Frankly, it looks like a dive.
But looks will only get you so far. As I’ve found with most things in life, the interior counts far more than any pretty exterior facade. There’s no place in Nashville better known for attracting musical talent. At this exact moment, I can name at least five artists on the Top 100 country charts that were discovered here, within the confines of said nondescript little dive.
Steadying my shoulders, I reach out and try the handle. I half expect it to be locked up tight, but the door gives easily beneath my grip, swinging inward into the shadowy bar. I step inside before I can chicken out, squinting as my eyes strain to adjust in the sudden dimness.
“Hello?” I call, taking a few tentative steps over the threshold. “Anyone here?”
There’s no response. I maneuver past a deserted hostess station and around several high top tables, their surfaces scratched and dinged from years of patronage. A trio of overhead spotlights stream down on the stage opposite me, igniting a sea of swirling dust motes in fractured shadow. I’m drawn in, a moth to flame. Before I consciously realize what I’m doing, I’ve crossed the room and reached the edge of the raised platform where a single stool sits beside a microphone stand.
My fingers shake as I reach out and stroke the cool surface of the stage. It’s probably my imagination, but the oak beneath my fingertips seems to send a charge zipping through my veins, as though the wood itself is somehow imbued with electricity from all the musicians that have stood upon it over the years. Actual star-power, tangible and transferable. I can only pray a bit of it rubs off.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
The gruff voice makes me jump. I snatch my hand back from the stage as though I’ve been scalded, whirling around to face the man standing behind the bar, polishing a glass with a stained white rag. He’s in his late sixties with a thinning crop of black hair and an expression so intimidating, I’m surprised I don’t flinch back when my wide amber-gold eyes meet his narrowed brown ones.
“We don’t open till five.”
I nod like a thoughtless puppet.
“Are you deaf?” he barks, tossing the rag over one shoulder of his black t-shirt as he comes around the bar.
“N-n-no,” I manage to stutter, holding my ground as he approaches.
“Just dumb then.”
I shake my head as much to refute his words as to clear it. “No, sir.”
“Sir?” He snorts. “No one’s ever mistaken me for a gentleman before, no need to start now. Name’s Isaac.”
“Isaac,” I echo. “Nice to meet you. I’m Felicity Wilkes.”
I only hesitate a fraction of a beat before the fake last name leaves my lips. I don’t think he notices and, even if he does, I highly doubt he cares.
“Uh huh.” His voice is flat. “Either come back tonight or try one of the twenty-four hour bars on the main strip. All the tequila you can drink, all the shitty cover songs you can handle.”
“I’m not here for a margarita.”
His brows lift. “Then why are you here?”
“For a job.”
“We don’t add new singers to our rotation without an audition with Wade, our stage manager. Last I checked, Wade’s waitlist is well over six months. I suggest you try open mic night in the meantime, or start at one of the less popular spots.”
He’s already turning away.
“I’m not looking to perform!” I yell, wincing at the desperation in my own voice. I clear my throat and try for a softer tone. “I just want a regular waitressing gig.”
He glances back, looking doubtful.
I jerk my chin up and hold his stare as he deliberates.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Not hiring.” His eyes flick up and down, taking in my messy fishtail braid, the too-thin limbs in my wrinkled hand-me-down dress, the tattered guitar case sitting at my feet. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t hire you.”
“Why not?”
“For one, you’re young. Young usually translates to unreliable.”
“I’m not that young.”