Chris’s bass danced with Luiz’s crashing cymbals, and Nicky unleashed the feedback effect from his guitar. It was about everything I’d get where backup sound was concerned, at least through the parts where my singing was the focus.
I cleared my throat and gestured to Luiz that I was ready.
Have mercy.
I summoned all the strength I could at the bottom of my stomach and screwed my eyes shut. Only Maria and Matt existed at the forefront of my mind; it was them I sang with, them I led through the first two minutes of the eight-minute-long song.
Have mercy.
Then I got a quick breather but made sure I never looked out over the crowd. This song was too personal; I put every fiber and emotion of myself into it. Luiz took it away, expertly, and marked on the tom right before everyone else joined in. Bass, drums, guitars, keyboard, choir.
I bent the strings and bobbed my head to the beat, delivering a short solo that Sylvia took over soon enough.
Have fucking mercy.
In my defense, the reason I wasn’t feeling moody the following morning was August.
“If you’d canceled your reservation yesterday like I told you to, they wouldn’t be charging you for a second night you’re not even there.” He nuzzled my neck and nipped at my skin, sharply enough for me to wince.
“Lesson learned?” I grinned lazily and set down my phone on the kitchen counter. Then I locked my arms around his neck and sought out his lips. “I didn’t know youse were gonna want me to stay beyond the first night, and the motel had already charged me for that.”
He hummed into a slow, tongue-teasing kiss. “Well, now you know. You’re mine for the rest of your stay in Nashville.”
I could live with that.
I deepened the kiss and thought, I could live with this too. Waking up in August’s bed, to his kisses, to him seducing me, to him fucking me like a god in the shower, then coming down here to make breakfast together while the sun rose outside.
The coffee was ready.
The eggs were scrambled and cooking on low heat.
Bacon strips in the oven.
“Daddy!” Camden whined sleepily from upstairs. “Why’d’ju set my ’laaarm?”
August and I laughed a little and broke our kiss, and he rested his forehead on my shoulder for a second.
Okay, so maybe Camden took the prize for morning crankiness.
“One day, he’s gonna learn that we don’t allow yellin’ in this house,” August murmured.
“Today’s not that day,” I chuckled.
Camden stomped down the stairs and huffed and puffed to himself all the way to the kitchen.
Christ, he was adorable. Hair pointing in every direction, sleep in his eyes, Darth Vader pajama pants. He must’ve changed them.
“Mornin’, baby boy.” August withdrew from my arms and went to check the bacon in the oven. “What have we said about hollerin’ across the house?”
“That it’s okay for emergencies,” Camden grumbled. “I’m not goin’ to the festival. Why did you wake me?”
“Because I thought you’d want breakfast with us before we take off,” August replied. “We need to discuss your chores for the day too.”
“Darn it,” Camden complained. “I don’t like chores.”
No one did, but I was eager to find out more about their dynamic. So far, I was hooked on the family feel of it all.
Camden continued moaning in agony at his merciless fate of having chores while we finished up preparing breakfast. I was in charge of the toaster that August brought out from a cupboard, and Camden was told to bring out some blankets to the patio.
Maybe their Southern asses couldn’t handle anything below sixty-five, I didn’t know.
It was jeans and T-shirt weather for me.
Knowing we’d be filmed at some point today, I’d picked one of my Initiative tees in hopes that I’d be able to post a snippet or at least a link to footage on my Instagram. If nothing else, there should be a few photos I could upload.
A few minutes later, the three of us brought our food outside and sat down at the table closest to the doors. There were still some napkins and glasses left in the seating area by the grill from last night, and I was just glad I’d spent the evening with Camden instead. August had hosted a little pity party for himself earlier this morning about two participants who hadn’t been able to stop asking questions.
I sighed contentedly and stuck a piece of bacon into my mouth as I watched the King-Adair couple across from me. August was sweet, helping Camden cut his bacon and buttered toast into smaller pieces.
“I have a couple hoodies in the entryway if you want to borrow one, darlin’,” August told me.
I snorted softly and took a sip of my coffee. While he had gotten started on the eggs earlier, I’d brought in my instruments from my truck, and I’d seen a sweater and a baseball cap with Yankees logos in the entryway.
He must’ve started rooting for them when he’d lived in New York, when he was young and impressionable and didn’t know better.
“Don’t do it,” Camden said quickly. “They’re Yankees gear. Daddy’s a Yankees fan, and if you are too, I don’t wanna hear about it.”
“I wouldn’t be caught alive in a Yankees shirt,” I chuckled. “It’s a glorified clothing brand worn by tourists.”
August smirked wryly and lifted a brow.
Camden’s eyes lit up.
“I’m from Brooklyn.” It was enough explanation for me. Where I grew up, you cheered for the Mets—end’a fuckin’ discussion. “When I did my postgraduate in the city, I made sure to wear as much Mets gear as possible.”
Camden grinned widely at that and forked up some food that he shoveled into his mouth.
“You went to a local college, I take it?” August asked.
I inclined my head. “I did my undergraduate at Brooklyn College, and
