Zane nods vigorously. “Yeah. We need someone to open and even though you never ask, I’m told you draw quite a crowd at the Market.”
Holy shit. I’ve never told a soul here about my busking.
I shake my head. “I dunno. Zane—”
“Okay. Fine. I’ve heard you.” He raps the bar top with his knuckles. “Fee and I were at the Market last week picking up fish for Gus. We saw how you worked the crowd. C’mon. You can do this.”
My grip tightens on the bar. I can’t believe my boss and his wife saw me. I’m not sure what to say.
“That’s the Market,” I stutter. “This is…” I stop, searching for a way to explain the difference without backing down.
“It’s the same thing.” He tilts his head. “Maybe a bit louder.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. This is a chance I never dared say out loud. I’m not ready.
Out there, if I mess up, people keep walking. Here, they stop. Listen. Remember.
If they hate me, I’ll be trashed all over the socials I’m trying so hard to build up.
“I didn’t bring my guitar,” I essentially whimper.
“No problem. I’ve got an acoustic with me.” Zane heads for the backstage door. “You can use mine.”
My “out” disappears in a nanosecond. I look at him, searching for doubt. Any sign of doubt.
There isn’t one.
This is real.
My heart thunders so hard it throws everything else off rhythm. If I say no, nothing changes. I go back to pouring drinks, back to almost and probably never getting the opportunity again.
If I say yes, my life could change forever.
“We’re slammed.” I gesture to the thirsty patrons waiting for me to get back to work. “Who’s covering the bar?”
His grin breaks wide. “We’ll handle it. I’ll jump back here if push comes to shove.”
Of course he will.
I exhale, long and slow. “Okay. I’ll give it a go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go.” He moves fast. I follow.
The hallway behind the stage narrows, sound shifting from open chaos to something more focused. Crew moves around us, checking cables, adjusting levels. Lake’s team is tuning guitars and unpacking gear.
Zane unlocks his office door and flips open a guitar case. “Here.”
The pristine Breedlove sits inside, tobacco-burst finish catching the light. I reach for it without thinking. It feels different from mine. Lighter. Brighter. New.
Expensive.
“Take a few minutes.” He strokes the frets. “Get comfortable with her, she’s got great tone.”
Comfortable.Right.
