August Lane

by Regina Black

Genres: Women's Fiction; African American Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A former country music heartthrob takes another run at stardom by reuniting with the uncredited writer of his only hit, the enigmatic daughter of a Black country music pioneer—who happens to be the woman he’s loved since they wrote the song together in high school.

Every Thursday night, 36-year-old former country music heartthrob Luke Randall has to sing “Another Love Song.” God, he hates that song. But improvising acoustic covers of his decades old hit at an interstate motel lounge is the only regular money he still has. After another lackluster performance at the rock bottom of his career, Luke receives the opportunity of his dreams, opening for his childhood idol—90’s era Black country music star, JoJo Lane, who’s being inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame. He needs the money, and impressing JoJo could mean a nationwide tour and a second chance at stardom. But the concert is in Arcadia, Arkansas, the small southern delta hometown he swore he’d never see again. Going back means facing a painful past of abuse and neglect. It also means facing JoJo’s daughter, August Lane—the woman who wrote the hit song lyrics he’s always claimed as his own. 
 
August hates that stupid song. And she hates Luke Randall even more. When he shows up twenty years too late and tries to apologize for lying about “Another Love Song,” August isn’t interested in receiving credit for a song she despises. Instead, she offers him penance: he can co-write and perform a new song at the concert, something that will launch her out of her mother's shadow and into a songwriting career beyond Arcadia's limits. Desperate to keep his secret, Luke agrees to put on the rogue performance during JoJo’s show, despite the risk of losing his shot at a tour and a new record deal.
 
When Luke’s guitar reunites with August’s torchlit alto, neither can deny that the spark that drew them together as teenagers is still there. As the concert nears, August will have to choose between an overdue public reckoning with the boy who betrayed her, or trusting the man he’s become to write another love song.

Release date: July 29, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 304

Sample

Episode 12—“Jojo Lane”

August 21, 2024

Host: Emma Fisher, Senior Writer, The Breakdown Magazine

2023

The last guitar chord hung in the frigid air that pumped relentlessly from the air vents of the Memphis Best Value Bar and Lounge, while the customers stared blankly at Luke Randall like they were still waiting for things to get interesting. Someone cleared their throat, and the sound startled them out of a trance. Their applause was slow and drenched in pity. But, hell, he’d take it. These days, he’d take anything that wasn’t ambivalence.

Luke leaned forward and drawled “Thank you” in a deep, smoky tone he’d been told gave his voice more swagger. “That was ‘I Fall to Pieces’ by the Patsy Cline, one of my favorites.” He flashed a smile. “Not a big fan of sad songs before dinner, huh? I don’t blame you. But that’s country for you, right? Everybody’s leaving. No one’s gettin’ laid.”

Someone snorted and chuckled. Even when the music was shit, he could still work a crowd. “Always wondered about that song,” he said. “Like, there’s got to be a story there. There’s always a story.” He ran his hand along the guitar frets. “Maybe they were married. Whoever Patsy was singing about, I mean. Feels like the bad side of a divorce—”

“Just play the fucking song!”

The heckler slurred the words from the back. The audience reanimated as if the guy had tossed raw meat into a herd of zombies. Someone shouted in agreement, and they started clapping, for real this time, staring up at him with feral eyes. “Do it,” their glares told him. “I paid five bucks to hear the one song that makes you worth a shit, and if you don’t play it in the next five seconds, no one will ever find the body.”

Luke didn’t acknowledge the man, who’d yanked off his John Deere cap and started pumping his arms like they were at a football game. Arguing was pointless. As the lone Black man in a sea of drunken white faces, it was also potentially dangerous. Instead, he retreated into himself, as he usually did when this happened. And it always happened. Like clockwork, every Thursday around eight, before the kitchen started serving entrées and the bar started watering down the whiskey, someone’s patience would snap, and the vitriol would spread like a virus.

Luke took a long drink of water, leaned into the mic, and sang the first lines of the song he hated with every fiber of his being. “I’m frozen in place / My heart’s gone numb / But you keep breaking the part that still feels something.”

