“Don’t you dare criticize my page before I can scribble out my own mistakes,” I snap.
His gaze has a weight to it. “You done?”
My eyes narrow to slits. “No. Eat a vegetable, already. Your coffee is giving me a toothache.”
I huff and puff into my suite like the Big Bad Wolf, then drop onto my bench, fuming.
I’m so angry, I don’t even hear Patty come back until he’s sitting beside me.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
He pulls out his laptop and puts in his IEMs before handing me mine.
“You know, it’s hard to take you seriously when you’re dressed like Mr. Rogers.”
I laugh in disbelief, and somehow, the smile stays while my anger cools.
“Let’s take it from the top, Queenie. I want you to focus just on the guitar and tell me how it sounds.”
I put the earpieces back in, giving him a wary but willing look.
“Whatever you say, Sugar.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LOU
Ooh-wee, I am on fire in Charleston.
The air feels warmer here, buzzing with anticipation even before I step on stage. The lights that seemed so blinding last night in Columbia are less daunting tonight. I can hear everything well enough, and with the vibrating plates Patty expertly rigged near my feet, I can feel the roar of the crowd surge through my boots whenever I want, a direct connection to the energy in the room. Patty doesn’t pipe the audience in again, but the plates do plenty. I feed off the crowd’s energy without needing to see or hear them directly.
That isn’t to say I’m not overwhelmed.
I am. Dreadfully.
Every few songs, the shine wears off, and my nerves creep in. My cold hands grow clammy against the neck of my guitar. I play a wrong chord, then start getting in my head in a way that leads to more wrong chords.
But every time I start to spiral, Patty chimes into my ear.
“That was terrible. You should probably quit now,” he says, his voice drier than the desert.
It puts a smile on my face and emboldens me like no pep talk ever could. I roll my shoulders back and dive into the next song.
After the show, the band and our VIPs meet in my huge dressing room. Even though my show tomorrow is in Greenville, South Carolina, this is the last one my friends will be able to attend until they meet up with me in Memphis in a few months.
I talk to the VIPs as long as Manny forces me to, but then I make my way to my friends.
I want to make the most of every minute, and I’m glad to see Patty actually talking to Rusty, Tripp, Duke, and Sonny. The room hums with overlapping conversations and bursts of laughter, a chaos I hope I’ll find comforting soon enough.
“I can’t get over the fact that because a picture went viral, Patty now has to act as your bodyguard,” Millie says as the two of us load up our plates with snacks—veggies and hummus for Millie; tortilla chips and guacamole for me.
The crunch of the salty chips is satisfying as I scoop up a generous helping of guac. This room, like the one the other night, has added all sorts of cute rustic chic touches that I didn’t need but find charming anyway. The scent of fresh yellow daffodils fills the air.
“Tell me about it. Balancing a fandom is already harder than I expected.”
“Imagine what it would be like if people knew you and Nash are texting.” Millie’s elbow pokes into my ribs. “People would lose their minds.”
Nash responded to a Get Ready With Me post my social media manager put up before the show. His comment was a string of heart-eye emojis, which has people freakin’ out as much as Millie’s suggesting.
