You'd Be Mine

by Erin Hahn

  Fitz starts with the steel guitar, and I step up to the mic, cradling the stand between my fingers and closing my eyes to the crowd’s intent stares. The words start in my gut, swirling with the burning churn of alcohol and erupting past my gravelly throat and out my curled lips. My boots stomp and hips sway involuntarily, keeping time with the swing of Fitz’s chords. My face scrunches as I give the lyrics my screaming all. She might publicly call me out with her words, but I’ll tuck my intentions away. I don’t feel much like inspecting this seething need inside of me for her approval—to care why impressing her, why winning that shining respect she showed me in the bus the afternoon we fought, is suddenly important to me. Why I can’t just be content with Lora and the crowds and the glimpse of happiness they offer? Since the tour began, I’ve been in the wings, watching Annie. Rooting for her. Admiring her. I doubt she’s doing the same, but in case she is, this is for her.

  Some nights the whiskey ain’t enough—

  Nights after days spent with you

  Tonight the whiskey ain’t gonna be enough—

  I only wanna spend my days with you

  From here on out, they’re all for her.

  * * *

  After we perform, Lora is waiting in our trailer. Guess she got impatient. I bite back a groan; Fitz doesn’t hold his back.

  “Dang, Lora, you have a tracker on my man here or what?”

  She takes a sip of her drink, licking her glossy lips, and flips Fitz the finger. “Don’t you have somewhere you can hole up, Fitz? I have big plans for Clay, and they don’t include you.”

  Fitz shoots me a look, and I shrug. “Never mind that we share a bus, Lora. I’ll just pitch a tent out front here so you won’t be inconvenienced.”

  She’s ignoring him, though, her eyes fixed on me and her fingers already working the buttons on my shirt.

  He slams the door behind him in a huff, but I give in easily to the distraction she’s offering me tonight. I can always apologize later.

  * * *

  The next morning, Lora’s gone. There’s a note on the minifridge from Fitz that he went on a run with Jackson. I grab a water and a banana from the basket Trina always stocks up for us and open the bus door to sit on the steps. It’s early yet, before eight. Usually a hangover and late-night date with Lora wear me down, but I’m restless.

  I finish my banana and decide to go for a walk down the coast. I slip inside and grab a thin hoodie that smells like cigarette smoke and perfume. I walk the three blocks to the shore and immediately step off the boardwalk for the packed sand. I start off at a stroll, letting the sun warm my lids, but my lungs itch to burn, so I tighten my laces and move into a sprint.

  I pump my legs as hard as I can, hoping to drown out my noisy, senseless thoughts with my heavy breathing. After a quarter mile, I rip off my hoodie, Lora’s scent irritating me. It’s too … something. Usually I love how easy things are with Lora. She’s a sure thing. A night of release with someone who knows better. I don’t have to send her flowers, and she doesn’t have to explain any late-night texts from strangers. She’s a big fan of the Clay Coolidge brand. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever even bothered to ask where I’m from originally or what my real name might be. I know I’ve never asked her.

  I never wanted to know.

  Suddenly, I wish someone knew me as Jefferson. The only people who ever called me Jefferson are all dead. Maybe that means Jefferson is dead, too.

  Annie would probably be crazy for Jefferson. Christ knows he’d have been over the moon for her.

  Even if I am better than Clay, I might still not be good enough. I’m not Annie Mathers. I don’t have her guileless charm or last name. That’s not fair. Maybe her name grabs attention, but her talent is what’s growing the crowds and selling out our shows. Just as many people are coming early for her as are coming to see me. At this point, I’m barely more than an eighteen-year-old working on a drinking problem.

  I slow to a walk, scrubbing a hand down my gritty face. God, I’m such a mess. I can smell the alcohol oozing out with the sweat from my pores. I kick at the wet sand, sending it flying into the choppy blue waves lapping at the shore. Here I am, having a pity party on a beach in Daytona. I have one summer. The tickets are already sold. The stands are already filling. Maybe I can do both—have both. The stadiums and the real music. Amber waves of grain and the neon strip. Clay the frat boy and Jefferson the farm kid.

