I didn’t fault her for dressing like that. It fit her brand and a girl had to eat, after all. But I wished with all my heart the men in the crowd were seduced by her voice, rather than just her cleavage. She had stunning control and flawless pitch, and she was one of those singers who earned your trust in a single, pure note. As soon as she began, you felt confident you’d enjoy the song from start to finish.
The bar was crowded tonight, and I’d watched her set from several different areas around the room, evaluating her performance. I hadn’t told her I was coming, and she hadn’t spotted me either. It wasn’t until she was finished and swiped her post-set bottle of Bud Light off the end of the bar that I made my approach.
Lauren had been both excited and nervous to see me, but her anxiety faded as we walked up the stairs to the second floor, where it was quieter, and I explained why I’d come. Eagerness warmed her face. She understood how huge this could be for her career.
“We have to find the right song for your audition,” I told her. “I’m going to send you some ideas, and let’s get together before your set next week.”
Her thin eyebrows pulled together. “You didn’t like any of the ones I did tonight?”
“For Stella’s audience? No.” This was business, and she had a head for it, not to mention a thick skin. She wouldn’t be offended by my honesty. “We need something crossover. Halsey has some stuff that might work for . . .”
I trailed off, cocking my head to the side as I listened to the sound filling the room. Blanche’s was two stories, plus a rooftop bar, and although there was also a stage on this floor, it was empty tonight. The music from the band that had just started playing downstairs was piped through the sound system, and I stared at an advertisement for Jack Daniels as I evaluated the music.
The balance was off. The lead guitar was so loud, it overpowered the drums, and the moment it began, I’d written the performance off. A rookie mistake that didn’t bode well for the group.
But then the vocals came in, and my thoughts derailed.
That tone.
The male voice was rich smoke and filled my body with heat.
The band was covering Chris Stapleton’s Midnight Train to Memphis, and the singer mimicked the same bluesy gravel, but there were hints his range was much wider.
“You okay?” Lauren asked.
I motioned toward the speakers. “Who is this?”
I’d been in the business long enough I knew most of the acts around town, but this one I’d never heard before.
Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It was supposed to be Kicking Fences, but Kevin’s got laryngitis. It’s some new guy from the standby list with Kicking Fences’ band backing him.” She eyed me as she took a swig of her beer. “Why? You like him?”
I nodded. “I do.”
In fact, I liked what I was hearing enough that when I finished with Lauren, I’d likely stay and watch the rest of the show.
We discussed a few more things and set up a time for me to call and check in with her late next week, but the entire time we talked, I had one ear focused on the sound coming from the main stage. The guy was too close to the mic and probably new, but there was so much talent there, it made up for it.
After we said goodbye, I hurried down the dark stairwell lined with photos of past acts that had gone on to make it big. I hoped the guy with the great vocals also had the ‘it’ factor. It was a good sign the crowd was into the performance because I could hear them shuffling along with the beat, plus the occasional catcall.
I turned the corner and blinked against the bright stage lights.
During Lauren’s performance, the bargoers had been subdued, but now the floor was mostly full. People swayed to the rhythm and a few held up their beer bottles to pay respect to the band. Energy vibrated through the crowd, making the atmosphere as electric as the guitar the singer strummed.
It was a hot, dirty Nashville sound filling the space that was all sticky floors and neon beer signs.
I was thrilled the guy could sing and play decently, and for a moment, I was distracted by his practiced fingers on the fretboard. But awareness tingled the hairs at the back of my neck. Something was off. No, not off . . .
Familiar.
With his powerful, throaty voice, I’d expected to find a man in his forties or fifties with a flannel shirt, a beard hanging down to touch his belly, and a cowboy hat. And while he had on a blue plaid shirt, it was fitted snuggly to his tight frame, and the sleeves rolled back to the elbows to show off his forearms. A swath of leather cuffed his wrist. It gave him an edgy, youthful vibe, just a little too punk rock to be pure country.
Not that he needed help looking young—he was only twenty-four.
Sound faded from my ears, so the only thing that registered was the thump of the bass drum and the pounding of my heart. Each beat slammed into my chest as I stared up at Troy’s handsome face.
Erika
It was as if someone had struck a match and lit a fuse inside me. Excitement buzzed through my bloodstream as I stared at the boy on stage while he cradled his Fender and leaned into the microphone to sing about barbed-wire fences. Either the lights or the pressure of performing had Troy already sweating. A thin gloss sheened his face.
But he didn’t look uncomfortable.
Just like the intimate performance he’d given me, he had an easy swagger on the stage. He wasn’t stiff or tight like most inexperienced performers could be. His shoulders were relaxed, and his stance solid, so he could both sing and play to the best of his ability.
It was the opposite for me. Every muscle inside my body was corded tightly with awe and excitement. He could sing. How the fuck did I not know this? Why had Jenna never mentioned it to me?
The manager and agent side of my mind was focused on the details. He had presence, but it could be packaged even better. It was difficult to see if he was enjoying himself because concentration lined his face. He was a man determined to hit each note perfectly, who hadn’t yet learned to focus on the experience instead of his execution. As his manager, I could help him with that.
But the side of me that wasn’t focused on her job, the one that was simply a woman, struggled to breathe. I’d seen him stark naked and thought he couldn’t possibly have looked better, but seeing him bathed in the warm stage light with a guitar strap slung over a shoulder threatened to melt my insides. His music seeped into my body, making me smolder.
I was rooted to the floor, mesmerized by him, and it wasn’t until the song was over that I could move again. I went to the darkest corner at the back of the bar, sat on a stool with a cracked vinyl top, and watched the remainder of his short show.
It’d been thrown together last minute, and they stuck to a setlist of tried-and-true favorites to keep the crowd engaged, all until the final number. The rest of the band exited as Troy switched out to an acoustic guitar and then settled at center stage.
I couldn’t place the song after the first sets of chords, but when he belted out the first line of the lyrics, my mouth dropped open. It was U2’s “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” but he’d put a country spin on it, filling his voice with twang.
The song showed off his impressive vocal range. The high notes were packed with power, and the low notes soft and beautiful. It was up-tempo, but the audience was frozen. Like me, they were riveted in place. Troy had us all in the palm of his hand as he sang a stripped-down version of a song about elusive love.