Page 75 of August Lane
“Are you okay?” Mavis pried it from her fingers.
August stalked to the stage but was blocked at the stairs by a tall Black man with mirrored sunglasses.
“Hey, ho!” He raised his palms. “No fans.”
“She’s with me.” Mavis showed him the contract. “Special delivery.”
August snatched it from her and shouldered past security. Luke had started the first verse, playing that God-awful arrangement that made him sound like the cheesy ghost of country past. She stopped a few feet away, put her fingers in her mouth, and blew a piercing whistle.
“What the fuck?” One of the sound guys glared at her. “We’re trying to work here.”
Luke ripped the guitar off his chest and marched over with the same ferocious warning in his eyes that made her drop her dinner plate the other night. Something inside her, one of those weak parts that was still a work in progress, whispered,Stop pretending you don’t like it. He tastes better this way.
“It’s just a sound check.” Luke gestured behind them at the stage. “David called and—”
“Sign this.” August handed him the contract.
Luke glanced at it. “Not until we talk.”
“Okay, fine. Deal’s off.” She went to the microphone. A crowd of festival volunteers and journalists had gathered with their phones and cameras pointed at the stage. She grabbed the mic and heard a burst of laughter from the crowd. “Hell yeah!” someone shouted. “Give us a show, August!”
People she knew, people she’d spent the last decade trying to convince that she was past her reckless, messy stage, stared up at her with knowing smiles. They’d been right all along. This angry disaster was all she’d ever be.
She couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Luke’s arm slid around her waist and she leaned into his warmth. His lips were at her ear, telling her she was fine. She’d be okay. August closed her eyes and let his words wash over her. She wanted to believe him.
Luke led her to the large trailer the performers used as a greenroom. He tried to make her sit, but August refused, still clutching the contract like a lifeline.
“What was that out there?” he finally asked.
“I was angry.”
“No, I mean—” He stared at her. “Do you have stage fright?”
Her chest tightened again, air scraping through her lungs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is that why you stopped singing?” He moved closer, searching for something in her expression. “Because you haven’t mentioned it since I came back.”
“Why do you care if I sing or not?”
“Because I care about you. I don’t need some contract to want what’s best for you. And I’m starting to think that’s not me singing another song you wrote.” He took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier, but I had to—”
“There’s your favorite Band-Aid.” Her voice was hard but fraying, the threads holding her together snapping one by one. He was quitting. Trying to call her bluff. And she’d just let him win, hadn’t she? Where was her courage when it counted? “Sorry.Do you even know what you should be sorry for? Maybe you should ask me instead of tossing out clichés and platitudes. Write a better song, Luke.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he grabbed a folding chair and sat in front of her. “Tell me. What should I be sorry for? Don’t hold back.”
Those three words unlatched a door she’d vowed never to open for anyone again. It was too painful. But Luke still had a key she’d given him years ago, which meant he’d find a way in, eventually.
“You should apologize for lying,” she said.
“I didn’t lie to you.”
“Don’t interrupt. I won’t be able to do this if you keep interrupting.”
Luke pressed back into the small chair and folded his arms.
“You said you believed in me. But you didn’t. If you did, you would have come back.” She could tell he still wanted to argue. His body wasrigid and his eyes were shouting she was wrong. “You should apologize for being my only friend. For making me need you.”
“I needed you t—” He grunted and rubbed his face. “Go on.”
