Page 2 of Song Bird Hearts (Green River Hearts #4)

Valerie

Three years later

T he flowers died on Monday.

But they still bring them into my dressing room and set them up, like they’re alive and well despite the crunchy wilt they sport.

Someone refuses to throw them away, and honestly, at this point, I’m waiting to see how long it takes before they notice.

Or if they even care. My bet is that they don’t.

The dressing room smells like stale cigarettes and the slight twinge of mildew.

There’s a stain on the wall that looks like it could have either come from blood or liquor.

It looks like someone may have tried to cover it with a poster stapled into the wall, but it’s torn away now, only the staples and two paper corners left, so the stain is on full display.

Sadly, this isn’t even the shittiest dressing room I’ve gotten ready in.

The uphill climb ain’t easy, and you don’t start off with the best of the best, but I’d gotten used to the nicer dressing rooms at this point.

This one feels a bit like a backward slide, even if I know the old theater outside is sold out.

They’re not just here for me. Not for this show.

And I’m not under the impression that I’m the reason this is a sold-out venue.

Hell, I don’t think I could have ever dreamed of buying a ticket to something like this before.

The CMAs ain’t exactly attainable for most normal people.

I’m only here because the country music industry decided they liked the sound of my voice and the nostalgia it makes them feel.

I was floored to be invited to this stage, not only because of what it means to be here, but also because I’ve been nominated for an award myself. Best New Country Artist. Somehow, it doesn’t feel. . . I don’t feel . . .

Shit. What do I even feel?

This is supposed to be a big fucking deal. I’m in Nashville, Tennessee. I’m nominated for a huge award. I’m gonna be playing on the same stage as the greats. Hell, Reba fucking McEntire is here. I’m in the same building as Reba!

So why do I feel so numb?

A soft snort draws my attention to the large pot-bellied pig sitting on his dog bed in the corner and I smile. “I already gave you a treat, Kevin. You don’t need anymore. The vet said you’re overweight.”

He oinks in offense and I sigh before reaching for one of the potato chips sitting on the table. “Fine. But if the vet lectures me about your weight next time, I’m gonna make you eat nothing but carrots.”

Kevin is my slice of home, a full-grown pot-bellied pig who captured my heart and never let it go.

His full name is Kevin Bacon, and he’s quite possibly the sweetest and most demanding pig you’ll ever meet.

He’s become a sort of mascot rather than just a companion, and my fans seem to love him.

Hell, he has his own social media following at this point, dedicated to posting photos of his various outfits.

Tonight, he’s wearing a tiny cowboy hat and a cow print vest. Sometimes, he likes to wear his favorite tiara and tutu.

Kevin enjoys the attention and regularly brings me his clothes to put on.

I’ve never met a pig with such a big personality.

Kevin often goes out on stage with me, but I’ve been told he’s not allowed at this show.

I have half a mind to bring him out anyway, but after my manager threatened me with a pop country song about blaming another woman for my man cheating, I decided to follow the rules.

I already hate how little control I have over my songs.

I absolutely refuse to start singing about the old topics women used to be reserved for.

I’d much rather sing about female empowerment.

I smile over at Kevin as he crunches up his potato chip and grunts happily at me.

But it’s when I look back at the mirror that it all comes crashing down.

My eyes stare back at me, my eyes ringed with expertly applied makeup.

The makeup artist always keeps it natural looking despite my yearning for loud colors and bright designs.

“Country music isn’t for clowns,” my manager had told me.

“They want the girl next door, not the next pop princess.” I hate it.

I hate how much of myself I’ve lost in this.

Even my outfit is tailored for what everyone else wants.

I want jewels and the brightest colors you can find.

Instead, I’m wearing brown flared jeans and a leopard print tank top.

At least they’re letting me wear my mom’s denim jacket since it’s an important night.

I haven’t been allowed to wear it for a few months now.

As I stare at my perfectly outlined eyes and my expertly styled blond hair, I’ve never felt lonelier.

Kevin is my only bright spot in a sea of following orders.

I thought fame came with freedom. Instead, it comes with chains.

Sure, I have an entourage with me, but none of them I’m particularly close with.

The label had insisted that my drummer and bassist weren’t good enough for the big time, and after a back and forth where I argued I wouldn’t go anywhere without them, they’d bowed out to give me the chance to make it.

I’d cried about that. I’d felt like an asshole leaving them back in Steele, even if they reassured me it was just show business.

Still, I send them tickets for every show and royalties for the songs they wrote with me.

It never feels like enough. I wish they were here.

The people that replaced them are just hired hands and we don’t have much in common.

The entire entourage they paired me up with are like that.

