The chants of “WE WANT GRIFF, WE WANT GRIFF” hit Alabama’s eardrums like small pebbles of doom. The ragtag audience at Graham’s Grotto telling her time’s up as boos and half-empty water bottles land onstage.
She can’t sing. Not a lick. Her throat refuses to work. She had been so confident earlier on the bus, ready to take the stage like a boss. And she did. She belted out the first five songs like clockwork and the audience loved it. Mostly her fans, but she had even seen some of Griff’s tapping a toe. But when it came time to sing her own song, one she knew better than her own skin, she froze. Like a deer in the headlights, wondering what she was getting herself into, right before the big Mack truck of reality slammed into her.
Jesus. She’ll be in the press again. She can already see the headline coming down the AP wire: Alabama Forester Looks Dumb as Shit.
Her heart in her ears, the hot stage lights burning a hole through her, Alabama closes her eyes, bracing for them to laugh her right offstage when there’s a hand on her shoulder, a gritty drawl in her ear.
“I don’t think she likes y’all.” Cheers and hoots erupt all around her as she opens her eyes to see Griff Greyson leaning into the mic.
A broad grin fills his face. He turns his gaze toward her, his eyes searching out hers for a melody they don’t yet know but will, and it’s like she’s back in the past, back on his front porch with their guitars and sweet tea and pens and notebooks.
“What do you think, Alabama? Maybe we oughta shake things up with a little Willie Nelson number.” He glances down at her set list and makes a face of repulsion. “Because let’s be honest, no one wants to hear ‘American Doll.’”
Anger flares in her at the laughter rippling through the audience. But it’s enough to get her shaking off her stupor. She flashes a syrupy sweet smile. In her best southern belle voice, she says, “That’s mighty kind of you, but I got this, Greyson.”
She goes in to grab the mic, but he wraps a hand around it first.
He flashes another cocky grin. “Oh, I don’t think you do, sweetheart.” There’s another chorus of applause in the crowded room, louder than it had been for Alabama.
Alabama can only watch in disbelief as Griff signals to his band and they strike up the first few chords of ‘Highwayman.’ Regretfully, because it’s suck it up or get fucked, Alabama follows his lead.
The audience raises cell phones high.
They sing in unison. Their voices twin, Griff’s sound like a buzz saw to Alabama’s earthy drawl. It’s the first time they’ve ever sung together as adults, and Alabama can’t even appreciate that. Because all she can do is burn.
The second the song is over, Alabama throws the guitar pick at Griff.
An “Oooo” rises in the crowd.
“Asshole,” she hisses and storms off the stage.
She’s pissed. Pissed at herself for screwing up her first show of the tour, pissed that she’s going to be in the papers again tomorrow, pissed that she got roped into sharing a song, a stage with Griff, and even worse, pissed at Griff for saving her pathetic ass.
Minutes later, he comes strolling through the curtain, a lazy swagger in his step. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Alabama stops at the top of the stairs that lead down to the exit and whirls on him. “I didn’t thank you.”
“Well, you should. You were like a wet mop up there.” A smug smirk crosses his face and Alabama wants to wipe it away with her fist. The last thing she needs is some muscle-bound cowboy with a chip on his shoulder telling her how to sing.
“No one wants to hear ‘American Doll,’” she snaps, mimicking Griff’s dismissive tone onstage. She narrows her gaze. “What gives you the right?”
“What gives me the right?” Griff clenches his jaw. “How about my openin’ act’s singin’ some shit song that’d barely get anyone else past the front door at Tootsie’s?”
She scoffs. “Oh, now you care about your tour? From what I hear, you’re too busy actin’ like an asshole up onstage to give a damn about the music.”
His expression darkens. “Good. Get it all out.” He lifts his hand, beckoning her closer with his fingers.
She takes a step toward him, as if accepting his challenge. Griff remains silent as she approaches, his only tell the vein straining in his temple. “I can handle this myself,” she says, in a tone of lethal quiet. She doesn’t want a bailout. Not by anyone, and especially not by Griff. “I don’t want your help, Griff. I don’t need your help.”
“Sure seems like it.”
Her fists clench, and she stares him down. “You left. You don’t get to suddenly pretend like you care about me twelve years later. So just stop it. And walk away. Like you always do.”
Something like pain flashes in his eyes, infinite pain, but it’s gone before Alabama can make heads or tails of it.
Griff, stone-faced, snaps his fingers at someone in the shadows. “Mikey, take her back to the bus.”
“I can get back myself, thanks.”