Page 100 of August Lane
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“I’m not a performer. Writing is what I’m good at.”
“You’re not being honest.”
“That’s the most honest I’ve ever been with myself.” She swallowed whatever was welling in her throat. Those dreams were too old to flare up now. “I don’t have a voice for radio. It’s too distracting.”
“That don’t make a lick of sense.”
“Why are we even talking about this?” She stood, intent on ending the conversation. Luke rose quickly and blocked her path to freedom.
“Do you have stage fright?”
She tried to glare him into retracting the question. But this new, purposeful Luke was stubborn. He didn’t even bother folding his arms. He just stood there, velvet-eyed and patient.
“No,” she said, but then remembered what happened last week, how her jaw had locked the minute she touched a microphone. “Maybe. Who cares?”
“I do.” He adjusted his stance and spoke with his hands, like a coach pitching a new play. “You’re fighting for the wrong thing. None of these plans will give you what you want. What you deserve.”
“And what’s that?”
“To be a star.”
A laugh burst from her throat. “Might as well throw unicorn princess in there, too. I’m not a kid anymore.”
His eyes lowered briefly to her lips. “I’m well aware of that, sweetheart.”
August pointed the conversation in a much more interesting direction. “Call me that again.”
His breath hitched, then stopped completely. “What? Sweetheart?”
She wrapped the hem of his T-shirt around her finger. “Aren’t you tired of talking?”
He watched her pull his shirt up with lust-glazed eyes, but then pried her fingers away. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Luke left the room, and August did what she was told, mainly out of curiosity. His preoccupation with her singing was a sweet waste of time. They both knew he was the talent. Why was he suddenly obsessed with her performing?
Luke returned with his guitar and a worn notebook. “Do you recognize this?”
She did. It contained “Luke’s Song,” along with everything else they’d written together. “You kept that?”
“Of course I did.” He grabbed his guitar. “Those lyrics you gave me last night reminded me of something I wrote in there a while ago.” He started playing, a slow bluesy progression that fit seamlessly with what she’d written. Then he stopped and said, “Can you hear it?”
“Of course I can.”
“No, listen…” He played some of it again. “It sounds like you, doesn’t it? Southern sexy. A face full of smoke. Go on and sing it.”
“I told you, I’m not—”
He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “You are. You’re just scared to want it. Because then everyone will know you do.”
He was right. Deep down, she was still that little girl, desperate for acceptance. She didn’t want to be alone onstage, with everything she lacked on display. “What if they hate me?”
Luke hugged his guitar and leaned closer. “What if they don’t?”
The front door burst open. Mavis barged inside, a large iced coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. She stopped short at the sight of Luke, and her lips curved into a snarl. She reared back and hurled her cup at his chest. It exploded on impact, drenching him in ice and foam. “Youstoleherfuckingsong?”
Luke had dropped a bomb on country music. The media covered every aspect of his confession: the lie. The racistCountry Starauditions. The exploitive record contract. His firing from Jojo’s show was swift and public. Every major sponsor swore never to work with him again. August, formally the internet’s favorite villain was now its favorite victim. “He made her his sidepieceandstole her music? Girl, blink twice if you need help.”
