“Who says you have to end the night with an anthem? Why can’t you end it with a prayer?”
Her eyes release their hold on me as she leans back. A small move, but noticeable. She always leans in when she talks to me—like she’s ready to pounce. I’ve caught her off guard with this comment.
I don’t know how I feel about that.
“The label doesn’t like it.”
“Because you didn’t give them the rights to it? I noticed it’s not on the album.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. They said having people leave the concert in tears instead of an emotional high is a mistake.”
“With all due respect, they’re idiots. And you were smart to keep that one to yourself. It’s…” I stop, not sure why I feel compelled to tell her this. Except that the song is so bloody beautiful. “It’s the kind of song that stays with someone.”
“Thanks, Patty,” she says quietly.
“It’s Patrick.”
Her smile is like a ray of sunshine peeking through clouds. She looks at me for another long moment, then backs away.“Don’t stay up too late. I’d hate to get in trouble with our best friends.”
“Don’t you mean you’d hate to have me fall asleep on the job?”
“That’s a close second, but I’d do anything to avoid upsetting one of the Janes.”
“Good to know your priorities are straight,” I say.
“Always,” she says, but when her eyes tighten, I wonder if she’s stating an aspiration or a fact. And then I push that curiosity aside.
Lou is a study in contrasts, and I’m getting sick of the homework. She shouldn’t get under my skin like this. But something about her—the way she fights for every inch, the way she stands tall even when she’s uncertain—tugs at something buried deep. Something I was sure had died.
It’s not supposed to matter. It can’t. Because I have a job to do. A job that means leaving behind the people who actually need me. A job that’s supposed to get me one step closer to fixing my past. Not wrecking my future on a girl who is way too dangerous for a guy like me.
And that means I’m gonna have to pluck those roots one by one.
Lou might know how to get under my skin, but she ain’t staying there.
My priorities are straight, too.
I take back everything I said about not being rusty. I’m practically an oxidized mess.
Her first show’s going well enough, but these generic IEMs are a disaster, and Lou is visibly frustrated as she shoots me a look between every single song.
When it’s time for a wardrobe change, she runs off stage. Sweat drips from her face, and her hair sticks to her forehead as she rushes past me. Our gazes lock for only a moment, and her icy blues are full of fire.
“I’m rippin’ these things out,” she tells me through her headset mic. I’m glad she figured out how to switch lines so easily, but I’m annoyed that this is our constant fight. “I’m missing half my chords keeping these stupid things from falling outta my ears.”
“Don’t take ‘em out,” I tell her, my eyes flicking between my show cues and the band. “That’s why you have another guitarist. No one will notice you missing some notes, but you won’t hear right for a week if you don’t keep them in.”
“I won’t do another show like this,” she says. “I can’t risk sounding like garbage out there.”
“You don’t sound like garbage,” I tell her. “Listen.”
I feed the thunderous crowd noise into her IEMs. The pulsing energy is a high more powerful than any substance.
“Is that—is that the audience?”
“It is.”
“Wow.”
