Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
And then as the lights come on.
They own it.
All three of them together.
Wynonna starts with a gritty, reverb-heavy riff that growls through the speakers and wraps the audience in its grip. Priscilla follows, sticks slamming down like she’s starting a fight she knows she’ll win. Justine stands center, her mic clenched in one hand, hips swaying like she was born under stage lights.
They don’t smile.
They don’t ask for permission.
They demand attention.
Justine tips her head back, and when her voice cuts through the air, it’s not the one I sing harmonies with. It’s sharper. Wilder. A little more unhinged.
She screams into the chorus like it’s war paint, and for a second, I forget about Nola, forget about the notebook in my case, forget about everything except the way she commands that stage like a goddamn queen.
This isn’t the soft-spoken girl writing on napkins.
This is her as a frontwoman. A force.
And the crowd loses it.
The women in Plum don’t flirt with the audience. They dare them.
They challenge every guy in the crowd to keep up, and they make the women watching feel like they could burn the world down and still look good doing it.
Elle leans in beside me, her voice barely audible over the amps. “You ever seen them live before this tour?”
I shake my head.
She watches a beat, then says, “They’re not just good. They’re different. People are starting to notice.”
“That’s because you make them notice. You have a knack for bringing the best out in your musicians and the fans. You’re good at this,” I tell her.
Elle leans into me again, and I put my arm around her, pulling her as tightly as possible to my side and kissing her forehead. She rights herself and wipes at her cheeks. She doesn’t have to thank me for what I’ve said; I know she’s grateful, and I also know she’s searching for the right words. That’s one thing about Elle: she struggles with compliments and how to receive them.
“This will be the last tour they open for someone.”
“You think?”
I nod. “Their fanbase has grown by leaps and bounds with this tour. Once they release their next album, it’s going to soar to the top of the charts. You’ll be doing this again next year, only then you’ll have a newborn.”
Elle cradles her bump as she looks at me. “You’ll have to babysit.”
I laugh and nod in agreement. It’s not like I’ll be planning a wedding anyway at this point.
Justine hits a high note that rattles through the steel rafters, her fingers clenched around the mic stand like she might snap it in half. I cross my arms, watching. Not for her—at least not how she probably thinks—but because something about this moment feels important.
Like she’s not just another opener trying to make it.
She is the show.
And I’m not sure she even realizes it yet.
I hope what I said to Justine earlier about the sisters being jealous of her, never comes to fruition because Plum is magic on stage.
The arena feels small. The kind of small where people are packed in like sardines, and the air gets caught in your throat, and where everything echoes too loudly. I stare out at them, the people who have paid to watch us play, while Ajay taps his drumsticks against a folding chair. Dana hums the opening lines of our first song while Elle paces near the lighting rig, talking into her earpiece, her free hand resting on her stomach like she’s trying to keep grounded.
And the crowd chants our name. Loud and rhythmic. I remember when I was a kid and I’d be on tour with 4225 West—the crowd was the same—and yet different in a sense. It’s hard to explain, but when I look out at the audience now, I see a mix of men and women, but back then I only remember women being in the front rows. Mostly with signs asking the guys to marry them, and some throwing their underwear on stage.
I’ve done a couple of shows where undergarments have landed near my feet. I’ve never asked the roadies where those items end up. Hell, I don’t even know if they’re clean. If they are, I hope they’re donated to a women’s shelter or something and not just thrown in the trash.
Over the years, I’ve kept very few things fans have given me. Mostly because if I kept everything, I’d need an entire wing of a house for storage. I’ve kept some of the flowers, shirts, and a few drawings or fan art. Anything edible goes right into the trash, along with phone numbers.
Although now I may be inclined to keep a few of those.
I can see the headline now: “Quinn James Falls for a Fan”
I suppose that’s what I did with Nola, and it should be a lesson in what not to do.