My grimace makes her laugh. “That performance will not see the light of day. I’m sweating like a hog roast, and most of my makeup has melted off my face. But thank you.”
The stage light flicks off, returning the room to its usual orange glow. The space is moody and rustic, with vintage whiskey barrels stacked along one wall and a steel bar on the other. A large window gives visitors a glimpse of the Still House and the large copper pot stills, showcasing the start of the distilling process. Three banquet-style tables span the length of the room, currently filled with patrons finishing their drinks before we close.
“Did you email those demos?” Parker speaks slowly, already anticipating my answer.
Her studious gaze burns a hole in the side of my head. I remain facing forward, not wanting to see her reaction.
“I don’t think my style is the right fit.” Shrugging, I unfasten my cardigan and drape it over the bar. “It’s hot in here tonight.”
Something sharp jabs my bicep.
“Ouch.” I rub my arm and scowl at Parker. “Don’t poke me.”
“Quit changing the subject, you wench. Your style is everyone’s style. If it’s not, they’re morons with no taste.” A manicured finger points in my face, her voice stern. “You won’t know until you try.”
Parker’s bark is worse than her bite—mostly. Out of the four of us, she’s the only local, always saying how she adopted Talia, Margot, and me. She’s bossy like a mom, but a cool one with purple hair and tattoos.
“I do know, though. Four rejections and three no responses since June. I need to up my social media presence if I want anychance of getting noticed. The days of submissions are dead.” I swallow my disappointment. “I’m going to take a break for a while, concentrate on building my portfolio and praying to the music gods someone sees my videos. Between that, working the bar, and this cold I can’t shake, I’m close to burning out.”
Parker’s fury escalates. “This is Peter’s fault. You should’ve let me go full Carrie Underwood on his tires.” She slashes an invisible knife through the air.
I ignore her not-so-empty threats. “He’s a chronic asshole, but I doubt he has connections to every studio and record label in Nashville.”
Being a lyricist is hard. Am I even one if nobody has ever taken an interest in my songs?
My heart sinks recalling the last conversation I had with my ex. I had my suspicions he was cheating for weeks, but this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Peter is a music publisher. We met at a small networking event for local artists in January. He was there, schmoozing anyone with a pulse, and regretfully, I fell for his act. Promises of passing my demos to multiple producers turned into a broken record—pun intended. After one too many excuses, I questioned whether he was ever going to follow through with his promise.
“Harriet, babe, I say this because I care. Your songs aren’t special, and the last thing I want to do is harm my reputation.You don’t want to embarrass me, do you?They want wow, not wannabe.”
What I wanted was to smack the patronizing sneer off his face. Instead, I kicked him out of my apartment, blocked his number, and counted my lucky stars. This was hours after I found his assistant with her mouth locked around his unimpressive penis. What does it say about me that his insults hurt more than discovering he was unfaithful?
A hand on my shoulder draws me from the memory.
“Do not waste any brain cells thinking about Weasel Dick.” Parker’s wrath simmers, and she frowns in concern. “You really are sweaty. Are you okay?”
“It’s seriously hot in here. One minute I’m overheating, and the next I’m freezing.”
Parker flinches, leering at me like I’m patient zero. “Gross. You and Tals were the walking dead last week.”
She’s not wrong. Talia and I were bedridden for five days until the vomiting and high-temperatures eased off, or, at least, it did for her. My family is visiting next weekend, as I can’t make it home for the holidays this year, and I really need to shake this illness.
“You’re telling me.” I fan my face. “Can we sit?”
We perch on two barstools and watch the room empty, smiling and waving at the guests.
It’s a Friday evening, our busiest night of the week. Locals come here for a drink after work, or groups stick around for the entertainment after their tour or whiskey tasting session. The Smokey Barrel is one of the oldest distilleries in Northern Tennessee, founded over fifty years ago by the Forrester family.
The patriarch himself ambles toward Parker and me. Jimmy Forrester is the jolliest man you’ll meet, surpassing Santa Claus. His round face beams, and his even rounder belly tests the confines of his button-down shirt. Fair and friendly, as far as bosses go, he’s the dream.
“Fantastic set, Harry.” He smiles then turns to Parker. “I know you’re off the clock, but did we resolve the issue with the mash?”
She tuts. “It’s no good. I refuse to waste any more time and resources. I told the team to stop the fermentation. The grain ratio must’ve been off. We’ll start from scratch tomorrow.”
Six years I’ve worked here, and their whiskey jargon still puzzles me. All I know is it’s an art and my friend is a maestro.Parker has fought tooth and nail to prove herself in a male-dominated industry.
While they talk, I round the bar, greeting the staff working tonight, and pour myself another glass of water. A cool sweat sticks to my skin, and my stomach rolls. Tomorrow is my first day off in three weeks, and I’ll be spending it as a human burrito, watching trashy TV.
Spotting the laces on my boot are untied, I bend down to fix them. As soon as I straighten, the room sways, and an acrid taste fills my mouth. I grip the edge of the stainless steel bar, steadying myself with my other hand clasped over my mouth.
