Page 52 of Another Fox Bites the Dust

Jake nods, not meeting my eyes, squinting in the direction Archer walked off.

After another minute, he gestures to one of the walls. “Want to hide and then when Archer shows up we can shoot him in the ass?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they haul me and my guitar over to a low wooden platform by one of the fire pits. In front of the makeshift stage, about a dozen twenty-foot logs have been trimmed and sanded into bench-style seating.

I stand in the middle of the stage, the strap of my guitar a comforting weight on my shoulder.

Surprisingly, I’m not that nervous.

Or not surprising, considering my audience is a couple of dirty guys in paintball gear lounging on wooden logs and eating popcorn.

“Booooo!” Jake jeers.

Walking toward the front of the stage, I lift my hands. “Really?” I haven’t even started playing yet.

“Do you know any Beatles songs?” Archer shouts.

I grin and play the intro to “Blackbird.”

“Now do Beyonce,” Jake yells. “ ‘All the Single Ladies’!”

I chuckle and take a seat at the center and let my legs hang over the edge, strumming the intro to the song Mindy and I have been working on the most, the first one she listened to.

“This is terrible,” Jake yells. “My ears are bleeding!”

“Who hurt you?” Archer adds.

The most remarkable thing happens. Instead of wanting to vomit or run away, I want to laugh, and I do, my hands still moving across the instrument with perfect motor memory, but attempting to sing is impossible because I can’t stop the humor from spilling out of my mouth.

With anxiety, you’re always picturing the worst that could happen, but now that they’re making it happen, it’s not scary at all. It’s actually rather ridiculous.

They were right. What am I so afraid of? What’s the worst that could happen? A crowd heckling me just like this? Maybe this will help the next time I have to get up in front of strangers and bare my soul.

I replay the intro a few times until the mirth has settled, no longer at risk of eruption, and then I shut my eyes to block them out and sing.

A few minutes later, I open my eyes.

At some point during my little performance, Taylor joined them, sitting on the other side of Jake. She sets her phone in her lap—was she recording me?—and then jumps up clapping. “That was incredible,” she shouts. “You killed it!”

“Dude. You don’t actually suck.” Jake thrusts a fist in the air.

Archer whistles. “Encore, encore!”

I hop off the stage and head over to my adoring fans. “Stop it, you’re making me blush.” I wave a hand in an aw-shucks motion.

Taylor’s phone pings and she glances down at it, her eyes widening. She reaches out, grabbing my arm. “You are not going to believe who just listened to your song.”

ChapterFifteen

Mindy

I spent all afternoon yesterday and then another three hours this morning locked away in my room calling, texting, and emailing everyone I’ve ever met that might be able to help me get out of this muddle. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve begged, pleaded, and nearly cried, and the result?

Nothing.

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