Shelby
Is it possible to sweat to death?
My cheeks feel as if I’ve stood too close to a bonfire for the better part of the night. Anger from running into Glenna still has me mad enough to spit nails.
The show starts and I force Glenna from my mind. I’ve looked forward to being here my whole life. The front row of the most prestigious awards show to honor the music I’m so passionate about. Wearing a beautiful dress. Holding the hand of the man I love.
Somehow, I’ve reached a pinch-myself-to-see-if-I’m-dreaming level of success at twenty-two.
“You okay?” Rooster asks.
I fan my hand in front of my face. “Hot. Overwhelmed.”
“Let me get you some water.”
“I don’t want to have to pee in this dress.”
He bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “I guarantee it’ll be worse if you get up on that stage and pass out from dehydration.”
“I’ll probably pee myself when I hit the floor.”
He doesn’t have to go far. Servers are circulating with small bottles of water. I sip it gratefully.
They start with the Music Video of the Year category. Since I’m not in that one, I sit back, relax, and try not to roll my eyes at all the “look how down home we are riding ATVs through the woods” videos nominated this year.
Vocal duo of the year, vocal group of the year, musical event. Each category that isn’t mine twists my tension even higher.
The host is an artist I grew up listening to. Willa Windsong got her start on a reality show with a little more prestige than Redneck Roadhouse. She’s one of the reasons I decided to appear on a reality show in the first place.
And now she might be presenting me with an award.
Way to jinx yourself, Shelby.
I’m so caught up in how surreal this moment is, that I almost miss her announcing the Best New Artist of the Year category.
Fear. White-cold, blazing fear zips straight to my belly. I’d been in the hospital when Greg told me I’d been nominated. Since then I’ve been on the road and working on my album. So busy, I haven’t given a lot of thought to what it would mean if I actually won.
“…and the Best New Artist is, Shelby Morgan!”
My brain fizzles itself into static.
“Woo!” Angelina shouts.
“Congratulations, baby.” Logan hugs me and gently pulls me to my feet. “Go on,” he encourages.
There’s a camera in my face. Dang, I probably looked like a fried mannequin there for a minute.
I smile and try to call up the “surprised but humble” face I practiced in the mirror for years as a little girl. Carefully, I climb the stairs to the stage.
Willa meets me halfway, hugging me like we’re sorority sisters havin’ a reunion, even though it’s the first time we’ve officially “met.”
“Oh my gosh,” I repeat over and over. My voice shakes with the effort of holding back joyful tears. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t expect this.”
“Aww, I did, Shelby.” She squeezes my shoulders. “You earned it, girl.”
Shoot, now I am gonna cry. “Thank you.”
She turns and points me toward the podium. I stumble the last few steps. Willa presses the award into my hands and I stare at it for a few seconds.
Willa nudges me. “Go on.”
“Oh, sorry!” I whisper.
Get it together! Stop making a dang fool of yourself!
I lean into the microphone. “Thank you. This means so much to me. And so many people helped make this possible. First, I need to thank my momma.” I wave at the camera. My throat tightens and a tear rolls down my cheek. “She sacrificed a lot to help me get here. She never once stopped believing in me. My manager Greg, the folks of Redneck Roadhouse, Trent, who couldn’t be here tonight. Dawson, thank you for giving me a chance on your tour. Logan, thank you for everything you do to support me. And thank you for joining me on this adventure.” My mind blanks again. Lordy, I hope I’m not forgetting anyone.
If I am, it’s too late. Music swells, announcing it’s time for me to exit. Willa walks me off the stage, leaving me in the hands of a woman dressed in black.
“Congratulations, Shelby.” She pushes me in front of a camera. “Smile.”
I cradle the award next to my face and flash a big, cheesy grin.
The attendant pushes me down the line, then whisks the statue out of my hand. “We’ll mail you your actual award. It should arrive in about a month.”
“Oh. Okay.” Huh. How ’bout that?
Someone else walks me to the steps leading to the theater’s seating area. Logan’s waiting for me at the bottom. I skip down the steps faster than I probably should in these heels, but he’s there to catch me, lifting me up and planting a kiss on my cheek. “So proud of you, baby.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He sets me down and takes my hand. An attendant shows us what path to follow so we’re not in the way of filming.
“Three more categories to go,” Dawson whispers as I pass him.
Angelina squeezes my hand. Shoot, should I have thanked her in my speech? We only just started working together.
I don’t have time to ponder it. Best Female Vocalist is called next. My stomach freezes as they go through the list. Rage constricts my throat when Glenna Wilson’s name is announced as one of the nominees.
Dead silence through the auditorium as Willa opens the envelope.
“Cara Owen!” she shouts.
Phew. At least it wasn’t Glenna.
Cara’s a serious, dark-haired beauty with a breezy boho style I appreciate. If I had to lose to someone, I’m glad it’s her.
Dawson takes home Album of the Year, which is pretty funny since Chaser and I gave him such a hard time in the studio. I’m half expecting him to flip me off and say ‘told ya so’ when he returns, but he’s all smiles.
He’s immediately called up again for Male Vocalist of the Year. No surprise there. He’s won it several years in a row if I remember.
Best Single of the Year is next and I grab Logan’s hand. If I win, I’m going to give him this award.
“Shelby Morgan, White Knight!”
“Oh my gosh,” I chant all the way to the stage.
I press my palms against the podium and gather my thoughts. I should thank Brad for being such a douche. If my ex hadn’t convinced me to take those dumb photos, I wouldn’t have fallen in the river and Rooster wouldn’t have had to rescue me that day.
And now I can’t imagine life without Rooster.
“I wrote this song for the man who saved me when I thought I was drowning.” I hold up the award. “This is for you, Logan.”
With the bright lights, I can’t actually see him in the audience, but I aim my smile that way.
“I also need to thank my writing partner Trent for helping me perfect White Knight and Greg for loving it as much as I do. Thank you both for your hard work and dedication.”
Again, I’m escorted backstage.
This time Logan’s waiting for me.
The woman in black grins like a devil. “We wanted some shots of you with your white knight and the award,” she explains.
When she turns away, I whisper, “I’m sorry,” to Logan. He shrugs and holds out his hand to me.