  It all starts with a song. Maybe it’s time I finish mine.

  10

  Annie

  friday, june 14

  atlantic city, new jersey

  I wake up in a real bed and stretch languidly, savoring the way I can reach my body in every direction and not run out of mattress. The late-morning sun slants in through wispy drapes, painting my surroundings in a soft buttery yellow. I turn on my side and curl my toes in the cool sheets, reaching for my phone. I flip idly through Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, and the CMT home page, not really taking in anything but seeing it all nonetheless. My stomach growls low, and my bladder protests my neglect, so I roll out of bed and set my bare feet onto the carpeted flooring of my hotel room. I move first to the bathroom, cleaning up enough that I can be considered presentable, and then make a call to the front desk for room service. I order enough breakfast for three people and then send a quick text to Kacey and Jason before flipping on the TV for background noise.

  A few minutes into a Maury Povich rerun, there’s a knock at my door. I flip it off before letting Jason in right as our breakfast is rolling down the hall. I lean out, peeking toward Kacey’s room. “I haven’t heard from Kacey yet,” I say. I hold open the door farther for room service.

  Jason snorts. “I imagine not.”

  I hand the hotel employee a tip and close the door behind them. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jason pulls the lid off the steaming stack of pancakes and leans forward to inhale. “I saw our sweet Kacey sneaking off with a certain redheaded man last night after sound check.”

  My eyes widen. “Really? Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow is right. I’m sort of shocked it took them as long as it did. My guess is the appeal of privacy was too much. They’ve had weeks of being cooped up on a tour bus. Probably worse for privacy than having a nosy roommate.”

  I grab tongs and start dishing out some fresh fruit into a glass bowl. “Well, good for them.”

  Jason squints one eye, regarding me while chewing a mouthful of over-syrupped pancake. He swallows hugely. “Really?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Yes, really. Why wouldn’t I be happy for them? Fitz is great.”

  “I was more thinking about your whole ‘no rock star hookups, waiting for Mr. Perfect’ stance.”

  I roll my eyes and pop a grape in my mouth. “You make me sound like a nun.”

  Jason doesn’t correct me.

  I throw at grape at him, and it bounces off his forehead. “I’m not a prude. Just because I wouldn’t have sex with you doesn’t mean I have anything against the practice. I just don’t care for the idea of derailing my career over a man.” Which is mostly true. I daydream about derailing my career over a certain man a thousand times a day. Doesn’t mean I would, though.

  “How Susan B. Anthony of you,” he says drolly.

  “Whatever. Think what you want. Regardless, it’s great Kacey and Fitz have hit it off.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jason starts hacking at his stack again, his fork and knife squeaking against his plate and making me cringe. “So does your free-love goodwill extend to the rest of the tour members?”

  “Why? Are you about to tell me you’re hooking up behind my back, too?”

  He shakes his head. “Believe you me, if I were sexing it up, the entire world would know about it.” He puts down his silverware and levels me with a serious look, making the orange juice whirl in my stomach. “No, I’m talking about our headliner.”

  I lower my eyes. “Oh. Right. Well.” I shrug easily. “That goes without saying. Clay probably
has a girl in every city on this tour.”

  Jason waits for me to raise my eyes again, and after confirming I’m not in pieces, he shoves more food in his face, talking around his breakfast. “I don’t know about that. Maybe? But I did notice his supposed on-and-off-again flame tagged along up the coast.”

  Hm. That little tidbit seems more serious, but still. “Jason. I have literally zero designs on Clay. It’s more than fine.” Mostly more than fine, anyway. I mean, I really don’t have any designs on Clay. Daydreams and designs are very different things. Like practically opposites. More like, it’s just … something undefined swoops in my belly whenever I think of him. And her. Or just him, period.

  It’s pretty obnoxious.

  He holds up a hand. “Okay, okay. I didn’t think you did, really. Honestly, I sort of thought he had a thing for you. Well, at least before you started giving him the vocal smackdown with ‘Coattails,’ but if he can’t hang with a little competition, then he ain’t worthy of you.”

