Page 1 of August Lane

CHAPTER ONE

T he last guitar chord hung in the frigid air that pumped relentlessly from the air vents of the Memphis Best Value Bar and Lounge, while the customers stared blankly at Luke Randall like they were still waiting for things to get interesting.

Someone cleared their throat, and the sound startled them out of a trance.

Their applause was slow and drenched in pity.

But, hell, he’d take it. These days, he’d take anything that wasn’t ambivalence.

Luke leaned forward and drawled “Thank you” in a deep, smoky tone he’d been told gave his voice more swagger.

“That was ‘I Fall to Pieces’ by the Patsy Cline, one of my favorites.” He flashed a smile.

“Not a big fan of sad songs before dinner, huh? I don’t blame you.

But that’s country for you, right? Everybody’s leaving. No one’s gettin’ laid.”

Someone snorted and chuckled. Even when the music was shit, he could still work a crowd.

“Always wondered about that song,” he said.

“Like, there’s got to be a story there. There’s always a story.

” He ran his hand along the guitar frets.

“Maybe they were married. Whoever Patsy was singing about, I mean. Feels like the bad side of a divorce—”

“Just play the fucking song!”

The heckler slurred the words from the back.

The audience reanimated as if the guy had tossed raw meat into a herd of zombies.

Someone shouted in agreement, and they started clapping, for real this time, staring up at him with feral eyes.

“Do it,” their glares told him. “I paid five bucks to hear the one song that makes you worth a shit, and if you don’t play it in the next five seconds, no one will ever find the body. ”

Luke didn’t acknowledge the man, who’d yanked off his John Deere cap and started pumping his arms like they were at a football game.

Arguing was pointless. As the lone Black man in a sea of drunken white faces, it was also potentially dangerous.

Instead, he retreated into himself, as he usually did when this happened.

And it always happened. Like clockwork, every Thursday around eight, before the kitchen started serving entrées and the bar started watering down the whiskey, someone’s patience would snap, and the vitriol would spread like a virus.

Luke took a long drink of water, leaned into the mic, and sang the first lines of the song he hated with every fiber of his being. “ I’m frozen in place / My heart’s gone numb / But you keep breaking the part that still feels something. ”

He locked eyes with a cute Black woman with waist-length Sisterlocks in the front row.

She was perched on the edge of her chair, fully aware of the figure she struck in a hostile room filled with camo and denim.

She smiled without murder in her eyes, and he smiled back out of habit.

That’s how he usually got through this. Focusing on a friendly face who got a kick out of being serenaded made the hardest parts go down easier. Because every song did have a story.

This one haunted him like a ghost.

Even now, thirteen years after “Another Love Song” hit the top of the country charts, Luke couldn’t play the first chords without fumbling.

His fingers wanted to strum the original arrangement, a blues ballad the people in this room would barely recognize.

But no one really likes sad music. That had been drilled into him on the soundstage of Country Star .

At seventeen, he’d been coached through the reality show that started his career by a fast-talking, sloe-eyed man who claimed to have discovered every mid-list country singer on the verge of hitting big.

Luke couldn’t remember his name anymore, but he’d never forget the thick line of gold rings that squeezed the man’s knuckles as if they had been purchased during younger, leaner times.

Luke had watched them as the guy fingerstyled a faster, twangier version of “Another Love Song” he claimed would impress the judges instead of sedating them.

“Or make ’em cry, which they’ll pretend to like but never forgive you for.

No one wants a snotty nose on national television. ”

Golden Rings was right. When Luke had sung the song that wasn’t his song, the crowd screamed and hollered, like he’d been changed into someone else, too.

Instead of a clueless country boy fresh off a Greyhound, he became a charming bro who understood what they were here for—good times, cheap beer, and southern nostalgia.

The song had propelled him to the semifinals and a few months later, his first record deal.

But deep down, he’d always figured he’d change back to that guy from the bus.

That one lie was okay if whatever came next was true.

