Page 42 of Love on Tour
It worked. Matt cracked a smile. He looked down at his feet, then up at her. “Rain check?”
“Definitely.” She could barely contain her excitement that he’d alluded to something happening in the future. It was nothing concrete, but she knew she’d hear that word in her head at least a thousand times and mull it over, picking it apart to see if there was hope.
They walked outside, and he followed her to her car, leaning in for a quick hug before saying goodbye. He smelled like the tour bus, which wasn’t exactly a fresh, clean smell, but it wasn’t a bad odor, either. She kind of liked it.
She arrived home and put a load of laundry in. A hot shower helped lessen her cramps. After a quick cleaning of the apartment, her errands were complete. She spent the rest of her Sunday lying on the couch, reading a Jodi Picoult novel with a heating pad on her stomach, and pausing every couple of pages to repeat the words “rain check.”
GOING ON THE ROAD WITH LYNDAwas a lot different from touring with Austin. To begin with, they weren’t on a tour bus, but in a full-size van. And unlike Austin’s bus call the night before the show, allowing everyone to sleep the whole way to the venue, Lynda’s van call time was six in the morning. With a seven-hour drive in front of them and a three o’clock sound check, they’d have to haul some ass to get there.
They had crammed every instrument and suitcase into the back of the van and onto the last bench seat. That left two bench seats, the driver’s seat, and shotgun. With three band membersand a tour manager, every seat was taken. The band members took turns driving.
“I’m sure you’d rather be touring with Austin on a nice bus,” Lynda said. She looked down, staring at her hands. Christine always marveled at the insecurity of some artists. In her mind, they had it all. The looks, the talent, oftentimes the money. The things she yearned for. Yet they were as human as everyone else.
“No, this is great. I appreciate you asking me to find songs for you. It’s nice to think from a woman’s perspective again.”
Lynda’s head popped back up and her eyes brightened. “I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Is Lynda Bell your real name? It’s very country,” Christine said.
“I know, right? Like I should live in Mayberry or something.”
“Your music is more rocking country than classic country. It’s a nice dichotomy.”
“Which is why I like the name. My last name is Bellot. I shortened it.”
“It works.”
Christine learned a lot about Lynda on the drive. She had a sister and brother, and her parents were the perfect couple. She’d graduated high school and earned a music scholarship to her local college, but, after studying for two years, decided to chase her dream. She could always go back to college, she’d said, but she was only young once, and now felt like the right time to go for her career. She moved to Nashville, started hanging out with other singers and songwriters, and got the attention of the right manager, who set up a showcase for some labels. After that, she was signed. Not an atypical story of most artists who were signed to a label, but she was part of the small percentage of dreamers who got that far.
The van didn’t have nearly the comfort of the bus, but Christine meant what she said. The opportunity to spend quality time with an artist was invaluable. So often, she knew an artistfrom their previous music and interviews but didn’t know them personally. You couldn’t hide much while traveling in a van, and Christine was happy to see that Lynda’s easygoing public persona, put together by a publicist, no doubt, matched her real personality.
Christine put her headphones on and dug into the ten new songs that writers had recently sent her way. She always listened to each song at least half a dozen times before forming an opinion. Some songs hit her upside the head the minute she heard them. Other songs were like a slow, subtle message working their way into her subconscious and not letting go. Both types had the ability to be huge hits.
Three gas and bathroom breaks later, and having eaten more truck stop snacks than anyone ever should, they were close to the venue. She’d noticed two things about guys when it came to truck stop food. They loved caramel candies and beef jerky. Three of the guys bought multiple kinds of jerky and then traded them during the rest of the drive. The odor was an assault on her nasal passages, but she got a kick out of hearing their deep conversation about something she considered so mundane. The sweet barbeque flavor was the winner. Lynda went the healthy route with fruit. It wasn’t easy being an artist on the road trying to eat healthy. Christine gave in to the lure of M&M’s, telling herself she needed a sugar rush to get her through, but the truth was that she liked M&M’s.
They arrived at the venue, a big field surrounded by food stands, and parked. They piled out of the van and stretched. Christine looked around, taking in the surroundings. There were multiple booths set up, and huge signs touted everything from chili dogs to bratwurst.
“Where are we?” Christine asked.
“The Rocky Mount Sausage Festival,” the tour manager, Tim, said.
“The what?”
“Don’t make me repeat it. Please.” Tim took off for the stage, saying he was in search of the local production team.
“Anyone up for something to eat?” Lynda asked.
“Any chance of a burger?” the drummer asked.
“I’m going out on a limb and saying no,” Christine said, as they headed for the stands.
Half an hour later, deeply regretting the chili dog with onions, Christine called Julianna. She needed to vent.
“I’m living the glam life. I’m at a sausage festival,” Christine said.
“Oh, awesome. I do love a good sausage fest,” Julianna said with a lift in her tone. “Anything look good?”
“Seriously? You’ve been to one of these?”