Hell, half of them don’t even like Kevin.

How can you hate a sweet pig named Kevin Bacon? It don’t make no sense.

The door behind me bursts open, no knocking to make sure I’m decent. The man that pokes his head in has eyes that tell me he’s disappointed to find me dressed and ready. Fucking creep.

“You’re on in five minutes, Ms. Decatur,” he says before ducking back out and closing the door.

I sigh. “Guess I should go, Kevin.” He grunts in annoyance. “Don’t worry. I doubt I’m going to win. You heard the songs I’m up against. Ain’t no one voting for me over the next summer anthem.”

Kevin will be fine in the room. He’s well-behaved and long passed his destructive phase.

So I leave him in the room to nap on his bed and head to my spot.

The two other artists I’m up against are already there, a young seventeen-year-old girl who wrote a song about summer nights and an older man who’s long past his prime, but still fighting the good fight.

I smile at both of them as I step up between them.

“Good luck,” I tell both of them. “You two are amazing no matter what happens.”

Personally, I’m rooting for the older man.

He’s talented and should have already been famous.

Me and the seventeen-year-old have got time to make it still.

My instincts tell me it’ll be the seventeen-year-old, though.

If they don’t call my name, I won’t be performing.

Still, we’re all expected to perform if we do, so I have my White Stag Way song ready.

It’s the only song I wrote personally that I’m allowed to sing.

The rest of my set list is made up of songs my record label insisted on and didn’t let me write.

I hate it. I hate it all. No privacy. No realness.

Everyone wants something from me, but don’t want to listen to what I want.

It’s not what I expected. It’s not what I wanted.

And I’m damn close to startin’ to make a big deal outta that.

“And the winner of the Best New Country Artist goes to. . .” That’s Brad fucking Paisely opening the envelope.

Jesus. That should be hyping me up like nothing else.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, waiting to hear one of the other two people’s names.

They won’t pick me over these two. That would be silly. “Valerie Decatur!”

My eyes flick open in surprise. What the hell?

The summer anthem got higher in the charts on release than mine ever did.

Sure, I went viral, but that’s hardly the only thing anyone should look for.

And the man’s song is sure to be a classic one day.

He’s the next Toby Keith. It shouldn’t be my name they’re calling.

“That’s you, kid,” the man says. “Congratulations.”

I blink. “It shoulda been you.”

His expression softens. “My time is comin’, don’t you worry. Now go on out there and claim that award for all your hard work.”

I stumble out on stage, approach Brad fucking Paisley, and take the envelope he hands me.

I open it and look down at it in surprise, doublechecking it’s my name written there.

Sure enough, Valerie Decatur is typed there.

Someone else comes out and hands me a heavy ass trophy that I immediately worry I’m going to drop and break.

My eyes flick up to the large crowd filling the theater, all of them clapping and cheering for me as my song plays in the background.

I lean into the mic. “I really didn’t think I was gonna win,” I tell them, and they laugh as if it’s the funniest joke they’ve ever heard.

“Lucky for you, I kept my quick speech short since I didn’t think I’d be giving it.

” More laughs, like a laugh track is running.

I glance around just to see if there are lights that tell them to laugh.

Nothing. “Anyways, I owe everything I am to my hometown back in Steele, Wyoming. Specifically, I’d like to thank Hank, Wayne, and Diane.

And above all, I’d like to thank my mama for believing in me even when I was a scrawny kid getting’ into trouble.

Mama, I hope you’re watchin’ and I hope you’re proud.

” I hold the trophy up. “Green River, this one’s for you. ”

The crowd cheers, clearly loving my shoutout to my hometown.

The cheers all blend together, forming this static that hurts my ears as badly as the bright lights hurt my eyes.

I keep my smile plastered in place even as someone comes out and swaps my trophy for a guitar during the commercial break.

The stage is set around me as I stand awkwardly.

Someone moves me over like I’m just another prop.

Someone else adjusts my mic for me and hands me the earpiece.

I let them do whatever they want. God, when did I become so complacent.

This ain’t the same girl who stole a tractor and drove down Main Street singing at the top of her lungs.

This ain’t the same woman who stood in the Boot Skoot and sang along with her friends. Who am I these days?

Still, I launch into the song when they give me the go ahead. I sing like I’m supposed to. I do every cue, smile at every spot my manager told me to. Someone set the trophy on the stage in front of me to remind everyone that I won, a trophy I’ll get to take home with me.

It doesn’t feel good.

Why doesn’t it feel good?

God, I should feel on top of the world. Instead, the weight of the world feels crushing. I’m no better than Atlas.

I smile when the crowd cheers. My mask stays firmly in place.