1
EVERETT
Every musician has a list of demands in their rider. From temperature-controlled spaces to private jets, Evian-branded water bottles to all-white roses, the sky is the limit. Weird Al once requested a new Hawaiian shirt for every venue he performed at. But me? I only asked for one.
“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…” I whisper to four empty walls. My eyes are closed, shoulders pressed against the back of an overstuffed leather chair. Tight black cotton stretches over my biceps. I should feel the draft against my bare forearms as it twists around my dressing room, but I don’t feel anything. I don’thearanything either.
“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”
There’s no moreCheck, one, two,orLet’s go over the look for tonight.Not atick, tick, tickfrom a clock on the wall, or the scuff of a hundred pairs of crew boots against amphitheater floors. Far into the recesses of my mind, I escape reality and float through time in a never-ending sea of my only request:Silence.
“Eighteen, nineteen, tw?—”
A fist pounds, rattling the doorframe, and my eyespop open. The bottom of the door grates against the cement floor as Todd barges in.
“Five-minute warning, man,” he says, checking off something on his clipboard and pressing the pad of his finger over the microphone in his ear. He doesn’t even look up at me.
I release a breath and forgive him for not delivering his warning like we agreed upon—a soft tap on a closed door.
“I’ll be right there.”
My manager nods and slips from the room. I close my eyes, sink back against the seat, and continue counting.
“Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…”
My mind conjures up a performer—charismatic, talented, entertaining—everything a country music artist should be. The definition of what the world expectsmeto be. When I walk into a room, I’m praised for three top hits stacking several billboard charts on a forty-two-week streak. Recognized for my talent. Known for a strong voice and Southern charm, even if I come from the West Coast. In the streets of Nashville, on every stage I’ve ever performed, I’ve made a name for myself.
I know what I need to do to keep it that way, and I won’t let anything jeopardize it.
“Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty?—”
Bzz.
My eyes jolt open from the jarring vibration. I lunge forward, barely catching my phone before it sails off the counter. Every ounce of my carefully curated ritual dissipates as a bucket of ping-pong balls takes over my abdomen. I tumble out of the chair and stabilize my feet, preparing myself for the worst-case scenario.
There’s only one person who could be calling me right now.
“Caroline? What is it? What happened?”
“Everett,” she states in her calm, calculated tone—one of thefew people in my life who still calls me by that name. “I need your insurance information.”
I bolt across the room. It’s more than five hundred square feet and not nearly big enough. I need double the number of strides to calm my erratic heart. A whirring sound funnels through my ears, and I clutch the phone tighter, attempting to eradicate it.
“What the hell is going on?” I press. She’s being way too cryptic.
“It’s not a big deal. Quinn tripped and bonked her head on the coffee table. Wade and I are taking her to urgent care.”
Not a big deal?I picture a giant gaping wound lancing my toddler’s forehead, blood dripping in a steady stream toward her eyes. Sure as hell sounds like a big deal to me. The kind that any kid would want theirparentthere for. To comfort them through. The thought rips my chest wide open.
I snatch the suede jacket from the sofa. “I’m on my way.”
“No,” she barks. “She’s fine.”
“She’smydaughter,” I snarl back.
I’m sure Quinn would rather have her mom there than me. I wasn’t around much for the first couple years of her life, but I couldn’t help it. I’m the property of Jonas Records, and they own my schedule. But I’m getting tired of my mother-in-law insinuating that I don’twantto be there for my daughter when I’m doing the best I can.
“You know you can’t do that,” she adds, as if she can hear my internal debate.
