Chesney recognized that need, and gave me that outlet. He put a guitar in my hand, taught me how to use it all over again, and gave me a place to express myself. It was cathartic, therapeutic, to write songs, strum notes, and belt out lyrics with words that meant so much to me. Music helped me just as much as the outpatient therapy I was going to.
He also frequently hosted open mic nights on the weekends, and with a little pushing and a whole lot of whiskey, he got me up on stage to perform the very thing that was holding me together.
Out of everywhere in Nashville, this bar holds the most meaning to me.
As we pull up out front of the bar, there’s a mob of fans and paparazzi waiting for us, which is surprising to no one. Adam, our driver, stops right in front of the door, letting us out as security shuffles around, working on keeping everyone back.
Once inside, the low, gritty beat to whatever outlaw country Chesney has playing pulses through the speakers as me and the band head toward the back of the room where everyone waits for us. Smoky Boy Whiskey is a local whiskey and moonshine distillery that makes some of the best whiskey I’ve ever had. I love them so much that last year I did a collaboration with them, making a special Segan Bradley black label. It’s sold on my website and at every show.
It was a no-brainer that they are the whiskey we use in the tasting for tonight’s event. Tucker Jennings is the owner of Smoky Boy, and one of my closest friends, so he was more than happy to come here tonight after the show.
Reaching the back corner of the room, all eyes snap to us, but my gaze lands on Tucker’s honey brown eyes. “Hey, hey, Tuck.” I saunter over, giving him a quick shake of the hand. “How the hell are you, man?”
In a Smoky Boy Whiskey white t-shirt, dark denim 501s, and a pair of dark brown boots, Tucker is an attractive as hell man. His dark skin is smooth, and the freckles and deep dimples he’s blessed with give him a baby face, making him look much younger than twenty-nine.
“Not bad,” he offers, along with a blindingly white smile. “How was the tour? I’ve seen nothing but your shows plastered all over social media for the last few months. It’s like I’ve been there.”
Chuckling, I mutter, “It was fucking incredible. Best tour to date.”
Glancing behind him, I see everyone else who came to the event. We decide to get started. Tucker’s distillery makes several different flavors of whiskey and moonshine. We all get to taste a handful of different ones—salted caramel, cinnamon, amaretto, peanut butter, which I didn’t expect to like as much as I did, and a vanilla coffee one that may be my new favorite.
Afterwards, I grab my acoustic guitar, and play one of my more popular songs for the group,The Storm in Your Eyes. It’s one of the first songs I ever wrote when I moved here, but it wasn’t until last year that I actually released it. It’s a deeply personal song, and for years, I couldn’t bring myself to share it with anybody, let alone the entire world.
The song never fails to remind me of my past, remind me of someone who, most days, I try to avoid thinking about, and it never fails to stir up those old, buried feelings. But like I said, it’s a crowd favorite, and when the label set up this event, it was the most requested song.
Gotta give the fans what they want, right?
When the song’s over, I sign a handful of autographs before everyone leaves. All in all, the event lasted a couple of hours, and by the time I make it home, it’s barely two in the morning. Not bad.
Tonight’s the first night I’ve been home in months. We got back into Nashville yesterday, but we stayed in a hotel. I live about thirty minutes outside of town, and my manager preferred we all stay close to where the show was being held.
It feels so fucking good to be home. I love touring and being on the road, but nothing beats being here. I bought this house a year after I signed with the label. It was the first time in my entire life that I had a significant amount of money to my name. It was the first time I didn’t struggle to make ends meet, or live paycheck to paycheck.
Closing on the house was a surreal experience. Living in a cozy four-bedroom farm-style house on three and a half acres was something I never envisioned for myself, and it felt almost too good to be true. Honestly, everything about the last seven years has felt too good to be true.
Yet, here I am, living the goddamn dream.
Who the fuck would’ve thought that was possible?
17
SEGAN
It’s too goddamn early to be awake right now.
Staring down at my phone, the clock shows it’s barely after seven in the morning. My driver will be here any minute to take me to a seven-thirty meeting in town. Who the fuck schedules a meeting for that fucking early? Aren’t they aware that musicians don’t do early mornings? Especially those who just got home from traveling on tour.
Pulling on a black t-shirt, I shove my wallet and keys into the pocket of my sweats before slipping my feet into a pair of Vans. I brush my teeth, and make a poor attempt at taming my hair, which is really just running wet fingers through the strands that insist on standing straight up like I’ve stuck my finger in a light socket. It does next to nothing, and I ultimately decide to throw on a ball cap before calling it good.
My phone vibrates with a text letting me know that Adam is waiting for me out front, so I head into the kitchen, yank open the fridge, and grab a blue Gatorade before walking out the door. It’s already warm as I step outside, meaning the day is probably going to be a scorcher. As far as seasons go, I’m much more of a fall dude, myself. I’m not a fan of cold weather, but I really fucking don’t like this muggy heat either.
Adam, ever the professional he is, climbs out of the driver’s seat, rounds the back of the car, and opens my door for me. “Good morning, Mr. Bradley,” he offers with a terse nod.
“Morning, Adam,” I reply, sliding into my seat. The cool air filtering around the cabin feels amazing. “Why the hell are you dressed like a penguin at seven in the morning when it’s already this moist and hot out?”
A barely-there smirk slides on his face as he shuts my door and makes his way back into the driver’s seat.
Adam’s a nice guy. A little too stuffy for my liking, but he’s always on time and he’s polite. So, that’s gotta be good for something. He’s been working for me since I signed with the label. As soon as my music went viral, and the world knew who Segan Bradley was, I no longer was able to drive myself anywhere—or go anywhere alone, for that matter.
