8. Quinn
8
QUINN
T he hotel room's heat blasts at full force, turning my sanctuary into a sauna. I've kicked off the scratchy comforter hours ago, but even the sheet feels too heavy. Back home, my faulty radiator would've given up by now, letting the winter chill seep through my paper-thin walls.
Sprawled on the bed, I replay Just South of Mason's performance in my head for the hundredth time. Their harmonies were tight enough to make angels weep, and that guitar solo in "Midnight in Memphis" - my fingers could never move that fast.
"What the hell were you thinking?" I mutter to the ceiling, pressing my palms against my eyes until spots dance behind my lids. "They've got platinum records and I've got... YouTube comments comparing me to Wynonna Ryder."
My phone buzzes. It's Abby.
"So? How was it? Did you kill it?"
"I didn't even make it to soundcheck." The words taste bitter. "But I watched their show and... God, Abs, they're incredible. Like, stadium-worthy incredible. And I'm supposed to open for them?"
"That's good though, right? Means people will actually show up to hear you."
"Or throw tomatoes at me." I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow. "You should've seen them. The way they worked the crowd, how everyone knew every single word. The bassist didn't miss a single note, and their lead singer... his voice is like butter and whiskey had a baby."
"Quinn-"
"This is ridiculous," I mutter, rolling over for the hundredth time. "This room is like Satan's armpit. I just miss my crappy apartment."
"At least your toes aren't freezing for once."
"Trade-offs." I pad to the thermostat, jabbing buttons uselessly. "I've got that meeting in four hours and I look like I've been swimming."
"You could always take another shower."
"And risk falling asleep standing up? No thanks." The carpet feels rough under my feet as I pace. "God, what am I doing here, Abs? They probably eat amateurs like me for breakfast."
"Quinn Dupree, I swear if you spiral on me?—"
"Too late. Already spiraling. Send help. Goodbye."
As I hang up in dramatic fashion, the AC kicks on with a wheeze, finally deciding to work. Too little, too late. Sleep feels impossible now, my mind racing with every possible disaster tomorrow could bring.
The dashboard clock reads 7:02 AM as I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. The label's building looms ahead, all glass and steel and intimidation. My new outfit itches at the collar, and I resist the urge to scratch.
"You're pathetically early," I tell my reflection in the rearview mirror. "And talking to yourself. Great start."
I click on the radio, hoping for a distraction. Bing Crosby's voice fills the car.
"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas? Seriously?" I jab the preset buttons. "It's not even Thanksgiving. The turkey's still alive somewhere, probably."
The next station isn't any better - more jingling bells. I hit another button and freeze as the opening chords of "Amber eyes" fill my car. Just South of Mason's latest hit mocks me through the speakers, Jarron Carter's voice smooth as honey and twice as rich.
"Oh, come on!" I switch it off, slumping in my seat. "The universe is really laying it on thick today."
My phone chirps with a text from Abby: "Knock 'em dead, superstar!"
"Currently sitting in my car having an existential crisis," I type back. "May throw up on their expensive shoes. Will keep you posted."
The reply comes instantly: "Aim for the fancy ones. Make it count."
I snort, then catch myself smiling. The clock now reads 7:08. Only fifty-two minutes to go before I face the music - literally. I drum my fingers faster, considering another radio attempt, but decide silence is better than more holiday cheer or another Just South of Mason reminder of what I'm up against.
"Just breathe," I whisper to myself. "You've got this. Probably. Maybe."
A sharp blast jolts me awake. My phone alarm screams its 7:55 warning as my neck protests the awkward angle against the car window.
"Shit!" I scramble upright, heart pounding.
The dashboard clock confirms my worst fear - I dozed off. My reflection in the rearview mirror makes me wince. The carefully applied makeup has smudged under my right eye, and my hair...
"Oh god." I yank my emergency brush from my purse, attacking the auburn mess that's decided to rebel against gravity. "This is not happening."
A quick dig through my purse produces a wrinkled pack of mints. I pop three, hoping they'll mask the stale coffee breath. The new dress is wrinkled where I slumped against the seatbelt. I smooth it frantically, but the creases mock my efforts.
"Good enough has to be good enough," I mutter, gathering my courage and my guitar case. The label's glass doors loom closer with each step, my heels clicking an anxious rhythm on the pavement.
Inside, the lobby gleams with polished marble and success. A sleek reception desk stretches before me, manned by a woman whose perfectly coiffed hair makes me want to crawl under a rock.
"Quinn Dupree," I say, trying to project confidence instead of 'I just woke up in my car.' "I have an eight o'clock meeting."
She eyes me with the kind of practiced neutrality that somehow still manages to judge. "Take the elevator to floor six. Second door on your right."
I check my phone - 7:59. At least I'm not technically late. Yet.
The elevator ride gives me one last chance to check my reflection in the mirrored walls. I've looked better, but I've definitely looked worse. Here goes nothing.