4. Quinn
4
QUINN
T he sun's barely peeking over the horizon when I pull out of Nashville, my ancient Honda protesting the early start with a concerning rattle. I pat the dashboard like it's one of my dying plants.
"Come on, Betty, we've got this. Just need you to hold it together for a few more states."
The first few hours blur past in a caffeine-fueled haze. I've got my road trip playlist blasting - carefully curated to avoid any country music. Can't risk getting sick of my genre before I even start the tour.
Then somewhere outside Springfield, Missouri, Betty makes a sound no car should ever make. The steering wheel jerks right, and I wrestle it onto the shoulder.
"No, no, no." I jump out, already knowing what I'll find. The front passenger tire looks like it picked a fight with a knife and lost. "Seriously?"
I'm popping the trunk when a pickup slows beside me. The driver, sporting a beard that could house small wildlife, leans out his window.
"Need some help there, sweetheart?"
"I'm good, thanks." I keep my voice firm but polite, the way you learn to after years of dealing with handsy customers at bars.
He parks anyway. Perfect.
"Now, don't be stubborn. Pretty thing like you shouldn't be changing tires."
I pull out my spare and jack, making sure he sees my phone in my hand. "My boyfriend's on his way." The lie rolls off my tongue smooth as honey. "He works for Nascar's pit crew, actually. Should be here any minute."
That does it. His truck roars back to life. "Well, if you're sure..."
"Positive. Thanks though!"
I wait until he's gone before muttering, "Creep," and getting to work. The sun beats down as I loosen lug nuts and position the jack. My hands are black with grime, my favorite sweater's probably ruined, and I've lost at least two hours.
"Some rock star lifestyle this is turning out to be." I grunt, fighting with the last bolt. "Bet Taylor Swift never had to change her own tire on the way to her big break."
Like a bad fucking joke, a couple hundred miles down the road, steam starts to billow from under Betty's hood like she's auditioning for a horror movie. The temperature gauge has been creeping up for the last hour, but I just chalked it up to be malfunctioning, like everything is is in this piece of metal, and now here I am, stranded on some backroad in South Dakota where the corn seems to stretch into infinity.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me." I scroll through my phone, searching for the nearest mechanic. The signal keeps dropping in and out. "Of course. Because why would anything go right today?"
When I finally get through to "Bubba's Quik Fix", sounds promising, I know, the news isn't good.
"Won't be able to get out there till morning, miss. Parts store's closed now anyway."
"There's really nothing you can do?" My voice cracks. "I have to be in Montana by tomorrow night."
"Sorry. First thing tomorrow, sugar, promise."
I tell him my location, bum fuck Egypt, and hang up. There's another phone call I need to make that I'm dreading.
I dial Tommy's number, my stomach doing somersaults. He picks up on the third ring.
"Quinn! How's the road treating you?"
"About that..." I lean against Betty's warm hood. "I'm stuck in South Dakota. Car trouble. The mechanic can't get to me until morning."
"What?" His voice shoots up an octave. "The meeting's at eight AM sharp tomorrow. The headliner's got a tight schedule-"
"I know, I know." I rake my fingers through my hair. "Look, I'll drive through the night if I have to. I'll get there."
"You better. This is your shot, kid. Don't blow it."
"I won't." The words come out stronger than I feel. "Hell or high water, I'll be there."
After hanging up, I grab my guitar from the backseat and perch on Betty's hood. Might as well practice while I wait for the tow truck. My fingers find the strings, and I start picking out a melody.
"Well, Betty," I say to my faithful car, "at least you waited until after we got the tire fixed to break down completely. That's something, right?"
The wind whistles through the corn in response, and I swear it sounds like laughter.
If you can consider it luck, there's a motel room within walking distance where Betty called it quits.
The front desk guy, who's name tag fondly says Corey, and who looks like he's sported the same haircut since the 70's, ensures me that he will set me up in the finest room they have. For a whopping total of $98 dollars, it better at least have 4 ply toilet paper.
