Page 5 of Playing With My Heart Strings

“I—never mind. It’s fine,” I grumble as I roll my eyes.

He leads me in the opposite direction to the car that will take me away from my normal life, into this alternate reality where I’m the star of a TV dating show. I wish it were all a dream and that tomorrow I’d wake up in my bed, able to laugh about it with Craig.

baylor

We wrap up filming for the day after countless complaints from our leading guy. I have to bite my tongue several times to prevent myself from making a sarcastic comment under my breath. If he didn’t want to be here, why did he allow the label to force him to? He seems like a bit of a pushover, but then again, I would probably do the same thing if Colette was at my throat telling me I had to.

“Are you regretting taking the lead on interviewing Dusty?” I tease Daniella as we walk out of the building.

“We both know it was for the best that I took the lead on it.” She laughs, but from the tone, I can tell she’s mentally exhausted. “I’m sure you’d be halfway home to Denver by now if I hadn’t.”

“That bad?” I cringe. I already know the answer. What would normally be quick shots took twice as long with Dusty, because apparently the man has zero emotion in real life. A stark contrast to the country superstar on stage.

Her eyes widen as though she’s recalling the events of today. “Bad enough that I feel like I need to drown myself in margaritas tonight. You down?”

“I’d never say no to a marg.” I link my arm with hers as we continue to the employee parking garage.

That evening, we find ourselves in a small bar on Music Row, and Daniella’s already deep into her fourth margarita.

“Baylor, I don’t think you realize how much I love you.” Her words slur together as she giggles into her glass, no doubt an effect of the alcohol.

“Okie, I think that’s enough margaritas for you.” I gently pull her drink away from her as a singer gets on stage.

“Ooh, music!” she squeals, practically falling out of the booth as she gets up to move closer.

I follow her, grabbing my glass but abandoning hers. Miss Ma’am does not need any more alcohol.

The singer on stage is a young guy, probably in his mid-twenties like Daniella and me. He’s playing an acoustic Johnny Cash cover, and I have to admit, he’s good.

“Thanks, y’all. If you have any requests for songs you’d like to hear, let me know.”

He flashes a smile as Daniella shouts, “MY FRIEND CAN SING!”

No, no, no, Daniella. God, no.

“Is that right?” He leans into the microphone. “Well, where is she?”

Daniella points right at me—subtle, thanks—and he beckons me to come up on stage. I start to shake my head no, but then Daniella is pushing me to the front and everyone is whistling and clapping, fueling the fire. The last thing I want is for them to start chanting, so I begrudgingly comply.

“What’s your name?” the singer asks once I’m on stage.

“Baylor,” I reply with a sigh.

“Well, Baylor, are you familiar with this song?” he asks as he nods and the band starts to play the starting notes to “You Ain’t Dolly (And You Ain’t Porter).”

I roll my eyes as he hands me a microphone. We start singing lyrics about how the other is nothing like Dolly Parton or Porter Wagoner, and how everyone will probably see me singing onthat TV show with the blind auditions one day—doubtful—and then I notice Daniella holding her phone up.

Note to self: make sure that video doesn’t see the light of day.

She’s so drunk she probably won’t even remember taking the video, and it’s probably so shaky that no one would want to watch it anyway. She won’t miss it when I delete it.

The song ends, and the singer tips his hat to me, while also slipping me a piece of paper that most likely has his phone number on it. I put it in my pocket with zero intentions of ever texting him. I don’t have time for relationships, serious or casual.

“You owe me for that,” I mumble to Daniella as I get off stage and the guy continues with his set.

“You wereso good!” She takes my hand andskipsout of the bar.

We bounce from bar to bar, Daniella sneaking shots when she doesn’t think I’m watching. I’m absolutely keeping track, though, and occasionally I tell the bartender to give her a shot of water instead of whatever liquor she’s craving. She doesn’t notice the difference. Must be some kind of placebo effect.

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