He locked eyes with a cute Black woman with waist-length Sisterlocks in the front row. She was perched on the edge of her chair, fully aware of the figure she struck in a hostile room filled with camo and denim. She smiled without murder in her eyes, and he smiled back out of habit. That’s how he usually got through this. Focusing on a friendly face who got a kick out of being serenaded made the hardest parts go down easier. Because every song did have a story.

This one haunted him like a ghost.

Even now, thirteen years after “Another Love Song” hit the top of the country charts, Luke couldn’t play the first chords without fumbling. His fingers wanted to strum the original arrangement, a blues ballad the people in this room would barely recognize. But no one really likes sad music. That had been drilled into him on the soundstage of Country Star. At seventeen, he’d been coached through the reality show that started his career by a fast-talking, sloe-eyed man who claimed to have discovered every mid-list country singer on the verge of hitting big. Luke couldn’t remember his name anymore, but he’d never forget the thick line of gold rings that squeezed the man’s knuckles as if they had been purchased during younger, leaner times. Luke had watched them as the guy fingerstyled a faster, twangier version of “Another Love Song” he claimed would impress the judges instead of sedating them. “Or make ’em cry, which they’ll pretend to like but never forgive you for. No one wants a snotty nose on national television.”

Golden Rings was right. When Luke had sung the song that wasn’t his song, the crowd screamed and hollered, like he’d been changed into someone else, too. Instead of a clueless country boy fresh off a Greyhound, he became a charming bro who understood what they were here for—good times, cheap beer, and southern nostalgia. The song had propelled him to the semifinals and a few months later, his first record deal. But deep down, he’d always figured he’d change back to that guy from the bus. That one lie was okay if whatever came next was true.

But big lies don’t work that way. Not when millions of people fall for it. Hand yourself to the world wrapped in a shiny, whitewashed package, and it’s the only way they’ll ever accept you. They wanted Luke, the pop star who made you want to grab your girl and dance, not Lucas, the crooner who made you want to burrow with her under the covers and trace her skin until it didn’t feel like skin anymore.

The friendly woman’s smile pulled Luke back to the present as he slid into the bridge. He almost winked but stopped himself. She’d get the wrong idea, which was the last thing he needed. She wasn’t flirting with him. She was making eyes at some poster she used to have on her wall.

His voice went up an octave too high on a key change because it was a hopeful chorus he could never quite sell. “But if I wrote a different love song / took your hand in mine / threw out all the lines.” He belted out the rest so they wouldn’t notice how much the song messed with his head. Just once, he’d like to get through it without thinking about her.

Just once.

The room exploded with applause before he finished. He nodded thanks and told them he was taking a break. Most would be gone when he returned for a round of Tim McGraw covers. They had gotten what they came for—a dose of late 2000s nostalgia and a 25 percent discount coupon for the buffet next door.

The woman from the audience headed his way, so he pivoted toward the bar. A middle-aged white man with dark hair cut him off before he could reach it.

“Buy you a drink?” The man didn’t smile, but there was no hostility there, either. It hadn’t been Luke’s best performance. Some people took that personally. The man tapped the drink menu. “What’s your poison?”

All of it. “I can get my own. Thanks.” Luke crooked his finger toward the bartender, who nodded and pulled out a bottle of tonic water with his name scrawled across the label.

“How the hell did you manage that? Boylan Heritage?” The man leaned against the counter. “I thought this place only mixed with Canada Dry.”

Looking more closely, Luke noted that the man didn’t fit the room at all. His black oxfords gleamed with a shine you could only get from an airport terminal. His hair was freshly cut. His aftershave smelled like wood sap drizzled over money.

“David Henry,” the man said, extending his hand.

“Luke Randall.” They shook, and Luke added, “Most people call me Lucas.”

David squinted. “Do they really?”

“Nope.” Luke grabbed his tonic water and took a swig. “But whenever I meet someone new, I figure it’s worth a shot.”

The corner of David’s mouth lifted slightly. The guy had a resting no-bullshit face. It was probably as close to a smile as he would get.

