Page 33 of August Lane

Luke hadn’t asked himself that question in years.

When he was recording, he did what his producers told him, changing his pitch and diction, playing up his drawl, all to increase his chances of being played by country radio.

After two weeks of working with August, he’d fallen back into old habits, playing blue notes when he felt like it and adding more grit to his voice.

“I want to play like I used to. Back when no one knew me.”

“I can make it happen,” Silas said, and put out his cigarette. “Come by the club tonight. Bring a hat.” He narrowed his eyes. “You staying with August?”

“No sir,” Luke said quickly. Silas cared about him, but the man loved August like his only daughter. “She’s got her own apartment. I’m at Birdie’s.”

He sighed. “Has she talked to you about it? Taking care of her grannie at the end?”

“Some. But not really.”

“She needs to talk to someone,” Silas said. “With Jojo coming back, it’s hitting her hard. She’s reckless when she’s hurting.”

“I know.” Luke pictured her that first day at King’s, drop dead gorgeous and mad enough to scald him. She’d used that blackmail scheme to wake him up, remind him how to make music. “I love her reckless, though. She’s brave.”

Silas raised his eyebrows and lit another cigarette. “Y’all talk about that ?”

“I’m less brave.”

“Son.” He touched Luke’s shoulder. “You’re not a coward. That’s your mother talking. That’s the addiction. But you’re here, upright and sober. And it sounds like you’re trying to help that girl through all this, even though I bet she’s fighting you pretty hard.”

“Sometimes.” Lately he’d been fighting with himself. “I haven’t told her everything. Why I stayed away.”

“Sounds like you two need to have a real conversation.”

Last night flashed in his mind, her begging him not to rehash things. “What if it hurts like I said earlier?”

“Pain is a sign of life. If it hurts, that means there’s something worth saving.”

Mavis gave her stock answer when August asked for legal help. “I don’t work with family.”

“It’s one little contract,” August replied, even though she suspected there was nothing little about a document that could change your life.

Luke had ruined his career thanks to a contract he’d signed as a baby adult.

“Don’t you owe me a favor for some kind and generous thing I did? Because that sounds like me.”

Mavis fell silent, and August was belatedly reminded of the kind, generous favor they never talked about anymore.

The pastor’s wife’s teenage abortion was the kind of secret that could ruin lives—both Mavis’s and her husband’s.

Their congregation could forgive a lot of things, but their leader’s marriage to a mortal sinner wasn’t one of them.

“You used that favor,” Mavis said eventually. “For the showcase, remember?”

August had been so wrapped up in Luke that she’d forgotten about Silas’s predicament.

She’d lost sight of a lot of things, including the reason she’d blackmailed him in the first place.

Luke wasn’t auditioning for the role of loser boyfriend number eighty-five.

He was a means to an end. She couldn’t risk losing what could be her last chance at a career because some hot guy with a guitar made her yeast rolls.

“Yes, the showcase. Any new developments?”

Mavis sighed. “Fine, I’ll write your little contract. Email me the details and meet me at the fairgrounds tomorrow.”

When August arrived at the fairgrounds the next morning, she had to park on the street because of the equipment trucks and construction crews covering most of the parking lot.

There were also news vans near a cluster of people who were holding signs.

A white man with rolled-up shirtsleeves and sweaty hair gestured at the group as he spoke to a camera.

“It’s too early to call this an organized movement, but emotions are high, and protests like this one are increasing as we get closer to Jojo Lane’s induction into the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Industry insiders credit the backlash to multiple factors, namely Jojo’s relatively recent radio dominance that critics claim was manufactured by the new ‘woke agenda’ in Nashville.

Add the controversy over Charlotte Turner’s cover of ‘Invisible’ to the mix, and you have a heated debate over who gets to sing what and what the real face of country music looks like.

With Jojo Lane’s new single battling Charlotte Turner’s latest hit on the Hot Country 100, I predict we’ll be hearing more on this topic in the days to come. Back to you, Anne.”

A man carrying a HALL OF SHAME sign shouted, “Fuck critical race theory!” The people behind him yelled more clumsy insults before they landed on a unified chant. “What country? Real country! What country? Real country!”

