few quick words, chant some upbeat lines, then pile their hands together, whooping as they break.
Two guys swarm around her. One hands her a microphone before rigging small wireless box to the belt of her dress. Someone else hands her a smaller piece for her ear.
The band swaggers out onto the stage first.
Shelby stands a few feet from the entrance, eyes closed, back against a stack of equipment. One hand’s in a white-knuckled death-grip around her mic and the other is balled into a fist at her side. I want to wish her luck, kiss her, or do something to encourage her but I don’t want to take her out of whatever headspace she’s trying to achieve.
Finally, she opens her eyes, staring straight at me. She takes a few steps closer, goes up on tiptoes, and plants a quick kiss on my cheek before darting away.
“Good evening, Wellspring, New York!” she shouts as she struts onto the stage, one hand in the air, waving to the audience. She’s completely confident—regal almost. No one would ever guess minutes ago she claimed to be jittery and ready to hurl.
“Y’all ready to have a good time?” she shouts.
The crowd’s reaction is weak at best. They’re still not quite paying attention. One excited voice and a shrill whistle stands out, though. I move closer, peering into the crowd, laughing when I see Heidi, arms up, hooting for Shelby. Right next to her, Murphy’s standing and whistling. Out on the lawn, the rest of the club makes even more noise. People waiting in line at the food stands turn and look. More people roam over the grass, slowly wandering closer, curiously staring at the stage.
That’s right, assholes. Best part of the show’s about to start.
The band launches into “Big Lies” and by the time they’re finished and headed into the second song, the inside seats have filled with more people.
“That one always draws them in,” Greg shouts near my ear.
“I see that.”
“She’s really got something special. Dawson’s been fantastic exposure for her, but I need to get her a tour with a later time slot.”
Unsure why he’s bothering to explain any of this to me, I nod along.
After three songs, Shelby slows things down. Someone brings her an acoustic guitar and slips it over her head. She turns away, plucking a few strings and signaling to her drummer, then Trent, before turning back to the microphone.
“This song’s real special to me.” Her husky voice comes through the speakers tinged with sadness. “I wrote it about my baby sister. It’s called ‘Empty Room.’”
She closes her eyes for a moment.
Sister?
Shelby’s never mentioned a sister. I’ve spent time at the house she shares with her mom outside San Antonio. Never saw any indication anyone aside from the two of them lived there. Hell, no one else could fit in that place.
Front and center on the stage, she strums a chord or two. A few seconds later, her voice pours from her soul, firm and heartbreakingly clear.
“Everyone says remember the good times,
Hold them in your heart
Bright memories,
Funny days,
The good times.
But all I see is solitude,
The broken hearts,
Your empty room.”
A brick of understanding lands in my gut.
Oh, Shelby. Why didn’t you ever tell me?
“All that’s left is an echo,
Of a little girl’s laughter
Dry your tears in the sun,
Hold the family tighter”
Every word pierces what little soul I have left.
“But all I see is solitude,
The broken hearts
Your empty room.”
When she finishes, she closes her eyes and drops her head for a moment. The hush over the crowd only lasts a minute. People whistle and demand more.
Someone shouts “White Knight!” which wipes the sadness off her face. She smiles and turns her head my way. The cute eyebrow wiggle she sends me lifts the heavy cloud that settled over the stage during “Empty Room.” I can’t help laughing.
Greg’s face screws up. “You’re the one she wrote this about?”
“Apparently,” I growl, hoping he’ll shut up so I can concentrate on Shelby.
“Y’all wanna hear ‘White Knight?’” she shouts.
The audience responds with a loud and enthusiastic, “Yes!”
“All right.” She nods and strums her guitar a few times. “It’s a good time to play it. The person who inspired this song is here with me tonight. My very own white knight.”
“Sometimes your white knight rides a Harley,
And he doesn’t need an army,
To save you from drowning,
In three feet of water…”
Her clear, emotional voice throws me right back to the day we met. The soggy jeans and boots clinging to my skin as I fished her out