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At eight o’clock, I’m locking the door behind me and slipping out in my favorite ripped jeans, tee, and baseball cap, tucking my keys and phone in my back pocket. I’m not hiding, but my name finally stopped trending on Twitter, and after all the hard work and energy Craig and Arlo put into my album this week, I don’t want to blow it up by reminding everyone I’m still in town. They can’t afford to lose any more contracts.
Another point of contention to add to the pile.
I arrive at the bar and spot Annie’s famously wild golden-brown curls in a booth near the very front, along with a statuesque blonde and a small-framed dark-haired woman who looks familiar. Without making eye contact with anyone else, I make a beeline for their booth and sink into the open seat before beaming up at the trio.
“Lorelai!” Annie shouts, her sweet-as-pie megawatt smile on full display as she throws her arms around my neck. I hug her, a relieved laugh caught in my throat, already feeling every eye in the entire bar on us.
“Hey, girl,” I say, pulling back, “thanks for the invite. I’m Lorelai Jones,” I say, holding out my hand to the dark-haired woman. Her grip is strong, and one glance at her cut arms in her stylish tank confirms my suspicions just as she’s saying her name.
“Kacey Rosewood.”
I nod at Annie’s cousin and fiddler, feeling a little starstruck. “I’m a massive fan. You’re so fucking talented.”
“More talented than my husband?” She quirks a nod toward the stage, where Fitz Jacoby is accompanying Jefferson. Tonight he’s on the fiddle, and he’s of course dazzling. Even still, Kacey Rosewood is a prodigy, and I’m not ashamed to admit I’m inclined to root for my fellow females in a male-dominated industry.
“I’m biased, but obviously, yes.”
She laughs, dark eyes sparkling. “Fair enough.”
“Trina Hamilton,” the blonde says, her hand extended, her matte lips pressed in a firm line. “I manage Coolidge.”
“Oh!” I say, startled. “Um.” My eyes dart to Annie and I lower my voice. “Is it okay that I’m here?”
Annie’s brow furrows over the rim of her drink. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, I don’t know if you heard my interview—”
“Fucking idiots,” Trina cuts in, pretending to swat at a particularly stupid mosquito.
“Which ones?”
“All of ’em,” she scoffs. “Jennifer Blake, to start. Putting you in front of the fucking firing squad with nothing but a piece of tinfoil over your heart. Christ. What on earth were you even doing there?”
“Apology tour? I guess? Doesn’t matter. I fired her,” I say quickly.
Trina’s eyes flash with approval, and despite being a grown woman who kicks ass on a regular basis, I immediately warm. She reaches her manicured hand for mine, and with her other, motions for a drink. A server approaches and faster than I can blink, I’m ordering a G and T and scooting closer to the trio in the booth.
“Listen, Lorelai,” Trina says in a low drawl, “you were young, you were angry, and you used the platform they gave you, and when you did, they got their dicks in a Celtic knot.”
I choke on air, skeptical. “You don’t think I was in the wrong?”
She rolls her eyes. “Christ, Neil Young? There are a thousand other songs I would have chosen over ‘Ohio’ to get your point across.” Annie snorts into her glass with a rattle of the cubes and exchanges glances with her smirking cousin. When Trina levels her with a look, she lets out a full-bellied laugh.
“Sorry, Trina, but you say that like Neil Young isn’t a legend of protest rock and therefore a brilliant choice for actual protesting.”
“Neverthefuckingless, there were better ways to do what you did, and shame on your management for not supporting you.”
I’m so shocked by her enthusiastic defense, any response evaporates straight out of my brain, so I just nod my thanks and take a grateful pull from my newly arrived gin and tonic.
“Well, Trina would know,” Kacey says with a secretive grin. “She’s been supporting those idiots up there for the last half a decade.”
“And the Lord knows how they try me,” the older woman mumbles under her breath, but it’s softened by the proud way she watches the three men on stage.
The music is excellent, and it feels good to be around other female artists. It’s not that Shelby and Maren aren’t incredible women. They’re the actual best. But there’s something about being around women who get it. Getthis.This overwhelming urge to perform and put yourself out there time and again. Why I can’t just give it up and go back to teaching. Why I want this so fucking much.
I eventually let Trina buy me another drink, this time a double, and start to relax. Before I know it, our table’s collected a number of empty glasses and bottles. By the time Coolidge takes a break, we shuffle around to make room for the three men.
“No Boseman tonight?”
