They have me. I have them. They’ll hold me down and let me fly.
When they come, the world pulses wet, and I’m so full of them that I can’t think straight. They set me between them, dripping, sated. Blissed out of my mind.
This is my new life. I’m with them. They’re with me. Safe. Protected. Happy.
Home.
30
KNOX
Closingnight in Vegas doubles as the tour opener. The marquee says so. The crew shirts say so. My inbox says so. We’ve packed the rooms, paid out the bonuses, signed off on the last invoices from the residency, and loaded the first cases for the road. The bus for Lou is parked in the service bay with fresh tires and a desk bolted down exactly like she wanted. It smells like new carpet and tape.
It’s bright fucking pink. Not my choice. Not my call. She loves it. That’s all I care about.
I start the day with a list and a checkmark pen. Stage plot printed. Comms tested. Backup power verified. Security briefed with the TRO and the updated names list. Meet and greet set for ninety minutes after the show, no deviations. The lobby screens run the new opener reel Lou cut last night. I watched it once. It’s lean and clean. Our girl does immaculate work.
Lou shows up at soundcheck with her laptop and a coil of tape on her wrist. Tank top. Black jeans. A trademark pencil behind her ear. She flags one lens shift, and Salem slides the stand a hand’s width. Houston hums into the ribbon. I walk the roomwith a radio and a metronome in my pocket, making note of two squeaks and one light that needs to be moved an inch.
We run “Locket” last in sound check because we’re closing with it. Lou takes the mic for the whisper line because it’s her part now, and we don’t pretend it isn’t. She looks calm. I know she threw up in a sink twice at rehearsal yesterday, so I’m glad to see her comfortable now. I hope it holds for tonight.
Backstage an hour before doors, I gather the band and the core crew for the last run of house rules before we take it outside this building. Security calls go to me first, and then the hotel. No surprises after ten. It’s muscle memory now, but it helps to hear it spoken.
Houston ties his ponytail and gives Lou a nod that says he hears her part in his head already. Salem bounces once and then stops himself because he can. I look at all three and feel the catch in my chest that hits before a show.
Doors at seven. The house swallows people like it always does. The opener does twenty-five and hits their mark. I can feel the floor through the soles of my shoes when the crowd’s weight shifts forward.
We walk on at nine sharp. I hit the downbeat, and the night becomes lines and bars. The opener run of songs lands like it does when the set has been lived in for weeks. It still hits. The projection mapping paints the back wall with the Sagebrush silhouette and a grid of notes so faint you only see it if you’re looking for it.
Halfway through the set, I check my hands. They’re steady. My chest still gets a flutter before I walk up to a mic to speak. I’vedone this for decades, and that never leaves. It’s useful. It keeps my sentences short.
We build to the last run. The lights drop, the stage breathes, and the hush lands. I step to the mic. “Before we close, I want to tell you where the last song came from.”
The room answers with quiet. Not silence. Listening.
“We made this record in a small studio on the edge of this city. It raised us. We go back there when we need to remember how to work. This song is about family and second chances. It’s about a home that is a person, not a place.”
I don’t look at Lou to my left. I don’t need to. “You’ll hear a voice on this one that you haven’t heard on this stage before. She’s part of us now. She helped us build this song and this album. Please welcome our Creative Director and our heart, Lou Navarro.”
She steps forward like she’s walking onto a train she meant to catch, and the crowd cheers. Houston gives her a small nod. Salem grins like a kid and then folds it away. I count the song off.
Houston’s voice sits on the piano. My hands know what to do without looking for it. Salem stays in his lane, bass guiding us. Lou’s whisper singing comes in on the first chorus, and I can feel the place where the room tilts toward her without her having to chase it.
On the last chorus, the phones go up, even though they’re not supposed to, and the voices come back at us in a way that makes the floor feel like it’s breathing. Lou doesn’t look at the sea of screens. She keeps her mouth near the mic and her eyes low. It looks like stagecraft, intimate. Calming. The audience sways with her when she moves.
They love her.
The song ends, and the crowd cheers wildly for her. For us too, I imagine, but this is her night. I hear my own yes in my head and keep my face flat because we still have bows and walk-offs and an encore to run.
Offstage, Lou is breathing hard like she ran a mile. She’s smiling in a way that’s new for her, big and unguarded. It hits me like a freight train.
“That’s a rush,” she says, leaning a shoulder against the cinderblock wall, hand still on her in-ears.
“It comes natural to you.”
She laughs. “I threw up twice before I walked out there.”
I laugh too. “I still get nervous every time. I just hide it behind checklists.”
