A Snapshot of Dixie

9: Bandmate Secrets

TUCKER

"Let's run through it one more time, guys. Austin, what's your deal? Did you forget how to play the damn guitar?" I ask my bass guitarist, noticing that he looks drunker than a skunk. Dark aviator sunglasses mask his sunken eyes as his shoulders droop like a basketball net that's barely hanging on by a thread.

Not gonna lie, I'm feeling run down too after sitting on the tour bus for a day straight, but I can't let my fans down. We arrived in Bridgeport mid afternoon yesterday and I spent most of the day sleeping and trying to collect my thoughts after everything that happened in Birmingham. My home that quite frankly felt like anything but that.

"Keep the lectures to yourself, Tuck. Not all of us are with it this morning. Maybe it would help if we weren't subjected to being on the fucking bus for the twenty-four hours straight because your dumbass had to stay in Birmingham a few extra days." He shouts at me like the reason for his poor attitude is my fault.

"Oh, is that it, Austin or is it because you went out partying last night while the rest of us slept?" I fire back at him. Although the extra time was a stretch, it was much needed to get my head wired on somewhat straight. I'm still nowhere near where I thought I would be after seeing Dixie, but at least now I know where we stand.

Even if visions of our heated kisses have been the center of my every thought since I left her standing outside the bar, I understand better now.

Walking away is never easy, especially when she looked so damn sexy, but she needed to spread her wings and fly. I never want to be the reason she holds back. Mainly because of how supportive she's been of me. She deserves to have her moment to shine.

"Let's get this over with. I need to take a nap before the show tonight."

Austin takes off his shades and rubs his eyes. Fiddling with the strings on his guitar as he tries to keep his balance. 

"Alright then. Let's run through the songs again."

Flint counts out the steps by clapping his drumsticks, followed up by Clyde, my pedal steel guitarist who gets us into a nice groove.

Spending the next few hours singing the songs that I have memorized backward and forward, we finish running through the set as Emily, my publicist walks onto the stage.

"That sounded great, guys. Tuck, may I have a word?" Emily asks as she blows her sandy blonde hair from her lips. She's your average businesswoman, but she can run a little messy at times. For starters, I don't think the woman has ever had a haircut. Watching her blow the long locks from her face has become a trademark of hers over the years.

"Sure thing, Em. I'll catch you guys later."

Following Emily backstage, I reach for a towel and dry off the sweat from my neck. You would think after three years of performing under these bright lights, my body would be used to the heat, but it's like a damn sauna underneath them.

"I know your Mom said you've been trying to write some new material, but we're pressing our luck for time, Tucker."

Sighing from the dreaded conversation, I wrap the towel around my neck and reply, "I know. I'm hoping once the tour is over and I get back home, some inspiration will strike. I've been running a little dry in that department."

Emily has been my publicist since the beginning of my career. She came attached to the recording label and she's been a good friend to me and my mom ever since. For the most part, she's down to Earth and I can be upfront with her if there are certain things I don't like or interviews I don't want to go through with.