Page 26 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze
"If I'm leaving," I hear myself say, "it won't be before doing one good goddamn thing first."
But even as the words leave my mouth, I know I don't want to leave at all.
Two days later, Main Street has been transformed. A makeshift stage stands in the town park, built by Shane and a crew of local men. String lights crisscross overhead, and the entire town seems to have turned out, along with a healthy crowd of media and curious outsiders.
My phone has been blowing up non-stop. Vince is alternating between threats and pleas. The label executives want to know what the hell I'm doing. But for the first time in years, I'm not thinking about them.
I scan the crowd from behind the stage, looking for her. Grace stands at the back, arms crossed, expression guarded. She's watching me like I'm a storm about to change direction.
Maybe I am.
"You ready?" Ruby asks, handing me a bottle of water.
"As I'll ever be."
The crowd hushes as I step onto the stage. The setting sun casts everything in gold, and for a moment, I'm struck by the beauty of it all. These people, this town, nestled in the mountains, and the woman who showed me what it means to belong somewhere.
Clearing my throat, I adjust the microphone.
"I'm not much for speeches," I begin, and a light chuckle ripples through the crowd. "When I came to Mustang Mountain, I was running from my life. Running from fame that felt hollow, and from music that had lost its meaning."
The audience is quiet now, listening.
"I stayed because I found something worth running to. This town matters. These people matter." My eyes find Grace across the crowd. "And so does this woman, Grace."
I see her stiffen, her eyes widening.
"She taught me that real strength isn't about standing alone. It's about standing together. It's about fighting for your home, for your people."
When I pick up my guitar, the familiar weight centers me.
"This first song is for Grace, and for Mustang Mountain. For teaching me what it means to find home."
The first chord rings out, clear and true. I've been writing this song in pieces since I arrived, but it only came together last night. It's about mountains and mercy, about finding yourself in the place you least expected, about love that feels like coming home.
I pour everything into it. All the confusion, the longing, the certainty that's finally settled in my chest. When I look up, Grace has moved closer, her eyes never leaving mine.
As the last note fades, the crowd erupts. But I only see her, the slight tremble of her lip, the way she quickly wipes at her eyes.
I play for another hour, mixing my old hits with new songs written here in Mustang Mountain. The energy is electric, the crowd singing along to words they know and swaying to ones they don't. By the time I finish, my voice is raw and my fingers ache, but I feel more alive than I have in years.
As I thank the crowd, I spot a familiar figure pushing through toward the stage. Vince, my manager, his designer suit looking comically out of place among flannel shirts and work boots.
Great. Just what I need.
"That was cute," Vince says, cornering me behind the stage as people begin to disperse. "Really, the whole small-town savior angle is gold. We can work it into the tour narrative."
"Vince--"
"I've got a car waiting. We'll drive to Bozeman tonight, catch the the first flight out to LA. Dates start next week, and we need to get you into rehearsals."
I stare at him, this man who's guided my career for a decade, who's seen me through highs and lows. He's good at what he does. What he’s never been good at is hearing no.
"I'm not going," I say.
He laughs. "Funny. Now seriously, we need to--"
"Not going. Not now." I take a breath. "Maybe not ever."