“Dodging nicknames is a waste of time around here. I flew in last week.” He stuffed a twenty in the tip jar. “Never been called Dave a day in my life but watch this.” He caught the bartender’s eye. “Another.”

The bartender nodded. “Sure thing, Dave.”

David rolled his eyes, grabbed a table, and indicated that Luke should join him. Luke hesitated. He tried to avoid the bar when he wasn’t onstage. But this guy had a business edge that reminded Luke of industry types from LA. He was probably recruiting for some D-list reality series starring former pop stars willing to trade their dignity for clout and views. Listening to the pitch would be more interesting than watching HGTV in the dank closet the bar called a dressing room, so Luke went to the table.

David picked up the tonic water as soon as Luke sat down. “How long have you been sober?”

“Five years.” Luke was too startled by the question to lie. Was it that obvious he was in recovery? He’d had nightmares about his old benders being seared to his body like a brand.

“Impressive.” David returned the drink to Luke and scanned the room. “Not the best workplace for you, though.”

Luke drummed his fingers on the table. Five years may sound like a long time to most people, but Luke measured his sobriety in hours. He could identify every cocktail in close proximity by color and smell. “Not the best place” was putting it mildly. But there weren’t a lot of dry music venues clamoring to put him on the schedule.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Luke asked, because there was no way in hell he was going to discuss the weekly mind fuck of being a sober drunk in a bar with a stranger.

“David Henry,” he repeated, as if the words were a business card. “You’ve never heard of me?”

“No.”

David looked annoyed. He jabbed a finger at the empty stage. “How many times have you performed that song?”

Luke had been eighteen when “Another Love Song” was released as a single. Between opening for bigger acts, performing at award shows, and recording gimmicky remixes, he’d probably sung it a million times. “Not sure,” he answered, then grabbed a napkin from a holder. He made a triple fold, the way his mother had taught him back when she had it together enough to care about that sort of thing. “Every time I sing, it feels like the first.”

“Bullshit. You were struggling up there.”

Luke tossed the napkin on the table. “Sorry you were disappointed.”

“Me?” A deep, bully chuckle burst from David’s chest. “Oh, I’m not a fan. My buddies and I used to make fun of that song when it was popular. Sweet’N Low country is what we used to call it. For people who don’t really like the music.”

Luke glanced over his shoulder at the clock. The conversation was getting meaner, and the smell of David’s martini was bothering him. “To each his own,” he mumbled, instead of telling the guy to fuck off, that the song hadn’t been like that when it was written, and let’s see you get your heart ripped out onstage every night. “It’s getting late—”

“Like I said, I’m not a fan.” David drained his drink and shoved the glass to one side, far away from Luke. “I’m a manager. For Jojo Lane.”

Luke didn’t believe him at first. Jojo Lane’s manager randomly showing up at a Memphis bar sounded like the sort of delusional scenario he used to conjure up when he still had the hope of being rescued from career purgatory. But nothing on David’s face revealed anything but impatience. He was waiting for Luke to acknowledge his status as music royalty. The way Jojo’s career was skyrocketing these days, he’d probably earned it.

Luke had been five years old when Jojo Lane released her first record, a six-song EP of acoustic country covers. He got the album for his seventh birthday and had it on repeat for weeks. His life was a cage back then. Jojo escaping Arcadia to follow her dream felt like a message she’d bottled up and sent directly to him. It said keep playing that old guitar. Keep dreaming, even on the days it feels like this might kill you.

Everyone in his hometown knew Jojo’s story. She was a former beauty queen, the first Black Miss Arkansas Delta Teen in the region’s history. In 1994, a sixteen-year-old Jojo made national headlines for being a sign of racial progress in the Deep South. People started calling her “little Lencola,” after the first Black Miss Arkansas. But then word got out that Jojo had a one-year-old daughter. While not technically against the rules, the scandal was enough to force her to relinquish her crown.

