11. Austen
11
AUSTEN
I run my hand through my hair, following Jarron down the hallway to spy on our new opening act. "Hope Larry has a mop bucket for when she tosses her cookies," I say, matching his stride.
"I bet she's crying, and now she probably looks like a raccoon on one of my trailcams," Jarron snickers.
We round the corner and I stop dead in my tracks. Holy shit. Quinn is standing by the stage entrance, and she looks... different. The glam squad's worked their magic, transforming her from that defensive spitfire in bell bottoms into something else entirely. The brown sequined dress catches the light, making her shine like autumn sunshine.
"Damn," I whisper under my breath.
"What was that?" Jarron elbows me in the ribs.
"Nothing." I clear my throat. "Just surprised."
I look over to Beau who looks like a teenager that just saw his first pin up in a playboy magazine.
Lyle appears behind us. "You two look like vultures prepared to watch the carnage. Cut her some damn slack."
"Whatever," Jarron says, but I notice his cocky smirk has faded slightly.
Quinn's talking to one of the stage hands, her shoulders straight, head high. No sign of nerves. Not what I expected at all.
"That dress though," I say, trying to sound casual. "Makes her look like a?—"
"Walking disco turkey?" Jarron finishes.
But I wasn't going to say that. The way she's holding herself, all quiet confidence... it's got me wondering if maybe we underestimated her.
Beau drifts over, his ever-present book tucked under his arm. "I'm going to laugh like hell when she becomes more successful than all of us," he mutters, but stays to watch anyway.
Quinn steps up to the microphone, her sequins catching the stage lights. "Hi everyone. I'm Quinn Dupree, I'm going to start with an original song I wrote called?—"
"What the hell?" Jarron lunges forward, and I grab his arm.
"She can't do this," I hiss, running my free hand through my hair. "We haven't even heard her sing, and she wants to start with an original?"
"I'm going out there." Jarron tries to shake me off.
"And do what? Tackle her mid-sentence?" I scan the wings for our manager. "This has to be some kind of joke. Where are the cameras? Is Ashton Kutcher gonna pop out?"
"You two need to simmer down," Beau drawls, not looking up from his book. "Let the girl sing."
"Simmer down?" I release Jarron to face Beau. "Our reputation's on the line here. She skips soundcheck, now she's gonna bust out some karaoke bullshit?—"
"Maybe it's good," Lyle cuts in, crossing his tattooed arms. "Y'all remember your first originals?"
"That's different," Jarron snaps.
"How?" Lyle raises an eyebrow. "Because you had a dick when you wrote yours?"
"Because we weren't opening for the biggest act in Nashville," I counter, but my conviction wavers.
"Just shut up and listen," Beau says, finally closing his book. "If she bombs, she bombs. But I've got a feeling..."
"That's heartburn from that gas station burrito," Jarron mutters, but he stops trying to charge the stage.
Quinn's voice carries over the speakers: "This one's called 'Lonesome Lane.'"
The first chord rings out, clear and pure, and my smirk freezes on my face. Quinn's fingers dance across the guitar strings with a confidence I wasn't expecting. Then she opens her mouth to sing, and... shit.
"Holy fucking hell," Lyle whispers behind me.
Her voice fills the arena, raw and honest, with just the right amount of grit. The kind of voice that makes you feel things you'd rather not admit to feeling. I catch myself leaning forward, drawn in despite my best efforts to stay detached.
"She wrote this herself?" Beau's voice cracks with admiration. "The chord progression is..."
"Genius," Lyle finishes.
I glance at Jarron, expecting another smartass comment, but he's just standing there, arms crossed, jaw clenched. I know that look. It's the same one he wore when we first heard Chris Stapleton live.
Quinn transitions into the chorus, and goosebumps rise on my arms. The lyrics punch straight through my chest – something about broken dreams and proving everyone wrong. It hits too close to home.
"Remember when we used to write like that?" Beau says softly. "Before all the..."
"Production value?" Lyle supplies.
I run my hands through my hair, trying to shake off the effect her voice is having on me. "She was right, she doesn't need a soundcheck," I mutter. "Jesus Christ."
"Man, shut up," Jarron snaps, but there's no real heat in it. He's too busy watching her, probably thinking the same thing I am – we've made a huge mistake underestimating her.
The crowd is dead silent, hanging on every note. That never happens during an opening act. Never.
"Still think she's going to embarrass us?" Lyle asks, nudging my shoulder.
I can't even answer. I'm too busy trying to figure out how we're supposed to follow this act.
I grab Monica's arm as she shuffles past us. "Where the hell did you find her?"
Monica raises an eyebrow. "What happened to 'amateur bar singer'?"
"Just answer the question." I run my fingers through my hair, still processing what we just witnessed.
"Some dinky label in Nashville signed her. She plays Tuesday nights at The Rusty Nail." Monica checks her phone. "That's literally all I know about her."
"The Rusty Nail?" Jarron scoffs. "That place where the karaoke machine's held together with duct tape?"
"That's the one." Monica smirks. "Why? Having second thoughts about your little welcome wagon routine?"
Beau leans against the wall, still clutching his book. "You're telling me no one's picked her up yet? Like, for real?"
"Nope." Monica pops the 'p'. "Just that indie label. They haven't even recorded anything with her yet."
"Bullshit," I say. "There's no way?—"
"Way," Monica cuts me off. "Want to know the best part? That's the very first song she ever wrote."
Lyle whistles low. "No wonder it felt so..."
"Raw," I finish. The word tastes strange in my mouth. When was the last time we wrote something that honest?
"Well," Monica says, gathering her things. "If you boys are done being judgmental assholes, I've got work to do."
I watch her go, then turn to Jarron. His jaw's still tight, like he's chewing on something he doesn't want to say.
"Don't even think about it," he warns.
"Think about what?"
"Whatever's going on in that head of yours. We're not here to play talent scout."
But I'm already thinking about it. About that voice, those lyrics, the way the crowd went dead silent. About how long it's been since we wrote something that made people feel like that.