  I grin and hold my glass up in a toast. “Cheers, Jay. That’s remarkably sweet-ish of you to say. Though completely unnecessary. Lora can have Clay.”

  Jason smirks. “Ah, so you did notice her hanging around.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” In truth, it was hard to miss the dark-haired beauty. I would love to easily dismiss her as some typical ex–beauty queen, but honestly, she’s cool. Kind, pretty, smart … and has a pair of pipes on her I’d murder for. Her rendition of “America the Beautiful” would make professional football players weep. She also thinks my song about Clay is hilarious.

  She’s clearly got her head on straight.

  “It’s not serious.”

  I bite into my bagel with extra cream cheese and take my time chewing. “It’s none of our business if it is or isn’t.”

  “The way you two stare at each other, I figured you might want to tuck it away for later. Fitz says they’re only fu—”

  I cringe. “All right, that’s enough. I’m not interested in a show business romance. I’m busy as all get-out, and even if I weren’t, Clay Coolidge seems like the exact kind of trouble I should avoid.”

  “According to Fitz,” Jason plows on, “Lora’s not really that great for Clay. She’s all about his image and not interested in his art. She doesn’t challenge him.”

  I lift a shoulder, dipping my finger into the cream cheese oozing off the edge of my bagel. “He doesn’t want to be challenged. He likes his gig, and I can’t say I blame him. He’s comfortable, he’s rich, he’s got it all in the palm of his hand.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t have someone who really knows or cares about him. He doesn’t have support.”

  I drop my breakfast and wipe my hands on the cloth napkin. “Holy Hannah, Jason! How do you even know this? Fitz? I had no idea you two were such old biddies. I talked to Clay, and he took my head off when I suggested he might be more than booze and barflies. He’s not pining for something different. Leave it. Please.”

  “You said that to Clay?” Jason whistles low. “So that’s what all of the icy avoidance is about?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been avoiding anyone, and neither has he. We don’t have to be best friends; we’re basically coworkers when it comes down to it.” And I mean it. I’m not angry any longer. We both said our piece. Perhaps I overstepped, and maybe he was a jerk. It was weeks ago, and I’m too busy to hold a grudge.

  Mostly. Rehashing it in front of thousands with “Coattails” hasn’t hurt.

  “Okay, then.”

  I open my mouth to argue before his words sink in. Well. I close my mouth just as there is another knock on the door. Jason stands up to get it, revealing a rumpled-haired Kacey.

  “Oh, perfect. I’m starved.”

  I grin at her as she starts grabbing food and loading her plate. “Yes, I imagine a night of being ravished does that for a girl.”

  Kacey freezes in her gathering a split second before tilting her head and picking up another croissant. “Indeed, it does.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “Do I need to apologize?”

  “For what?”

  “For being ravished? By a musician out of wedlock?” She shrinks away from me slightly, and I bite back a sigh before throwing a glare at a smirking Jason.

  “Jesus. Is that what you guys really think of me? I’m curious. Which part did you think I’d be more offended by—the musician or wedlock part?”

  Kacey relaxes a little into her fuzzy robe, nibbling on the edge of her pastry. “Honestly? Depends on the day. You haven’t mentioned your stance on purity since starting the tour, but I didn’t figure being a country music starlet changed your opinion.”

  I sit taller, putting down my napkin. “All right, apparently this needs to be said, so I’ll just come out with it: Yes, I might have a bit of relationship PTSD after my parents died, and yes, that anxiety infuses essentially all of me. No, I don’t expect either of you to feel the same. Should you wait for marriage to have sex? That’s between you and Jesus. Bible school said to wait. Bible school also said I shouldn’t wear a two-piece bathing suit. I didn’t get cast into the fires of hell for my transgressions, so I doubt Kacey boinking a redhead is any worse. Should either of you date someone on our tour?” I raise my hands. “If you can handle things if they go janky in the end, then so can I. It’s not my business.”

