Page 6 of Worth Your Wild

I’m done with enjoying any part of this.

No one, especially some young brat, is going to drag me back into the light.

THREE

June

I hide behind a stack of crates backstage for the rest of the show.

I’m not proud of myself. But I need time for the sting of humiliation to cool on my cheeks. They feel like they’ve been slapped. Now get off the stage.

Not only were Deke’s words harsh, his eyes were icy cold.

What happened to this man?

When he burst onto the country music scene as a young singer, he was known as a womanizer, sure, but also a fun-loving, good-humored man of the people. Quick with a joke. Always had time for the fans, signing autographs and taking pictures after shows late into the night. I had a file on my very first computer filled with nothing but YouTube videos from fans documenting his big personality. My favorite one depicted Deke coming up behind a group of senior citizens at a restaurant. They were celebrating a birthday and Deke? He was drunk as a skunk. He came up behind them, threw his arms around the guest of honor’s shoulders and sang her happy birthday while camera flashes went off all over the establishment.

Meanwhile, this version of him might as well be auditioning as the next grim reaper.

Now more than ever, I want to leave, but I’m more stubborn than I realized.

When I’ve finally gotten my poise back in place, I emerge from behind the stack of crates and beeline for the wardrobe department. I return the denim dress they loaned me, along with the cowboy boots, and I change back into my jeans and tank top. Purse over my shoulder, I mosey through the backstage area, planning to go sit in the very last row of the tour bus and wait for the show to end.

I’m looking down at my phone, so at first I don’t notice the way everyone seems to be staring at me, from the roadies to executive-looking men in suits.

Was I that bad on stage?

Whit rushes up to me and yanks off his headset, gripping both of my shoulders. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, June.”

Oh boy.

Am I fired?

I bet my bottom dollar Deke requested they throw me out on my butt.

“Why were you looking for me?”

He whips his phone out from the back pocket of his jeans, tapping the screen a few times and holding it face out. From the perspective of the front row of the concert, there are me and Deke, singing “Sweet Venom”. “Y’all’s performance tonight has gone viral. Over five million views in the last hour.”

My double take almost gives me whiplash. “Five million?”

“I can’t believe it, either.” He pauses before qualifying. “Well, I can believe it, actually. Just look at the two of you. Who knew you’d be so…explosive.”

I lean in and take a closer look at the video.

Explosive is a kind way of saying that Deke and I look like we’re one millisecond away from getting down and dirty. I have no recollection of getting so close to him, my head tipped back, mouth and eyes inviting, while he leans down and sings an inch from my face, that famous upper lip in a snarl. To put it in the crudest of terms, we are eye fucking each other up on that stage and holding nothing back. One tap of my finger tells me that the commenters agree. Wholeheartedly.

If he’s not banging her, I’ll shave off my eyebrows.

Didn’t know Daddy Deke liked them so young.

If the tour bus is rockin’, don’t come a’knockin’.

My face turns roughly the color of my hair. “Whoops. I forgot the comment sections on the internet are the bad place.”

“Oh God, never read the comments,” Whit said, hastily returning his phone to his pocket, his expression betraying his excitement. “I’ve already been contacted by a bunch of media outlets wanting to know who you are. June Bug is a great stage name.”

“Oh, I mean, it was just the one time. Because Lorna couldn’t make it⁠—”