But she didn’t disappear for long. At nineteen, she moved to Nashville to pursue a music career. The novelty of her race, paired with the local beauty queen scandal, gave her album more traction than it would have gotten otherwise. One journalist called her an “obstinate rebel, determined to make room in industries that are clearly hostile to her presence.”

Jojo recorded more albums, earning her a small, devoted fan base but no radio play. Her music was mainstream enough to be dismissed as pop and, sometimes, mislabeled as R&B. But last year, Charlotte Turner covered Jojo’s song “Invisible” on her album. A scathing op-ed about the optics of a white millennial superstar singing a song about being a Black woman who had been overlooked by Nashville sparked enough controversy to make Jojo’s original version go viral.

Suddenly she was everywhere. At the CMAs. The Grammys. Jojo was officially dubbed a Black country pioneer. Her new single, “Rewrite the Story,” had spent the last two months in the top five on the Hot Country Songs chart.

“You really work for Jojo?”

David nodded. “For over twenty years now.” He gave Luke an assessing look. “You’re from the same hometown, right? Went to school with her daughter?”

“Yeah. Au—S-She and I were… friends.” He flattened the end of the sentence, hoping David wouldn’t notice how badly he fumbled it. “Does Jojo have a show nearby?” he asked, eager to change the subject. “Is that why you’re here?”

“No, she’s in the studio. Working on the new album.” David reclined in his unreclinable chair and propped his ankle on one knee. This was a guy who’d never had an awkward conversation in his life. Which meant he was either brilliant or a psychopath. “It’s been a while since you’ve been home, hasn’t it? To Arcadia?”

Luke ran a hand over his hair and tried to focus through the fog that had settled over his thoughts. That’s what happened whenever someone brought up his hometown. His brain would try to protect him from the shit he used to drown in gin. “Yeah,” Luke said. “There’s not much to the place, is there?”

“That’s true. It’s definitely existential crisis country. Jojo hates going back but feels obligated because of family. You’ve got family there, too, right? Friends?”

The last time Luke spoke to his mother, she’d been so high that it took her half an hour to realize that it wasn’t his little brother on the phone. “We’re more of a Facebook only family.”

“You don’t have a Facebook. Or Instagram. Or fans with Facebooks or Instagrams.”

“You stalking me?” Luke scanned the room. The crowd was thinning, and the manager was giving him impatient looks. He still owed another set. “Look, tell Jojo I said congratulations on her success. Glad they’re finally giving her the attention she deserves.”

Luke pushed back his chair and stood. David cocked a brow and said, “Sit,” in the low octave people usually reserved for kids and animals.

“No,” Luke said, matching his tone. “You’ve got five seconds to say something to change my mind.”

There was a familiar shift in David’s demeanor. It happened when someone stopped seeing the kid on those old album covers and realized there was a tattooed, six-foot-two former football player standing in front of them. Not fear. Just a heightened awareness.

“I’m not stalking you. I’m vetting you. Making sure you’re not a tabloid nightmare before I offer to change your life.”

Luke didn’t sit down right away even though hope surged through him hard and fast. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t hitch his dead dreams to Jojo’s big moment because odds were this conversation wasn’t what it looked like. Last week, he’d watched a newscast where the Tennessee lottery announcer read winning ticket numbers next to a cage of Ping-Pong balls. The first few matched Luke’s birthday, and even though he hadn’t bought a ticket, his heart skipped a few beats anyway. Now, it did that same pointless jig. Jojo’s manager offering to work with him was a long shot in a game he’d stopped playing.

Luke folded his arms and schooled his face into unreadable stone. “I’m listening.”

David smirked. “Well, this is different. Until now you’ve had the get-up-and-go of a surly Muppet. Is this broody thing the real you?”

“Still not hearing anything that makes me want to grab that chair.”

“Fine, fine.” David motioned to the bartender, pointed to Luke’s tonic water, and showed the man two fingers. “I’ll need a clear head for this. Still trying to accept that I’m actually here, trying to convince you of all people to perform at one of the biggest events of Jojo’s life.” He sighed. “It’s the Hall of Fame. She’s the first Black woman to be inducted. Only a few people know it yet, but the news will break tomorrow.”

