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SWEAT DRIPS OUT from underneath my black Stetson and rolls down the side of my face. My eyes squint to see through the blinding stage lights and past the crowd. It's almost eleven thirty, and I know the stars are out there somewhere, but between the lights and the heat, one would never know.
Taking a deep breath, the smell of damp dirt and cattle slams into me, and my stomach rolls. For months, we’ve been following the pro rodeo across the country, closing down their last night in each city with sold out shows, and tonight I can't help but think this is mine. My last night.
The truth of the matter is, I just don't care anymore. All I ever wanted was to be somebody. Somebody to someone and somebody to myself, and ten years later, I feel more lost than found.
Lost.
Just the thought sends an overwhelming sadness coursing through me. No one would understand. After all, over the last five years, we’ve had three albums go double platinum, won seven Grammy’s, continue to sell out sixty thousand-plus stadiums, and are now considered to be one of country music’s greatest bands—The Will Ashton Band.
I hate this name.
Yes, it’s my name. But naming the band after me implies that the music is all about me, and it’s not. Originally we were called Blue Horizons, but since it’s my voice—and only my voice—the change was required to sign with the label. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret this and feel bad for Clay, my best friend and lead guitarist, and the others who put so much of their heart and soul into it.
Stepping back from the microphone, I pull on the worn leather of my guitar strap and force it to swing around and abruptly land on my back. I wince from the impact, not because of any pain inflicted, but because out of everything around me—the stage, the set, the equipment—the only thing that holds any value to me is this old acoustic guitar.
Realization hits me like a Mack truck, and it feels true. Nothing about this life or this dream holds any meaning anymore. Is it possible to love something so much, for so long, that one day you wake up and realize you don’t love it at all? No, right? So, what’s happening to me?
Vaguely, I hear the familiar riff that is my cue, reach for the microphone, and just a beat too late miss the opening bar. I glance over to Clay, and although I can't see his eyes behind the aviators he's wearing, I can read his concerned and pissed look all the same. Lucky bastard to have those sunglasses on . . . what I wouldn't give for a pair myself right now.
Clay takes a step toward me and I shake my head, halting him. Quickly recovering from my mistake, he turns back to the audience and walks to the stage edge to, one, appease the fans and, two, give me a little more time. Hands fly up into the air to touch him—he plays this part so well. I’d rather be on the receiving end of a thoroughbred’s hoof to the groin than be touched by so many people. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, immune, but I’m not. Wanting to be touched, hugged, or felt up just because I’m well-known is weird, and has always been my least favorite part in all of this.
Walking back to his place on stage, he glances at me one more time. He’s known that I’ve been off for the last couple of months, but we’ve never talked about just how off. This is going to affect him too, and as much as that causes my gut to ache with guilt . . . he’ll just have to get over it. I hope he can understand. No, I need him to understand.
Without thinking, I pull my hat off and lift my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face. The volume of the crowd moves to a deafening level and my heart sinks. When did getting a glimpse of skin become just as exciting as the music? It’s supposed to be about the music, dammit.
Sucking in more air, my lungs feel like they’re on fire, and the flames are ripping through my insides, scorching my throat. I’ve poured myself into this show more than any other to try and regain that lost feeling . . . but nothing. I feel empty except for the rawness that has become my voice.
The band circles back to the intro and I remind myself that this is the last song. With that reminder, a familiar kick of adrenaline hits my chest and I smile. It’s a feeling I once basked in when I walked on stage, to now only have it return when I’ve finally made the decision to walk off.
A rueful chuckle escapes me as I think about the repercussions of this, but I just don’t give a shit. For years, I’ve laughed at those in the industry who caved under the pressure . . . and now, I’m no different.
Or maybe I am.
I don’t feel pressure so much as I feel unease. The thrill and the passion, it’s all gone. I used to think I was born for this. I craved it with every fiber of my being. Music has always been what fed my soul. But now, I just don’t know . . .