I finagle the key in the lock and open the door to my overnight oasis. The room smells like stale cigarettes and broken dreams. I drop my overnight bag on the bed, and a puff of dust rises from the ancient comforter. At least the sheets look clean-ish.
"Home sweet home." I fish a granola bar from my purse - dinner of champions.
My phone buzzes at 7 AM, jolting me awake from my less than luxurious sleep. Bucky's Quik Fix number flashes on the screen.
"Please be good news, please be good news," I whisper, answering the call.
"Morning, miss. Got your car up on the lift." The mechanic clears his throat. "Found something else. Your timing belt's shot to hell, and the water pump's going with it."
My stomach drops. "But you can fix it today, right?"
"Parts truck should arrive at noon. These older Hondas-"
"No, I need my car now. I have to be in Montana by tonight."
"Listen, miss-"
"I'm coming to get it. Whatever's wrong, I'll deal with it on the road."
He sighs. "Unless you're planning to pull a Fred Flintstone and run it with your feet, that car ain't going nowhere. Engine will seize up within five miles."
"You don't understand." My voice cracks. "I have to be there."
"I understand just fine ma'am. But physics don't care about your plans. That car moves, you'll end up stranded somewhere a lot worse than here."
I sink onto the bed, springs creaking under me. "How much is this gonna cost?"
The number he quotes makes my head spin. There goes Abby's hundred dollars, plus most of my emergency fund.
"Fine." I press my palm against my forehead. "Just... fix it. Fast as you can."
I dial Tommy again, my fingers trembling. The line crackles.
"What now?" His tone already tells me he knows it's bad news.
"The car's worse than we thought. I'm stuck here until at least noon."
"Jesus Christ, Quinn." He exhales hard enough to make the speaker buzz. "This is not how you start a professional relationship."
"I know, I-"
"Hold on." Keys clack in the background. "I'm sending you Monica Morrison's number. Call her. Explain. And Quinn? Try not to sound like an amateur."
My phone pings with the contact. I stare at it for a full minute, gathering courage before dialing.
A woman answers, her voice sharp and clipped. "Monica Morisson."
"Hi, this is Quinn Dupree. I'm supposed to be opening for the Hometown for the Holiday's tour?" My voice rises at the end, making it sound like a question. Amateur hour indeed.
"Ah yes, the Nashville girl. Where are you?"
"That's why I'm calling. My car broke down in South Dakota. The mechanic says-"
"South Dakota?" She cuts me off. "You're supposed to be in Montana tomorrow morning by 8AM."
"I know. I'm trying to get there, but-"
"Listen carefully." Her tone softens slightly. "The meeting was just formalities - contract signing, tour rules, that sort of thing. Legal can email those. Can you make it by showtime tomorrow night?"
"Yes. Absolutely." I clutch the phone tighter. "The second my car's fixed, I'm driving straight through."
"Good. Because if you miss that show, you'll be on their shit list and trust me, that's not a place you want to be. Clear?"
"Crystal."
"I'll have someone email you the paperwork. Sign it, scan it, send it back before you go on stage." She pauses. "And Quinn? Don't make a habit of this."
The line goes dead. I flop back on the motel bed, sending up another cloud of dust.
"Well," I tell the water-stained ceiling, "at least I'm not fired. Yet."
Around 7:30 PM, the mechanic finally wipes his hands on a rag as I settle the bill, my bank account screaming in digital agony. "She'll get you where you're going now, but take it easy on those mountain passes."
"Thanks." I check my phone's map. "Only about twelve more hours of straight driving. No biggie."
"Might want to fill up before you head out." He points west. "Station down there's got the best prices in town."
I force a smile, knowing my remaining fifty bucks will barely cover the gas. "Right. Thanks again."
Betty purrs to life - actually purrs, not her usual asthmatic wheeze. At least something's going right. I pull into the gas station, watching the numbers tick up with growing dread.
"Forty-seven fifty-eight," I mutter, releasing the pump handle. "Living the dream here, Quinn. Living the absolute dream."
I crank up the radio, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. The sun's starting to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Somewhere ahead, Montana's waiting. And maybe, just maybe, my big break.