polite way of telling them to kiss my ass as well as code for Addison to shut up and come on. I may be a smidgen on the desperate side, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna beg. I may not have a job or the man I love, but I still have my pride. This band of nitwits isn't going to rob me of that.
"Have a wonderful afternoon," I say with an edge of venom as I turn for the door. And may your crotches be infested with the crabs of a thousand whores.
"Wait."
I stop as I'm almost out the door and look back to see which one of these jackoffs is talking to me. It's the leader again—the tall one with the Keith Urban hair. He's lounging back in his chair and asks the other band members, "Should we let the little lady entertain us?"
Damn, he's smug. "Don't do me any favors." Yeah, I know. I shouldn't get smart with these guys but I can't help myself. They're pissing me off in a bad way, acting like I'm at their mercy.
The guy drumming pencils against the desk starts laughing. "She's a feisty one. That could be a good sign."
Blondie motions for me to come back, but my feet don't move. "Come on and show us what you can do."
I'm not quick to jump at his request. I don't want to look desperate, so I paste on my best poker face and walk casually back toward them. My guitar case thuds atop the conference table and I take out my mom's worn guitar. I slide the strap over my head and move to a vacant stool.
"What's your name?"
I think it's best that I don't use my real name since I'm in contact with my father now. There's no way of knowing what'll happen when his relationship with my mother goes public—and I'm sure it's only a matter of time before that happens. Those kinds of things don't stay buried forever, and I can't risk an association with him that might identify him as my father.
I'm put on the spot to come up with a name—just like the night Jack Henry asked me who I was. I immediately think of using "Paige Beckett," but that alias would defeat the whole purpose of avoiding a connection to my paternity. "Laurelyn Prescott, but I plan on using Paige McLachlan as my stage name."
I see Addison jerk her head around to look at me. She has to think I've flipped my wig. I'll have to come up with something to tell her. Later. Right now, I have three guys I have to win over with my voice.
"I'm Charlie." He's the lead vocalist, the one I'd sing with. I strum my guitar as he points to the guy with a slick head slouched in a chair, arms crossed. He appears unenthused by my presence. "That's Ryan. He plays keyboards and mandolin." He moves to the pencil pecker and I already know what he's gonna say. "That's PJ, our drummer."
I'm still not feeling like Miss Congeniality after my icy welcome, but I smile as I reply, "Nice to meet you."
"What are you gonna play for us?"
I'm confident in my decision. The Rascal Flatts song is the best choice since it has that crossover country pop sound like Southern Ophelia. "'What Hurts the Most.'"
"Nice choice."
I begin playing, singing with my eyes closed. Most people think I do so because of nerves, but that's not why. I use the time to feel the music and visualize. I transfer to that place so my audience will feel the genuineness of what I'm singing. Finding that spot in my head isn't going to be difficult; this song has taken on a whole new meaning for me since parting ways with Jack Henry.
I'm keeping tempo with my boot heel on the stool's support rung when I come to the chorus. And that's when I open my eyes. The three members of Southern Ophelia are watching me intently but I know it's do or die; this is where I must go in for the kill, and I choose Charlie as my victim since he's shown himself to be the head of this trio.
My eyes meet his and I expose myself fully, using the lyrics as my emotions. I show him my heart and soul—and the dreadful way it looks without Jack Henry. He sees my dark side but only because I allow it.
When I finish, there's a moment of silence before Ryan and PJ
"Have a wonderful afternoon," I say with an edge of venom as I turn for the door. And may your crotches be infested with the crabs of a thousand whores.
"Wait."
I stop as I'm almost out the door and look back to see which one of these jackoffs is talking to me. It's the leader again—the tall one with the Keith Urban hair. He's lounging back in his chair and asks the other band members, "Should we let the little lady entertain us?"
Damn, he's smug. "Don't do me any favors." Yeah, I know. I shouldn't get smart with these guys but I can't help myself. They're pissing me off in a bad way, acting like I'm at their mercy.
The guy drumming pencils against the desk starts laughing. "She's a feisty one. That could be a good sign."
Blondie motions for me to come back, but my feet don't move. "Come on and show us what you can do."
I'm not quick to jump at his request. I don't want to look desperate, so I paste on my best poker face and walk casually back toward them. My guitar case thuds atop the conference table and I take out my mom's worn guitar. I slide the strap over my head and move to a vacant stool.
"What's your name?"
I think it's best that I don't use my real name since I'm in contact with my father now. There's no way of knowing what'll happen when his relationship with my mother goes public—and I'm sure it's only a matter of time before that happens. Those kinds of things don't stay buried forever, and I can't risk an association with him that might identify him as my father.
I'm put on the spot to come up with a name—just like the night Jack Henry asked me who I was. I immediately think of using "Paige Beckett," but that alias would defeat the whole purpose of avoiding a connection to my paternity. "Laurelyn Prescott, but I plan on using Paige McLachlan as my stage name."
I see Addison jerk her head around to look at me. She has to think I've flipped my wig. I'll have to come up with something to tell her. Later. Right now, I have three guys I have to win over with my voice.
"I'm Charlie." He's the lead vocalist, the one I'd sing with. I strum my guitar as he points to the guy with a slick head slouched in a chair, arms crossed. He appears unenthused by my presence. "That's Ryan. He plays keyboards and mandolin." He moves to the pencil pecker and I already know what he's gonna say. "That's PJ, our drummer."
I'm still not feeling like Miss Congeniality after my icy welcome, but I smile as I reply, "Nice to meet you."
"What are you gonna play for us?"
I'm confident in my decision. The Rascal Flatts song is the best choice since it has that crossover country pop sound like Southern Ophelia. "'What Hurts the Most.'"
"Nice choice."
I begin playing, singing with my eyes closed. Most people think I do so because of nerves, but that's not why. I use the time to feel the music and visualize. I transfer to that place so my audience will feel the genuineness of what I'm singing. Finding that spot in my head isn't going to be difficult; this song has taken on a whole new meaning for me since parting ways with Jack Henry.
I'm keeping tempo with my boot heel on the stool's support rung when I come to the chorus. And that's when I open my eyes. The three members of Southern Ophelia are watching me intently but I know it's do or die; this is where I must go in for the kill, and I choose Charlie as my victim since he's shown himself to be the head of this trio.
My eyes meet his and I expose myself fully, using the lyrics as my emotions. I show him my heart and soul—and the dreadful way it looks without Jack Henry. He sees my dark side but only because I allow it.
When I finish, there's a moment of silence before Ryan and PJ
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