Page 84 of August Lane
David rolled his eyes. “This again?”
“August and I are working on something new. Something Jojo will love.” Once August pushed past her writer’s block, whatever she wrote would blow everyone away. “She should sing it with her daughter. That’s the story everyone needs to hear.”
“August wants to sing now?” David flung a hand at Luke. “And what do you plan to do? Play backup?”
“If they want,” Luke said. “I could…” He trailed, thinking about his recent shows. The thought of recycling the same old covers made him nauseous. He’d been working on a new setlist with Silas, something he’d planned to try out at Delta Blue. But he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. “I could do something else.”
David leaned forward. “Listen to me. Some singers are artists. Others, like you, are entertainers. Entertainers give people what they want, and right now, that’s you onstage with Jojo, singing a song they forgot they knew all the words to.” He steepled his hands together. “These are thousand-dollar tickets, son. We owe them their expectations.”
Luke had heard this pitch before, and it always felt like being offered riches from the devil. “Cut off your wings, and I’ll hand you the world” was only tempting if your soul was worthless. Maybe his was. But he’d only sell it again for August.
“Ask Jojo what she thinks. She might disagree.”
“She won’t,” David said. “The woman’s ruthless about her career. She’s worked hard for this award and won’t risk it for anything. Singing with you is the safe choice.”
“Not even if it helps her daughter?”
David slowly shook his head. “Not even for August.”
August was the most famous home-wrecker in the world. She could feel it in the air when she arrived for her shift at King’s Kitchen. The cooks barely made eye contact with her when she put in orders. Gemma, who usually insisted on splitting her tips, claimed she couldn’t afford it tonight and accidentally called her Charlotte three times. The few customers in her section whispered to each other behind their hands and typed rapidly on their phones while food congealed on their plates.
Being judged at church was one thing. Those people put odds on each other’s damnation like they were placing bets in Vegas. But hostile strangers were dangerous. One woman wroteBitchinstead of a tip on her receipt.
August had nearly finished the dinner shift when two white men carrying bulky cameras sat at one of her tables. The older one read her name tag out loud and asked, “Did Jojo tell you to fuck Luke Randall?”
The question paralyzed her. But then, just like with Shirley’s slap, she had the urge to lash out, smash their equipment to the floor. Instead, she opened the camera on her phone and aimed it at them. “What did you just ask me?”
The younger one recoiled. The older one, who’d probably chased OJ’s Bronco in the nineties, smirked and said, “You trying to get us canceled? Make us the villains of the week?”
“I’m not making you anything,” she said, switching to landscape to capture both of them. “You’re doing fine by yourselves.”
His smirk curdled. “Can we at least get a quote?”
“Order something or leave.” August saw the door open in the corner of her eye. Bill Parnell walked inside and immediately focused on the men. He was behind them, so they didn’t notice.
The older one tsked his disapproval. “You’re not a very nice girl, August.”
“Leave, or deal with Bill.”
He frowned. “Who’s Bill?”
“I’m Bill.” He puffed his chest to show off his badge. Then he tipped his hat to August. “Go on to the back. I’ll take it from here.”
August fled to the kitchen. She pressed her back to the wall and took slow, square-shaped breaths like she’d learned in the only grief counseling session she’d attended. She should have gone back. At the time, it had felt excessive, like a lazy way to deal with vanilla grief. That kind of comfort should be earned by surviving some big tragedy. She hadn’t realized losses could accumulate over the years, gathering mass like snowballs. The women from the grief counseling session probably knew that. If she walked into that room today, they’d probably take one look at her and say “Oh no. You made choices, didn’t you? Bad idea before you clean up the slush.”
She took out the trash and bused tables until closing. Once everyone left, she sat in a booth and scrolled through her messages. Mavis had texted twice. Silas left a voicemail. Nothing from Jojo, who was probably waiting for an apology for embarrassing her. But August wasn’t in the mood. If Jojo was content to let the news cycle churn, so was she. There were more important things to deal with.
Luke had called numerous times but didn’t leave a message. He’d sent one text.I’m here when you’re ready, and then went silent. She was grateful for the space. His confession had changed things, tilted the past enough to make her look at it differently. It was like he’d found a broken clock she’d thrown out years ago and said “Try changing the batteries.” Yes, that might work. But after sitting in the trash for so long, was there any point in trying?
August opened her YouTube app and typed his name. One of the first results was a 2013 performance at a small state college titled “Another Love Song Live.” She played the video and the crowd’s rhythmic chants burst through the speaker: “Love Song! Love Song!”
Luke’s hair was longer, his beard thick and messy. His head was bowed, and he seemed to ignore the crowd. He grabbed a red Solo cup from a stool and gulped the contents.
“What about ‘Tennessee Whiskey’?” he slurred into the microphone. He scanned the room and shouted, “George Jones. Y’all know him?”
The chants continued like he hadn’t spoken. Luke plucked at his guitar strings. “All right,” he drawled, smiling the worst smile August had ever seen on a man, grim gratitude for the gallows. “Let’s sing a love song.”
The chants became screams. Instead of playing the intro, Luke set his guitar down. He grabbed the microphone with both hands and sang the first lines. “I’m frozen in place / My heart’s gone numb / But you keep breaking the part that still feels something.”
