A moment later, Lou is standing beside my soundboard. She’s swapped the outlaw-style T-shirt and cutoffs for a black bare-shoulder gown that fits her tight around the waist before flaring into a huge, billowing skirt—short enough in the front to show rhinestone boots.
She looks … distracting. Too pretty for words.
But the way she’s peering at the audience replaces her usual warrior princess vibe with something new. Something foreign.
Lou can’t see them from the stage—performers can’t see much of anything—but seeing and hearing them now is clearly making an impression on her.
She looks at me, and there’s awe on her face. Shock.
Her lips form a small “o,” and for once, she looks less like a rockstar and more like someone about to step onto thin ice. She swallows. Then, so quietly, I almost can’t hear it, she says to herself,“Don’t mess this up.”
The stage manager is counting her down, but Lou looks frozen.
How do I keep forgetting she’s new to all this? She’s never had the chance to get used to the spotlight—or to performing under dozens of them. She’s gotta be beyond overwhelmed.
Her spine is straight, shoulders back—perfect stage presence. But I see it. The tension in her spine. The way her hands tremble just slightly before she clenches them into fists. The way she blinks too fast, like she’s trying to steel herself before battle. I doubt anyone else would notice.
But I do.
And with ten seconds left, I know she’s about to walk into the spotlight feeling completely exposed. Bare. Alone.
Unless I can give her some armor.
I cut the audience feed from her IEMs and grumble.
“You sound good now, Princess, but if you pull that earpiece out, I swear I’ll march across that stage and hold it in place like you’re a naughty toddler. You wanna fire me? Go for it.”
Her breath hitches, and for one charged second, I think she might actually fight me on it.
But instead, a slow smirk spreads across her face.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She huffs and turns back toward the stage.
But she doesn’t rip the earpiece out.
Her shoulders loosen, and that straight spine of hers relaxes as she shoots me a look. “Naughty toddler?”
“If the IEM fits …” I give her a wry look I know will bug her.
“You mean if itdon’tfit.”
Her sharp smile pierces me.
The stage manager says, “Go,” and Lou strides out onto the stage like a queen, settling at the piano.
I switch off my mic so she can’t hear me exhale.
One crisis down, a million more to go.
Fortunately, the next song couldn’t be easier, with only Lou and the piano to worry about. My pre-set mix holds as her fingers dance across the ivories of the grand piano.
Not that I care.
But she is stunning.
