Page 3 of Song Bird Hearts
Still walkin’ proud the White Stag way.”
I rip the mic off the stand and hold it out to the crowd. “Sing this next part!”
The hundred voices all join together to sing the bridge, their echo injecting into my veins and fueling me. This is the reason I sing. This is why I want to do what I do for the rest of my life.
“It takes a village to tame a flame,
To mend scraped knees and shoulder the blame.
They built me strong, they built me kind. ..”
“Steele,” I hum into the mic, “I love you.”
Together we all launch into the final chorus, and tears prick my eyes at the feeling behind it. My eyes trail over to the record label executives sitting at the table in the corner. A woman and two men, all with their eyes riveted on me. The woman grins when she sees me looking and toasts her beer bottle in my direction. A good sign. A very good fucking sign.
“Yeah, I’m the girl they all still claim, forever stitched with the White Stag name,” I finish the song and strum my guitar one last long note. The crowd goes wild, screaming and cheering for me. The record label lady nods to me and holds up her business card to let me know she’d like to talk.
This is it. This is the moment everything changes. I’m going somewhere. I’m gonna see my name in lights, just like mama always told me.
My eyes crinkle and I lean into the mic. “Alright, Boot Skoot. Let’s get a little more honkytonk in this bitch.”
The cheers are thunderous on the old hardwood floors. It’s all uphill from here.
Grand Ole’ Opry, here I come.
Chapter1
Valerie
Three years later
The flowers died on Monday.
But they still bring them into my dressing room and set them up, like they’re alive and well despite the crunchy wilt they sport. Someone refuses to throw them away, and honestly, at this point, I’m waiting to see how long it takes before they notice. Or if they even care. My bet is that they don’t.
The dressing room smells like stale cigarettes and the slight twinge of mildew. There’s a stain on the wall that looks like it could have either come from blood or liquor. It looks like someone may have tried to cover it with a poster stapled into the wall, but it’s torn away now, only the staples and two paper corners left, so the stain is on full display. Sadly, this isn’t even the shittiest dressing room I’ve gotten ready in. The uphill climb ain’t easy, and you don’t start off with the best of the best, but I’d gotten used to the nicer dressing rooms at this point. This one feels a bit like a backward slide, even if I know the old theater outside is sold out.
They’re not just here for me. Not for this show. And I’m not under the impression that I’m the reason this is a sold-out venue. Hell, I don’t think I could have ever dreamed of buying a ticket to something like this before. The CMAs ain’t exactly attainable for most normal people. I’m only here because the country music industry decided they liked the sound of my voice and the nostalgia it makes them feel.
I was floored to be invited to this stage, not only because of what it means to be here, but also because I’ve been nominated for an award myself. Best New Country Artist. Somehow, it doesn’t feel. . . I don’t feel . . .
Shit. What do I even feel?
This is supposed to be a big fucking deal. I’m in Nashville, Tennessee. I’m nominated for a huge award. I’m gonna be playing on the same stage as the greats. Hell, Reba fucking McEntire is here. I’m in the same building as Reba!
So why do I feel so numb?
A soft snort draws my attention to the large pot-bellied pig sitting on his dog bed in the corner and I smile. “I already gave you a treat, Kevin. You don’t need anymore. The vet said you’re overweight.”
He oinks in offense and I sigh before reaching for one of the potato chips sitting on the table. “Fine. But if the vet lectures me about your weight next time, I’m gonna make you eat nothing but carrots.”
Kevin is my slice of home, a full-grown pot-bellied pig who captured my heart and never let it go. His full name is Kevin Bacon, and he’s quite possibly the sweetest and most demanding pig you’ll ever meet. He’s become a sort of mascot rather than just a companion, and my fans seem to love him. Hell, he has his own social media following at this point, dedicated to posting photos of his various outfits. Tonight, he’s wearing a tiny cowboy hat and a cow print vest. Sometimes, he likes to wear his favorite tiara and tutu. Kevin enjoys the attention and regularly brings me his clothes to put on. I’ve never met a pig with such a big personality.
Kevin often goes out on stage with me, but I’ve been told he’s not allowed at this show. I have half a mind to bring him out anyway, but after my manager threatened me with a pop country song about blaming another woman for my man cheating, I decided to follow the rules. I already hate how little control I have over my songs. I absolutely refuse to start singing about the old topics women used to be reserved for. I’d much rather sing about female empowerment.
I smile over at Kevin as he crunches up his potato chip and grunts happily at me. But it’s when I look back at the mirror that it all comes crashing down. My eyes stare back at me, my eyes ringed with expertly applied makeup. The makeup artist always keeps it natural looking despite my yearning for loud colors and bright designs. “Country music isn’t for clowns,” my manager had told me. “They want the girl next door, not the next pop princess.” I hate it. I hate how much of myself I’ve lost in this. Even my outfit is tailored for what everyone else wants. I want jewels and the brightest colors you can find. Instead, I’m wearing brown flared jeans and a leopard print tank top. At least they’re letting me wear my mom’s denim jacket since it’s an important night. I haven’t been allowed to wear it for a few months now.
As I stare at my perfectly outlined eyes and my expertly styled blond hair, I’ve never felt lonelier. Kevin is my only bright spot in a sea of following orders. I thought fame came with freedom. Instead, it comes with chains. Sure, I have an entourage with me, but none of them I’m particularly close with. The label had insisted that my drummer and bassist weren’t good enough for the big time, and after a back and forth where I argued I wouldn’t go anywhere without them, they’d bowed out to give me the chance to make it. I’d cried about that. I’d felt like an asshole leaving them back in Steele, even if they reassured me it was just show business. Still, I send them tickets for every show and royalties for the songs they wrote with me. It never feels like enough. I wish they were here. The people that replaced them are just hired hands and we don’t have much in common. The entire entourage they paired me up with are like that. Hell, half of them don’t even like Kevin. How can you hate a sweet pig named Kevin Bacon? It don’t make no sense.
