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Thomas
Nelson - May 2007
Read Chapter 1 of Diva NashVegas
On a warm June night, I stand stage left
among a swirl of activity—the stage crew, band members,
and music artists coming and going—waiting to go on.
Closing my eyes to rehearse my entrance, I have an odd sense
of suspension, for a moment unable to determine time or place.
Ladies and gentleman, Aubrey James .
. . Run out smiling. Grab the mike. Wave and greet the fans.
Hear the opening bars of “Borrowed Time.”
Done it a thousands times. All over the world.
Before queens and rednecks. Tonight is no different.
Except I’m utterly exhausted.
You’re the CMA Fest’s closing
performer, Aubrey. Don’t let the fans down. Don’t
do it.
Opening my eyes, I expect—I hope—the
fans’ excitement to jump-start my adrenaline, washing
away the cloak of weariness.
It always does.
But tonight, the electric excitement charging
the Titans Coliseum fails to touch me. My thoughts wander
and my heartbeat fires like a worn piston. Tiny beads of sweat
prickle under my arms and across my forehead. I try to focus
on the opening number again.
Walk out . . . Drummer counts down “Borrowed
Time,” bass comes in, then the electric. On the downbeat,
I sing. Engage the crowd. Find the sweet spot.
Six months on the road with my all-girl band.
Hear the smooth call of the steel guitar,
the whine of the fiddle, the exquisite, elegant harmony of
my background singers. Can do this . . . By pure grit and
grind. Come on, Aubrey.
Tonight’s performance also ends my
eleventh tour—sponsored by a hip new bottled-water company,
FRESH!. A brilliant partnership orchestrated by my business
manager. Music, I’ve had to learn, is as much about
business as it is art.
Rolling Stone magazine put
me and the band on the cover of their January edition with
the headline “Aubrey James Gets Fresh!”
The swirl of activity around me increases.
Roadies and techs finalizing the stage before we go on. CMA
Fest cameras moving in. The show is being taped for television.
Are there half as many people in the coliseum
as there are back here?
My drummer hurries past with her cymbols
and snare. “I’m late.”
“You have time,” I say, watching
her step up to the drum stage. From the corner of my eyes,
I spot my manager, Zach Roberts, observing me with an inquisitive
expression, his arms crossed over his lean chest. “What?”
“You’re sweating, and don’t
tell me it’s the Nashville heat. You have dark, puffy
eyes, a frog voice, and you’re sweating.”
“What’s your point?”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m going on, Zach.” Six
months on tour, a hundred cities, can’t end with a sore
throat, fever, and puffy eyes. Besides, the fans deserve their
final CMA Fest performance.
Zach rubs his forehead, doubt shadowing his
brown eyes. “You look like a bag of bones, Aubrey. Did
you lose weight on the tour?”
“Haven’t you heard? It’s
all the rage. The Tour Diet. I’m writing a book about
it this summer.” I pat his cheek. “I’m fine.
Trust me.”
The CMA Fest stage manager passes by, flashing
his palm. “Five minutes, Miss James.”
Five minutes. Where’s the
familiar rush of preshow adrenaline?
Without it, I’m not sure I can manufacture
enough energy to carry me through the set.
Zach curves his arm around me. “This
is your last performance. Then you’re free as a bird
for the summer.”
“Free. Right. Besides this little gig
here and that little gig there. A new photo shoot for the
FRESH! campaign . . .” I lower my chin and gaze at him
from under my brow. “Not to mention concluding the renegotiation
with SongTunes and finishing my next album, and wanting to
sleep until fall.”
He smiles. “We’re working with
SongTunes, and if you have to cancel a few appearances to
get rested, then do it. Besides, if you’re sleeping,
I can work with some of my other clients for a change.”
“Oh, please. I’m your favorite
and you know it.”
“Some things go without saying.”
He winks, but his merriment fades.
“Hard tour, wasn’t it?”
“Incredibly.”
“At least the tabloids have backed
off.”
“For now.”
How could one tour have so much controversy?
Stolen equipment and personal items like jewelry. Missing
money. A bus fire. The fired bus driver, who is now threatening
to sue.
Worst of all, I parted ways my musical director,
Melanie Daniels. Mid tour she announced she wanted more control,
more money, and a solo spotlight. We argued. She left.
Angry.
A few days later, the tour arrived in Dallas
amid the swarming media. Frustrated, tired, and hurt, I just
had to make a pithy remark about Mel to a nosey journalist,
didn’t I? The B-word slipped out. Along with a few other
choice phrases. Once the tongue gets loose . . . This is why
I never do interviews. Never. Words get twisted, ideas interpreted.
Things said that weren’t meant to be said.
My comment about Melanie leaving the band
made celeb magazines and tabloid headlines around the world.
Remembering causes my pulse to pound and
my legs to wobble. I fall against Zach.
“Aubrey, you can’t go on,”
he says, pressing a fatherly hand to my forehead. “You’re
burning up.”
“I’m going on.” The rest
of my band emerges from a dark corner of the stage and I move
away from Zach, forcing my lips to smile. “All set?”
Vickie Campbell, my bass player, puts her
hand on my shoulder. “Let’s do it.”
“One minute.” The stage manager
passes again, flashing a finger in our faces. “One minute.”
Rascal Flatts is performing on stage two and coming to the
end of “What Hurts the Most.”
I breathe deep, shaking out my hands, stretching
my neck, wiggling my legs. Tom Petty sang it right—the
waiting is the hardest part.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, and
. . .
A firm hand slips over my shoulder and soft
lips nuzzle my neck. My heart races as I whirl around.
“Car, what are you doing here?”
Nervous energy fires through me. “I’m about to
go on.”
His smile fades as his expression darkens.
“I thought you’d be happy to see me.” He
pulls me to him. “Surprise.” Then, Brown “Car”
Carmichael the Third kisses away my lipstick.
Gently, I struggle free. “Car, honey,
I thought we were meeting at the house later.”
“This isn’t the welcome I expected,
Aubrey.”
The stage lights go up and the crowd’s
rumble deepens.
“Car, what did you expect?
I’m thirty seconds from a performance.”
Stepping backward toward the stage, I hold
my expression, pressing the corners of my lips upward. “Can
we talk about this later? I’ll be all yours then.”
He props his hands on his belt, the sharp
edges of his handsome face softening. “Sure. Knock ’em
dead, Brie.”
The announcer is
on the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the
queen of country soul, Aubrey James!”
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