  Kacey and Jason stare at me slack-jawed, but I pick up my fork and stab another piece of fruit. After a moment, they do the same.

  “Good talk,” Jason mutters, and Kacey giggles nervously into her coffee.

  I flip Maury back on, and we eat the rest of our breakfast in silence before I get up to shower. I turn the water extra hot and let it relax my shoulders. I’m not upset about my friends having sex lives or, in Jason’s case, not yet. We’re (mostly) adults now. I would never assume my friends would hold off on love because I’m terrified. I’m sort of sorry I never clarified before. I had no idea they would be afraid to tell me if they cared about someone. That’s ludicrous.

  No. That’s not actually what’s bothering me now. So what is it? My belly swoops uncomfortably as I remember what Jason said about Lora being here with us all in Jersey. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m feeling a little jealous. Maybe I selfishly figured Clay was as lonely as I am. Or maybe I did hope he was pining after me a little. Not realistically, of course, but in a faraway kind of way. Like in the way one might daydream about the popular boy in school who the teacher assigns as your lab partner. Your relationship is purely based on frog spleens and formaldehyde, but sometimes he laughs at your joke and you think … maybe. Maybe.

  It’s the maybe I’m mourning. The daydreams, even. That’s what I’m all out of sorts about. My lab partner asked someone else to the dance, and I’m left with the uncomfortable realization he was just being polite. In my mind, I see Clay’s dark eyes flashing, angry and hard.

  Well, maybe polite isn’t accurate. Maybe complicated is more like it.

  I turn off the water and wring out my hair, stepping onto the plush bath mat and grabbing a towel to wrap around my chest.

  The thing is, my stupid heart likes complicated puzzles, even if I wish it didn’t.

  11

  Annie

  The following night, after our show, I slink back to my hotel room, begging off sleep. I sit down at the table with three bottles in front of me. All of them liquor. All of them ridiculously tiny and likely overpriced.

  I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to be like my parents. For eighteen years, I’ve completely avoided the stuff.

  But if you can’t drink mini bottles of top-shelf liquor in your hotel room on the fifth anniversary of when you found your parents’ dead bodies, when can you? I figure this is just like the free space on a bingo card. Nothing counts as real today. I’m not me today. I’m that girl—the one who felt her mom’s icy-cold, stiff, and very dead fingers—the one who can’t erase the blood splatter out of her mind, from when her dad put a gun into
his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  And that girl, the girl I’m not, wants a drink.

  Tonight, Jason found a pack of groupies who invited him out barhopping after our show. Kacey was dizzy, waiting for Fitz to finish his set, clearly planning to make another night of it with him. Connie saw me back to the hotel, but I knew the pings coming from her pocket were Patrick.

  Hotels make people horny, apparently. I don’t love living on a bus, but at least I never felt lonely in my box on wheels. Maybe I should be relieved they don’t get so inspired in such tight quarters.

  Sighing, I lean back against my seat, the wood creaking in protest. I probably shouldn’t be alone right now. My therapist back home certainly would have some things to say about me sitting in an empty hotel room in Jersey with three bottles of booze to keep me company.

  “Gaaaaaahhhhhh,” I groan, rubbing my sweating hands down my jean-clad thighs.

  I should have spoken up, but once it was apparent no one else lives their life according to the date my parents killed themselves, I didn’t have the heart to ruin anyone else’s night. Or worse, what if they tried to talk me out of this?

  The real question is this: If a girl gets drunk in her hotel room alone, and no one sees, does it really happen?

  Without a thought, I reach out for the first bottle, and with a satisfying crack, the twist cap falls off. “To you, Mom.” Her gray features and bloodshot eyes stab behind my eyelids, and I ignore the burn of the tequila as it goes down, finishing the bottle in one quick motion and shuddering at the foreign taste.

  I stand and start to pace the room, relishing the warmth in my stomach. My cheeks feel flush and sort of staticky. The more I pace, the heavier my head feels. I turn on the TV and turn it off just as quickly. I find my silenced phone and dock it in the alarm clock station, scrolling to some hip-hop. I turn off one of the lights in my room.