I lean forward and grab the mic. My eyes drift shut as I place my bottom lip against the cool metal like I have a thousand times. I can do this. Just one more song . . . One last time.
TWO LOUD KNOCKS hit the front door startling me. Whiskey lets out a warning bark and then it swings open. Clay leans against the door frame, toes off his shoes, and barges in, slamming the door shut behind him. He spots me immediately, scowls, and I can’t help the smile that splits across my face. I’m surprised it took him this long, but seeing him here, man, have I missed him.
“You d-d-do know that everyone, and I do mean everyone is looking for you,” he says as he shoulders past, glaring at me. He’s more upset than I thought he would be, and hearing the stutter catch makes me feel like shit. It only comes out when he’s feeling extreme emotions, and he hates it.
He drops his bag next to the couch and turns to face me. I’ve been avoiding his calls, so I can completely understand his irritation. It’s been two months since I walked away from him after that last show and went into hiding. Hiding from life, hiding from responsibilities, hiding from myself. It was desperately needed and felt so good.
I drag my hand back and forth through my hair, suddenly noticing how long and shaggy it’s gotten. Dark brown pieces fall over my eyes and I push them off. “I figured as much. Good thing we never told anyone about this place.” I eye him suspiciously, crossing my arms over my chest. I’ve known him for so long that I’ll immediately be able to tell if he lies to me.
His frown deepens as Whiskey runs over and rams his head into Clay’s leg. Clay grunts, but bends down to give him a good petting. Whiskey is just as much his as he is mine, and I’m elated the three of us are together again. Living on the tour bus and being on the road, I had forgotten what it was like to live by myself. Growing up as an only child, there’s more silence than there is noise, and in a way, that silence is equal parts comfort and loneliness. But the day I met Clay, the silence vanished. He became my best friend and the brother I never had.
Letting out a sigh, he makes his way into the kitchen and grabs a beer from the refrigerator. Clay’s never been much for words, but even through the unspoken, I’ve always heard him loud and clear. He leans back against the counter, and I feel him watch me as I move away from him and drop into a large leather chair in the living room. I’m still smiling and he’s still frowning.
For the last five years, Clay and I have been trekking around the U.S. with barely any breaks between tours. This last tour,The Roundup,we hit twenty different cities in four months. We are constantly on the go, and lately, the only thing I’ve wanted to do is stop. Now, I’m not gonna lie and say it’s all bad, but there are a lot of moving parts to this job that just outright suck.
The label assembles most of the band. It’s easy for them to find the talent; what’s hard is getting them to stay committed and focused when none of us have any personal connection. We all work tirelessly to make this unified sound, but if one person is off, it affects everyone. Between finding rehearsal space, getting equipment, being on the road, and making sure everyone stays motivated, it’s a twenty-four seven job to lead this group. There is no down time. I’ve spent more nights than I care to admit worrying that someone will flake and not show, and by the time we hit Phoenix, I was mentally spent and just over it. Yes, walking off was a dick move, and all my preaching about loyalty was discredited in a flash. I can own that it was an incredibly irresponsible thing to do, but sometimes a man can only take so much before he cracks.
Guilt hits me as I take in Clay’s appearance, my smile slipping. He runs a hand through his blonde hair, stress lines on his face. Clay never frowns. Me shutting him out at the end of the tour has hit him harder than I thought it would. I hate that I’ve disappointed him, but at the time, I just didn’t know what else to do.
Taking a bow, I raise my guitar with one hand and wave toward the guys in the band with the other. The crowd is wild and has begun chanting, “More, more, more . . .” But I just don’t have any more left in me. Brian, our manager, is standing off to the right enthusiastically rocking back and forth—heel to toe—and sheer joy is radiating off of him. I know this show was probably the best of the tour, but damn, if it wasn’t completely draining. I left it all out there. I have nothing.
With one more wave, I brush past Clay and walk off the stage. Immediately, I’m surrounded by crew and security. After our last show in Flagstaff, I had asked for more security coverage. I swear, with each show the fans have been getting crazier and crazier.
