Page 12 of If Not for My Baby
The guy who enters looks like he barely made it through the doorframe. He’s probably just about six feet, but he’s almost wider than he is tall. And by the looks of it, that’s all beefy muscle. He has some long-since faded tattoos on his biceps and is rocking a backward baseball cap.
“Mic check,” he says with a thick Boston accent.
“Pete, this is Clementine, the replacement vocalist,” Indy says. “Clementine, this is Pete. He’s our sound guy.”
“And I keep everyone entertained.” He grins. I do, too—his smile is contagious.
When Molly makes an unimpressed noise, he adds, “Don’t listen to her. Molls thinks I’m hilarious.”
Molly sighs a tune that sounds likeHm, do I?She doesn’t even look at Pete as she applies bright red lipstick, smacking her mouth provocatively and rubbing the pad of her ring finger along her lower lip ever so slowly.
Pete’s utterly entranced, swallowing thickly, and frankly so am I. Even Wren has finally put down herNewsweek.
I’m still studying Molly even as I begin to apply mascara in the mirror, and nearly poke my eye out. I make a sound like a baby mouse.
“Don’t worry,” Indy says, fingers tapping on her computer once more. “Molly has that effect on everyone.”
“Damn straight she does,” Pete mumbles.
Other than that, my makeup looks decent, though my ashy blond waves and huge brown eyes have nothing on Molly’s beauty. She’s like a panther or a black widow—gorgeous in a might-kill-you kind of way. I can see why nobody can take their eyes off her.
And Indy seems friendly and helpful, and Wren is calm or maybe just doesn’t give a shit, either of which I can appreciate. I already have so much to tell my mom. She’s going to get one hell of a voicemail tonight.
Pete hooks us up with our microphones and I go over the lyrics in my head once more. It’s an eighteen-song show—sixteen of which require backing vocals—followed by a three-song encore ending with “If Not for My Baby.” Since Cara Brennan isn’t on tour with Halloran this time, Molly will sing her portion of the song each night.
Eventually, the last two members of the band filter in. Turns out this venue has no greenroom, so we all cram comfortably into the women’s dressing room, and a stagehand checks all the instruments before bringing them out to the stage. While Indy shows Molly some of the photos they took from the night before, I meet Conor, the bassist, and Grayson, who plays the keys.
Conor’s Irish brogue is so thick I have to nod along to halfthe words he says and just hope I’ve not agreed to some kind of Satan-worshipping orgy. Which feels possible given his pierced lip, pentagram tattoo, and spiked belt that’s a lot more intimidating on him than when I dressed as Harley Quinn for Halloween.
“Don’t mind him.” Grayson grins when Conor asks me if I’ve evergiven a lash to a manky tour the likes of this one.“He knows you can’t understand him.”
Conor laughs hard into his beer and finds his way over to the couch Wren has commandeered. He lifts her legs easily and sits, before she lays them back down over his lap, still reading.
“Conor and Halloran grew up together. I think they actually make each othermoreIrish.” I laugh and Grayson laughs, too, his eyes warm on my own. There’s something familiar about him and it makes me feel a little less homesick. “We try to keep them separated to stop them misbehaving.”
I detect a slight southern twang in Grayson’s voice and ask, “Are you from Texas?”
Grayson shoves his shaggy brown hair out of his face and a dimple reveals itself on his cheek. “Georgia, but good guess. You’re from Texas, though. I can tell.”
“Correct.” I grin. Everly was right. This keys player is definitely cute. “So where is Halloran?”
Grayson weighs his answer, running a casual hand over his dark green Henley. “He doesn’t really hang out before the shows. Sort of an introvert that way.”
I only nod to Grayson and say, “Makes sense.”
But something about it rubs me the wrong way. He’s theleader of this team, and he doesn’t spend time with them before his gigs? Everly had said he was quiet—but not even a word of encouragement before the first show of the brand-new tour? That was such a big part of what I loved about theater—the comradery felt among all the actors right before we went onstage. The vocal warm-ups, the traditions and superstitions. The nervous laughter and racing hearts. Especially growing up just my mom and me, it was my way into the big, loving family I’d craved my whole life.
Twenty minutes after a Memphis-based blues singer makes his way off the stage to lukewarm applause, we begin our ascent.
Through the dark curtains, I can hear the crowd cheering.
Thousands and thousands of people.
My heart begins to thump rapidly, but I embrace it. I haven’t felt anxious to perform in years. And if I’m being honest, I’ve missed the rising excitement and tangled nerves every single day since I stopped doing musical theater. How had I not let myself feel that?
We make our way onto the stage, and the lights are nothing short of blinding. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I blink rapidly, then raise my hand to shield my eyes and take in the roaring audience.
The venue is a two-story art deco–style theater that has apparently hosted everyone from Al Green to Johnny Cash. It’s one of the smaller venues we’ll play, and still seats six thousand people.
