Page 77 of A Country Kind Of Love
“Your dog died.”
“I don’t have a dog,” Jesse questions.
“No, you don’t now, because he died.”
“Huh. What washe called?”
Peyton rolls her eyes. “He was called...”
“Whiskey.” Jesse says triumphantly.
“Sure, whatever you want.”
“I always wanted a dog called Whiskey; my parents called ours Benny. What a boring dog name, don’tyou think?”
“Uh huh, real boring.”
Peyton calls Jesse’s bandmate over. “Charlie, we have a problem. How quickly can you learn a song?”
He smirks. She takes that asa good sign.
Peyton turns to Jesse. “You really fucking owe me.”
?
Peyton arrived at Arrington Vineyard with the intention of watching Jesse play, and ultimately luring him into a false sense of security before asking him to be her manager. It was a simple plan. Except she had no leverage, but now she does. The second he sobers up she’s prepared to use it for the greater goodof mankind.
Or just her music career.
She isn’t even sure if she’s legally allowed to play at an unauthorised venue anymore. There’s probably some clause that states she must not partake in any public events without the say so of the label, but the ink is still drying on the contract, so she figures; what’s the worst that can happen? Plus, she doesn’t have a manager to tell her not to; he’s currently sat drinking a gallon of water and being fed mac and cheese by one of his many female admirers.
The seats close to the stage are almost full. The sun has fully set in the distance as the crowd gathers. The floodlights on the outside of the barn light up the area in front of the stage, and the smaller quaint lights highlight the square space beneath the gazebo, which is now set up with two microphones. Peyton gulps as a young woman who seems to be hosting the event starts to hype the crowd.
“Are you ready?” Charlie whispers.
Peyton gulps. “I think so.”
“Just remember the lyrics to your song, and you’ll be fine.”
Great.
“Thanks forthe advice.”
There’s a small applause from the crowd as Charlie makes his way onto the stage.
“How ya’ll doing tonight?” The noise from the crowd goes up a level. “We’re called Southern Smooth.”
Peyton waits nervously in the wingsfor her cue.
How the hell did I get myselfin to this?
She paces back and forth. The previous band is backstage; it’s a plethora of high fives, celebratory hugs, and spilt drinks. The euphoria they feel is something Peyton has always struggled with. How does she learn to channel the joy that comes with performing? She’s yet to figure it out.
“Unfortunately, our front man, Jesse, is unable to perform tonight.” A jeer erupts from a couple of women. “Instead we’ve got a treat for ya’ll. A special woman, with a very special voice is joining us on stage tonight. Please put your hands together for Peyton Harris.”
Here we go.
Peyton steps up on to the makeshift stage. Her eyes are frozen open. She can feel her fear of performing as it starts to rear its ugly head. There’s a small stool to the right with a glass of water. She smiles and waves at the crowd. Her mouth is dry and her throat tight. She opens her mouth to say hello, but the words barely come out; the water is needed.
