Patty frowns. Him expressing actual emotion—whether it’s frustration, annoyance, or concern—is new. And it makes me want more. We don’t know each other well, but I trust Rusty implicitly, and Patty is one of Rusty’s oldest and closest friends in the world. No endorsement could be stronger. And seeing how well he managed the crowd back in the parking lot, he’s clearly comfortable picking up on threats and keeping me safe from them.
“I guess I don’t have much choice,” Patty says. “But no photos.”
I chuckle. “We can’t control that, clearly.”
His nostrils flare. “I’m not saying we can stop fans, but I don’t want to be included in any pictures from the tour photographer,no behind-the-scenes footage, nothing. If it comes from this tour, my face ain’t on it, or I walk.”
I swap looks with Manny, whose eyes widen as he nods. Meanwhile, mine sharpen. I know the guy likes staying in the shadows, but this is a little much, even for him.
“I’ll make sure the appropriate parties know,” Manny says. “Pat, we’ll have your stuff moved to one of the bunks. Ron, why don’t you go up to the front and sit with the driver till we get to Charleston.”
Should Ron look so happy to get to hang out on his cell phone for the next hour and a half?
When he passes, Patty looks at Manny. “Ron’s gotta go,” he says before I can. “You can’t have someone so useless on security.”
“Agreed,” Manny says. Then he adds, almost apologetically, “He’s my cousin’s kid. I’ll have someone new in a week.” His phone vibrates, and I know he’s warring with himself to answer or keep talking to us.
“Manny, you’re good to get back to work. Pat and I need to go over sound, anyway,” I say.
He nods, and I stand up and gesture to Patty.
“My studio’s in the back,” I tell him. “Your gig bag is already there.”
We walk past the kitchenette, a bathroom, and the bunks—separated by thick noise-dampening curtains. My assistant and driver both have one, but that leaves four extras. Two are for guests, should the need arise. One is for Manny, whenever he needs to travel with me between cities.
The last is for my bodyguard.
Patrick O’Shannan.
I open a sliding door to get to my suite, where a lofted queen bed stands, accessible by a ladder. Rustic wood paneling frames the bed, and soft string lights cast a warm glow. Beneath the bedis a small closet, as well as a bench and a couple of instruments, including my guitar and fiddle. Running perpendicular to the bed is a compact desk with a digital piano, mounted monitors, a laptop, and a small guitar rack. Acoustic panels line the room, creating a haven of comfort and (I hope) inspiration. Beneath my desk, my walking pad treadmill is acting as a footrest, while above it, a cork board boasts Polaroids of me with my sisters, my parents, and the Janes, as well as the covers of the two albums that had the biggest impact on my dreams: Momma’s first one and Connor Nash’s.
Oh, and somehow, Beary—the stuffed animal my dad won for me at the state fair when I was seven—has fallen from my bed and is face down on the floor, showing his faded and worn brown backside.
“I didn’t realize my mom put that on board,” I say, scooping Beary up and tossing him onto my bed.
“Sure,” Patty says, like he believes me, even though we both know he doesn’t.
The suite is big enough not to be cramped but too small to be anything but cozy. And as we sit together on the small bench at my desk and Patty pulls open his gig bag, I can hear him breathing.
Do you know how intimate hearing someone breathe is?
Weirdly so. Very weirdly so.
While he opens his laptop and starts connecting the new earpieces he got from Dr. Reed to his Bluetooth, I throw on a fluffy cardigan.
“Are you cold?” he asks, looking surprised.
“Always. I have terrible circulation. I think it’s why I have headaches all the time.”
“Huh,” he says. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s lame,” I agree as he pushes his laptop all the way against the cork board, covering Nash’s album.
Was that … intentional?
“Let’s try out the interim earpieces,” he says, handing me the first set. I fit them in, and he turns on the music on his laptop.
“How’s it sound?”