August understood their passion. When she sang along with Allison Russell about being both a wounded bird and a hawk in “Nightflyer,” the song felt like her personal anthem, a reminder that, despite her reductive reputation, she contained multitudes.

But no one could take that feeling. It didn’t matter how many rants people wrote about the death of real country; they couldn’t steal the joy she felt while listening to the music she’d always loved.

These protesters, with their fear-fueled outrage, thought they were preventing a robbery when all they’d lost was the lie that the genre belonged to them.

Mavis approached her, grabbed her arm, and eyed the crowd. “Don’t make eye contact. Some of these people look like they haven’t eaten in weeks.”

Mavis walked August to the card table she was using as a desk. Legal pads, pens, and a container of Delta Music Festival stress balls were neatly arranged around her laptop. A fan blew hot air toward the chair. Her cousin looked overheated and exhausted.

“How long has this been going on?” August waved at the protesters. One of them narrowed his eyes and spat on the ground.

“All week,” Mavis said. “More keep coming. Plus, my festival hashtag is being taken over by racist trolls.”

“Has Jojo said anything?”

“Not yet.” Mavis’s eyes brightened. “Could you ask her to make a statement? I mentioned it to her henchman, but he brushed me off.”

“David is probably working on it,” August said quickly. She didn’t want to derail the conversation with more talk about her mother. When Jojo wanted to speak to her, she would. “Anyway, isn’t this normal for high-profile events like this?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Mavis eyed the group with a creased brow that said she wasn’t convinced. “Anyway, please explain why you’re running around with Luke Randall again.”

“I’m thirty-one years old. I don’t run around with people. It’s a business arrangement.” She could see her contract on the table. It looked official, with numbered paragraphs and signature lines. A perfect reminder to stay on task.

“I’ve seen the man. That beefy, roughneck, just stole your debit card vibe is completely your type. He’s also married, which—”

“He’s getting divorced,” August interrupted. “They haven’t made it public yet.”

Mavis raised her eyebrows. “Where have I heard this before?” She meant her fling with Terry, the gift that kept giving.

“Okay, but Luke and I aren’t together. There’s no reason for him to lie.”

“So, what are you doing? That contract looks like the same tragic dance you two did in high school. The one that ended with him on TV and you crying your eyes out for months.”

Mavis had only seen part of it. While it was true she’d cried some, she’d mostly become numb in ways that frightened her.

There were days when she woke up and didn’t remember going to bed the night before.

She ate sporadically, sometimes only when Birdie forced her to because she’d lost so much weight.

But the worst part was avoiding music. She’d shared so many of her favorites with Luke that nearly a year passed before playing them didn’t feel like losing him again.

“That was a long time ago,” August told her. “We’ve both changed.”

Mavis slid the contract over. “If you need this, then he hasn’t changed that much, has he?”

August didn’t answer. Her attention had been captured by a group of people on the stage built for Jojo. Most were fiddling with microphones and moving speakers around with headphones slung around their necks. Luke was at the center of the activity, playing warm-ups on his guitar.

“First rehearsal,” Mavis said.

“Oh” was all August managed, because Luke hadn’t mentioned any rehearsals, which seemed like a huge omission since the song they were working on wasn’t finished yet. “Have you seen his set list?”

“They don’t share those with me,” Mavis said. “Is that what this contract is about? I’m not sure you should—”

“Shhh.” August silenced her when Luke started playing. It took only a single chord for her to recognize “Another Love Song.”

August knew her limitations. She used to make lists about them with the goal of improving as a person: Be less impulsive.

Get more hobbies. No one wants to talk about the origins of outlaw country all day.

Read a book besides White Teeth and The Hunger Games .

She’d made progress on all those things. She’d grown.

But there was one bullet point she could never cross off because deep down, it was a lesson she didn’t want to learn. Turn the other cheek. It was great in theory, but not when a man played games directly in your face.

August grabbed the first thing within reach, one of Mavis’s stress balls. She squeezed it so hard it might never bounce back.

“Are you okay?” Mavis pried it from her fingers.

August stalked to the stage but was blocked at the stairs by a tall Black man with mirrored sunglasses.

“Hey, ho!” He raised his palms. “No fans.”

“She’s with me.” Mavis showed him the contract. “Special delivery.”