Luke sat down again. The club manager jabbed at his watch, but Luke ignored him. Nothing could distract him from the man sitting across from him, claiming history was going to be made and that Luke was about to be a part of it. “The Country Music Hall of Fame?”

“That’s the one.”

Luke turned it over in his mind. Not Linda Martell. Or Sister Rosetta Tharpe, the woman who’d inspired Elvis’s career. Even though Jojo had been in the industry for twenty-five years, she was a bold and probably controversial choice. It acknowledged that all those albums country radio had ignored for decades were real country.

They weren’t honoring history. They were rewriting it.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” David looked earnest for the first time that night. “I don’t have to tell you how big this is. They’re pulling out all the stops for Jojo. International press, a streaming concert, and a new album release after her induction.” David leaned forward. “This is legacy making. I need you to understand that.”

“I get it,” Luke said. “I won’t tell a soul until it’s out there.”

David leaned back, reclining again. “Good. Because Jojo wants to sing ‘Another Love Song,’ with you at her concert if you’re interested…” David looked around. “Who am I kidding? Of course you are.”

A sound burst from Luke’s throat, half shout and half “goddamn” that he muffled quickly behind his hand. He still didn’t quite believe what the man was telling him. “Why me?”

“Are there any other Black semi-famous country stars from her tiny speck of a hometown that I don’t know about? If so, I’d love more options.” David sighed. “She likes the song. It was one of the first covers she mentioned adding to the set list.” He paused. “You haven’t said yes.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever she wants.”

“I bet you will.” David studied him for a moment. “But like I said, I’ve been looking into you. Probably closer than anyone else has in years. I know about the drinking. And the rumors about your marriage.”

Luke’s excitement faded. He hadn’t thought about his marriage to Charlotte Turner before accepting the offer because those rumors were true: They had been separated for years. The lack of an official divorce was their attempt to avoid an even bigger scandal than her covering Jojo’s song. Charlotte had cheated on him with the woman she was currently engaged to. If her conservative fan base found out that not only had she been unfaithful but she was also secretly queer, it might ruin Charlotte’s career.

Luke briefly wondered if this man knew that his entire life was one lie toppling over the next. But David had made it clear he wasn’t a fan. If he knew the truth, he wouldn’t be there. “All that stuff about Charlotte and me is old news.”

“Agreed. But I just want to make sure that’s all there is. You’ve been off the radar for a long time. Any other skeletons I should know about before we put your name in micro font beneath the headliner?”

Luke’s thoughts turned to “Another Love Song,” but like always, he wrestled them back down a different road that wasn’t littered with potholes. “No,” he said. “What you see is what you get.”

“Well, that’s probably true.” He gave Luke a long look. “You really haven’t been home in thirteen years?”

Luke was thrown by the sudden change in topic. “No. Why?”

David shrugged. “Just seems odd. I imagine it’ll be strange going back next month.”

“Going back?”

“The concert’s in Arcadia. During that music festival that they hold every year.” He pulled out his business card and scribbled something on the back. “Think you can sing that song one more time?”

Luke nodded, even though his heart was trying to strangle the life out of him. “Does um…” He cleared his throat. “Does August Lane still live there?”

August didn’t realize how drunk she was until she laughed when Shirley Dixon called her a backstabbing cunt. She’d convinced herself that the faint buzz in her ears was nerves. Or, more accurately, guilt. Ringing the doorbell of your married ex-lover at one in the morning was bound to be hazardous to your health. Staring into the angry abyss of Shirley’s blue eyes confirmed it. That kind of venom left a mark on everything in its path.

August tried to explain that, despite appearances, she wasn’t there to cause a scene. But what came out was a slurred “This isn’t what you think,” coupled with a desperate “I don’t want trouble.”

The irony of her sad little protests made her want to laugh again. The windows of the shotgun houses lining the gravel road were lit up like spotlights for the show on Shirley’s porch. The neighbors were watching. Charlie Leppo peered through the curtains. Alice Magee took out a drooping trash bag that could have waited another day.

