snob’s skin and make him hum along anyway.
I’m gonna be madder than a hornet if I can’t fall asleep tonight because I’m stuck singing:
“So kiss me now and save the tears for your momma, cuz”—stomp, stomp, stomp—“it’s all just baby llama drama.”
If only she’d playedLast Train to Midnight. The chance to sing along to that?—
A tap on my shoulder jolts me out of the music. I yank out my IEMs and whip around in one motion to see the woman herself.
“What are you doin’ here?” I demand.
Her eyebrow raise is so saucy, it belongs in a jar. She looks me over. “You were singing my songs.”
“It’s a sound tech trick,” I mutter, thankful my beard hides any traitorous color climbing up my neck. Not that I’m embarrassed. But I don’t sing in front of people. Ever.
“Uh-huh.” She crosses her arms, tapping a finger against her bicep. “So tell me, Patty—do you always put that much emotion into your sound checks? Or just when it’s my music?”
I shoot her a flat look. “You’re hearing things.”
Her smirk is full of mischief. “Oh, I know I am. That’s why I have a monitor engineer. But you should sing more. You have a great voice.”
“I can’t. I don’t.”
“The last three minutes would suggest otherwise.”
Three minutes.I’ve been singing along for probably half an hour, at least. Had no idea anyone else was here, or I’d have, well, not. “Most anyone can carry a tune, and that’s all I was doing.”
She puts a hand on her hip, and the movement draws my eyes. Her denim mini skirt makes it obvious she’s been training hard for this tour. Performing takes stamina, and her legs look strong. Capable. It’s an objective observation. Nothing more. Nothing about the way that mini skirt fits her or the way she stands like she owns the world?—
Eyes up, idiot.
They snap to hers, and she has a smug smile on her face, like she knows I was checking her out.
