Then he cranes his head back to ask in a thick accent, “Where to?”
“Uh—” I start.
“Why don’t you take us downtown, for starters. Give us a little tour,” Patty says.
The driver mutters, though I can’t understand why. He gets paid by the mile, regardless, and we’re an easy fare.
Alicia tells me she’ll call back in a couple of minutes with an update, so I end the call.
“Nothing?” Patty asks.
“Nothing yet,” I say, clinging to hope. It won’t be the end of the world if we have to have our driver take us up to Springfield, Missouri, instead, but the prospect of staying in a hotel is exciting to me, and I’m suddenly eager for the freedom of walking around a room or hallway or—gasp—even a city street. Not that I imagine Patty will let me walk anywhere.
I love being on tour. Really, I do. Performing night after night isn’t draining; it’s recharging, even if my voice has been getting sore by the end of the night. These two days off are as long a stretch as I’ve had off so far. I’d planned to do some sightseeing in Kansas City, but I’ll have to settle for doing it here. Whether Patty’s with me, or not.
Okay, I’m kidding. I’ll definitely make sure Patty is with me. I’m not oblivious to the risks of being in the public eye.
Regardless, a couple of days of normalcy sound like absolute heaven. I just wish I were here with friends instead of withsomeone who can’t decide if he cares about me or would rather never see me again.
Our drive through downtown Branson is charming. The brick-lined streets show five-and-dime stores and mom-and-pop shops with homemade fudge, as well as colorful antique stores and kitschy souvenir shops. I look out my window down a long street and see a waterfront area, where fire, water, and lights burst into the air to the beat of a Bon Jovi song. I’m tempted to ask if we can get out, but I have a feeling Patty wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.
A call comes in from Alicia, and I put it on speaker.
“All right, you two, I found a hotel. But I don’t think you’re gonna like it …”
Twenty minutes later, our driver is taking us through the newer, even more touristy part of Branson, which includes bizarre, eye-catching architecture, like small amusement parks and a house that looks like it took a wrong trip from Kansas into Oz and landed on its roof. Billboards flash, advertising everything from illusionists to variety shows to impersonators. And …
“Is that the Titanic?” I ask, my head turning back to the huge, white and black, ship-shaped building looming against the horizon with its towering smokestacks. But our driver doesn’t stop or even answer. He just turns off the main road and onto a smaller one, where we soon pull up to a hotel—the Velvet Antler Lodge. The thing is impossible to miss. Over the entrance, a massive pair of fake antlers cradle a glowing sign that flickers a warm orange light. The hotel itself has a weathered, faux-rustic façade made to look like an old hunting lodge, complete with a wraparound porch and oversized rocking chairs. Two carvedwooden bucks flank the entrance. The woodworking is beautiful, but someone has added huge craft eyes, with the loose black dots that simulate pupils. I take one look and shudder at the unsettling effect that makes the eyes look like they’re following our every move.
Patty escorts me out of the car like an old fashioned gentleman instead of a reluctant bodyguard. He gets our bags and stops me right by the identically creepy bucks. From his duffel bag, he pulls out a Mullet Ridge Blue Collars trucker hat—it’s the exact blue of a mechanic’s shirt, complete with a logo that looks like a name patch.
He puts it above my head, and I dodge. “What are you doing?”
He takes me by the upper arm and holds me steady, “You have to stop thinking Lucy Jane and Lou Williams are two different people,” he says in a soft, firm voice. “You’re not anonymous anymore. And I can’t protect you from everything.”
My resistance softens. I nod and let him fit the hat on my head. He pulls my hair back away from my face, and I put a hand over his, stopping him.
“Shouldn’t we leave my hair where it is to hide my face?”
“Your hair in your face is part of your brand.Showingyour whole face is better camouflage than not.”
How does he know that? He has to have watched my YouTube videos. Right?
I let him pull my hair out of my face.
I donotlet my body react to it. No shivering when the tip of his finger traces my cheek or his thumb tingles across my neck. No holding my breath at his closeness or lingering on the citrus and leather scent of his deodorant.
No, sir. No reaction from me.
At all.
When he moves his hand from my hair, though, he reaches down to grab mine, and I can’t pull back. I look down at our clasped hands in shock.
And longing.
It’s the longing that hurts. His hand engulfs mine, the calluses rough and familiar, making me feel more at home than I can explain—especially when he threads our fingers together. My eyes fly to his, but he’s staring at our clasped hands, too.
“You ready?” he asks.