“First you steal my husband,” Shirley said, her high-pitched voice sharpening the words into needles. “Now you embarrass me in public?” Her eyes shifted sideways to the small crowd of Black faces watching the drama unfold. She was one of two white people currently living in the Eastside neighborhood, and both of them had married in. Shirley’s parents owned the local newspaper and drove the only Tesla August had seen up close. They’d disowned their daughter when she got engaged to a Black UPS driver but had paid for her wedding anyway, because that’s what people with money did: freeze you out politely.

That had to be something. Going from country club receptions to this.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” August said, which was true. Head spinning aside, she remembered Terrance saying that his soon-to-be ex-wife usually worked the late shift at Kroger, which seemed like the perfect time to talk to him alone. Only August hadn’t factored in her detour to the county line liquor store. Or that her inebriated brain would decide that inching down a country road at five miles an hour was the best way to avoid slamming her Nissan into a tree.

“I need to drop this off.” August shoved her hand inside her pocket and fingered the velour jewelry box she’d stashed there. It sobered her slightly and reminded her of the reason she’d come. Some things were more important than her pride or Shirley’s feelings.

“Why are you like this?” Shirley looked her over like a bruised apple marring an otherwise perfect produce section. “Greedy. Like everyone owes you something ’cause of your mama.”

August didn’t want to talk about Jojo. But Shirley probably knew that. They’d gone to high school together. While August wouldn’t call her a bully, Shirley used to laugh loud and long whenever someone insulted August with comparisons to her mother. But August never held that against her. Shirley was just trying to survive the ruthless hierarchies of Arcadia High. August had done the same, even though it hadn’t done her much good. Despite spending most of the last decade single and caring for her sick grandmother, the fast reputation she’d earned as a teenager was etched in stone.

“I’m sorry,” August said, because she knew it was all anyone wanted to hear from her. Sorry I broke that thing you loved. Your marriage. Your heart. Sorry that I’m broken, too. “I don’t know what Terrance told you, but I didn’t know you two were—”

Shirley’s hand whipped out so fast August barely saw the motion. The slap was force and a loud pop followed by a numb burn along the left side of her face. August staggered back as the air filled with shocked hisses and chatter from the people around them.

She would’ve rather been punched. A punch was the beginning and end of a fight. It said I respect you enough to win this now because I don’t know what will happen if you punch me back. Slaps were reminders not to step out of line. To know your place. The surprise had curved August into a slight crouch, and Shirley sneered down at her in triumph.

That look did it—the sneer. It reminded August of who she was, but more importantly, who she wasn’t and would never be again: weak. Anyone’s victim. The low voices around them had taken on an indignant tone because, while Shirley lived there, she wasn’t Eastside. August had been born in this neighborhood, and in a town of four thousand people, street addresses weren’t something you ever shook off.

August lunged and grabbed Shirley’s hair, weaving it between her fingers, and pulled so hard the woman nearly fell on top of her. She kicked out and hit Shirley’s shin before a strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back.

“Enough! That’s enough!”

For a moment, August tried to fight both people at once. She still had a handful of hair, and she knew the man who had lifted her like she weighed nothing had always been terrified that he’d accidentally hurt her with his bulk. Terrance was twice her size and thick all over, and even now, with August’s hand clawing at his wife’s scalp, his grip was slack and careful, like she was made of glass instead of bone.

“August, please,” he said, mouth to her ear. “Let her go.”

The surrounding voices had become shouts and whistles. She finally let go of Shirley’s hair.

Charlie Leppo yelled, “Get your house in order, Terry!”

Alice Magee laughed so hard she doubled over.

Shirley was hysterical, screaming that August was a “crazy bitch who was going to regret this.” Terrance stepped between them and blocked Shirley’s view with his Superman shoulders.

August watched him convince his wife to go back inside the house and let him handle things. He had a voice like Teddy Pendergrass. It was hypnotic. She’d told him that once when they were listening to music after dinner. It had been a. . .