Page 2 of Call and Response

Here we were.

HereIwas, staring at a list of songs I loved, songs I’d rehearsed with my band, songs my cousin Winnie had been begging me to let her play in one of her boxing classes.

She was at least one person who would be screaming my lyrics back at me from the audience… if I got my shit together.

Why can’t you get your shit together?

I sighed.

Why, indeed.

If nothing else, the audience was going to show me love, even if it was just to be polite. I might get my ass dragged online later, but I wasn’t going to be booed off the stage or anything like that, even if the music was trash.

But the music isn’t trash.

I took another long drink of my tired coffee.

The musicwasn’ttrash.

I wasn’t even capable of that.

But I knew from experience sometimes it wasn’t even about the music itself or even the talent of the artist. Sometimes the music just… didn’t mesh with the artist.

And sometimes the audience didn’t mesh with the artist.

Especially if they were expecting some certain thing, but what they got was wholly different.

Like with me.

I’d built a masterful career on something I was untouchably good at.

And… shit.

What if that was all people wanted from me?

“You want a top-up?”

The deep tenor posing that question snagged my attention immediately and I looked up, directly into a handsome, vaguely familiar face.

More than handsome.

Fine.

My eyes narrowed, searching my clouded mind for his name instead of answering his question.

“You’re Audra Charles,” tumbled out of his mouth, eyes wide, before he could school his reaction to something much,muchmore neutral. Like a repeat of the inquiry that matched the coffee pot in his hand.

He wasn’t wearing a nametag or any other Urban Grind paraphernalia though.

Still, his recognition ofme, which was rare, made the answer of whohewas fall into place for me. “You’re Noble Taylor,” I said, still not answering the question he’d posed. “You were in a group with Josiah, right?The Cure?”

Something flashed across his face—annoyance, shame, something like that—and he shrugged. “Yeah. Something like that. Did you want more coffee?”

“I’ll pass,” I answered, leaning in a bit. “What are you doing here?”

“Just helping out the fam,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the front counter, where the owner, Roman, was working at the register. “Lots of call-outs. Apparently everybody needs time off to attend your event.”

My event.

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