But big lies don’t work that way. Not when millions of people fall for it.

Hand yourself to the world wrapped in a shiny, whitewashed package, and it’s the only way they’ll ever accept you.

They wanted Luke, the pop star who made you want to grab your girl and dance, not Lucas, the crooner who made you want to burrow with her under the covers and trace her skin until it didn’t feel like skin anymore.

The friendly woman’s smile pulled Luke back to the present as he slid into the bridge. He almost winked but stopped himself. She’d get the wrong idea, which was the last thing he needed. She wasn’t flirting with him. She was making eyes at some poster she used to have on her wall.

His voice went up an octave too high on a key change because it was a hopeful chorus he could never quite sell.

“ But if I wrote a different love song / took your hand in mine / threw out all the lines. ” He belted out the rest so they wouldn’t notice how much the song messed with his head.

Just once, he’d like to get through it without thinking about her.

Just once.

The room exploded with applause before he finished.

He nodded thanks and told them he was taking a break.

Most would be gone when he returned for a round of Tim McGraw covers.

They had gotten what they came for—a dose of late 2000s nostalgia and a 25 percent discount coupon for the buffet next door.

The woman from the audience headed his way, so he pivoted toward the bar. A middle-aged white man with dark hair cut him off before he could reach it.

“Buy you a drink?” The man didn’t smile, but there was no hostility there, either. It hadn’t been Luke’s best performance. Some people took that personally. The man tapped the drink menu. “What’s your poison?”

All of it. “I can get my own. Thanks.” Luke crooked his finger toward the bartender, who nodded and pulled out a bottle of tonic water with his name scrawled across the label.

“How the hell did you manage that? Boylan Heritage?” The man leaned against the counter. “I thought this place only mixed with Canada Dry.”

Looking more closely, Luke noted that the man didn’t fit the room at all. His black oxfords gleamed with a shine you could only get from an airport terminal. His hair was freshly cut. His aftershave smelled like wood sap drizzled over money.

“David Henry,” the man said, extending his hand.

“Luke Randall.” They shook, and Luke added, “Most people call me Lucas.”

David squinted. “Do they really?”

“Nope.” Luke grabbed his tonic water and took a swig. “But whenever I meet someone new, I figure it’s worth a shot.”

The corner of David’s mouth lifted slightly. The guy had a resting no-bullshit face. It was probably as close to a smile as he would get.

“Dodging nicknames is a waste of time around here. I flew in last week.” He stuffed a twenty in the tip jar. “Never been called Dave a day in my life but watch this.” He caught the bartender’s eye. “Another.”

The bartender nodded. “Sure thing, Dave.”

David rolled his eyes, grabbed a table, and indicated that Luke should join him.

Luke hesitated. He tried to avoid the bar when he wasn’t onstage.

But this guy had a business edge that reminded Luke of industry types from LA.

He was probably recruiting for some D-list reality series starring former pop stars willing to trade their dignity for clout and views.

Listening to the pitch would be more interesting than watching HGTV in the dank closet the bar called a dressing room, so Luke went to the table.

David picked up the tonic water as soon as Luke sat down. “How long have you been sober?”

“Five years.” Luke was too startled by the question to lie. Was it that obvious he was in recovery? He’d had nightmares about his old benders being seared to his body like a brand.

“Impressive.” David returned the drink to Luke and scanned the room. “Not the best workplace for you, though.”

Luke drummed his fingers on the table. Five years may sound like a long time to most people, but Luke measured his sobriety in hours.

He could identify every cocktail in close proximity by color and smell.

“Not the best place” was putting it mildly.

But there weren’t a lot of dry music venues clamoring to put him on the schedule.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Luke asked, because there was no way in hell he was going to discuss the weekly mind fuck of being a sober drunk in a bar with a stranger.

“David Henry,” he repeated, as if the words were a business card. “You’ve never heard of me?”

“No.”

David looked annoyed. He jabbed a finger at the empty stage. “How many times have you performed that song?”