I wander over to the spot. My gaze lands on Shelby standing in the center of the scuffed stage testing her earpiece and mumbling a few things into a microphone. She taps it with her palm a few times. “Where’s my rhythm section?” she hollers.
A few guys I recognize as her band members, as well as a few I don’t recognize, push past me. They carefully set up their gear and play a few experimental notes.
“Y’all wanna do ‘Big Lies?’” Shelby waves her hand out toward the rows and rows of currently empty seats and the rolling lawns outside the pavilion.
Instead of answering, the guy on the drums taps the cymbals a few times. They start up with a melody I recognize. For the last few months it’s been playing roughly every ninety minutes on the satellite country music station I listen to for the sole purpose of catching one of Shelby’s songs or the rare after-concert interview.
It’s an upbeat song. Heidi calls this one a boot-stomper—and yeah, she’s caught me tapping my toes along to it more times than I care to admit.
My heart burns,
From the lies you tell me
Your tongue twists,
Empty words you feed me
The speakers let out an ear-splitting screech. Shelby stops singing and waves her arms in the air.
“Try it again, Shelby!” someone calls out from the upper-level balcony of the pavilion.
The band starts but Shelby waits, listening for a few seconds before jumping into the song.
Big lies
Small truths
Fake promises
Her mouth twists in frustration as she stops to send another round of hand signals to the other guy working the soundboard in the middle of the venue.
Crying empty tears,
From the lies you tell me
Your lips move,
Empty words you feed me
“Again!” the guy in the balcony claps his hands.
Big lies
Small truths
Fake promises
Shelby’s mouth twists with frustration. I search the area for Greg. Shouldn’t he do something to fix whatever’s wrong?
Finally, she makes it through the chorus without stopping and flashes a thumbs-up. As the song winds down, people from the lawn cheer and wave. With a big grin stretched across her face, Shelby waves back. “How y’all doing?” she says into the microphone.
They scream declarations of love but can’t get past the locked gate or grouchy security guards.
Shelby’s pretty face is a mask of tension as she walks off the stage toward me. “How’d that sound?” she asks.
“Fantastic. I’m not an expert, but it sounds much better than it did at the Tipsy Saddle.”
She gives me a thin smile in return. “Trent said it’s a little tinny. But I don’t know if we can do much to fix it.” Her nervous gaze darts to the side. “And we’re out of time, anyway.”
“I didn’t notice.” I cock my head. “Your fans seemed to love it.”
A more genuine expression of happiness flashes over her flushed cheeks. “Do you know where Greg ran off to?”
I tap the pass around my neck. “He gave me this and told me where to stand but I haven’t seen him since.”
“I need to find my dressing room.” She waves me along, and I fall into step beside her.
We’re not walking down the wide, straight hallway long before we find a white door with a poster of her face and her name tacked on it.
Greg flies up to her and opens the door. “You’re in here.” He flicks his gaze my way. “Dawson wants to come by to talk to you in a bit. And Cindy got tied up, but she’ll be down to do your hair later.”
I guess that’s his way of saying “don’t fuck in here” or something.
“Your stuff’s already unloaded,” Greg says, following us inside.
It’s a small room. Clean and neat. A large mirror and long white counter take up most of one wall. A nubby green couch sits across from the door—I’m already starting to feel about as useful as a cactus in a rainforest, so I’m planning to park my ass on the couch to stay out of her way.
“Wear your flowered dress to the meet and greet,” Greg says. “Keep it simple.”
Who knew he acted as Shelby’s wardrobe adviser too?
“Save the peacock dress for the show.” He presses his palms against her cheeks. “Okay?”
The vibe of the gesture is more fatherly than flirtatious, so I don’t fantasize about beating him to death—not too much, anyway.
“Did my trunk make it?” she asks, searching the room. By the frantic look in her eyes, it must be important. Again, I’m struck with the urge to do something to help her out. But