He grunts noncommittally. “Two, you’re a singer. Never hire singers, sweetheart. Company policy.”
“That’s discriminatory.”
His brows quirk. “Go ahead, call the Better Business Bureau on me. I’m shakin’ in my boots.”
“I told you, I’m not looking for a singing gig.”
“You think you’re the first girl to waltz in here asking to bus tables, assuring me she’s got no ulterior motives of her name in lights, her ass on that stool?” He jerks his chin at the stage behind me. “Been here a long time, sugar. Seen more girls come and go than you can count. And the ones who look like you, a bit wild around the eyes… they’re the worst offenders of all. Damn unpredictable. Flightier than a fart in a windstorm, if you’ll pardon my French.”
I huff. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I knowsingers. And singers chase the spotlight harder than they chase anything else — harder than tail, harder than happiness. Harder than their families, their commitments, their common sense. Fame is a drug, darlin’. From what I’ve seen it do over the years, it’s more potent than heroin, twice as addictive… and I don’t hire addicts.”
At that analogy, all the blood drains from my face. I feel suddenly lightheaded. My mouth opens to rebuff him, but all that comes out is a pathetic squeak of air as thoughts churn through my head.
You are not an addict.
You are nothing like them.
“Ah, hell, don’t give me that look.” Isaac sighs. “It’s not personal. You may be a very nice girl. But even nice girls in this town end up twisted after a while. Usually right around the time they realize that climbing to the top of the musical scene generally requires climbing on top of a washed up record executive in the back of his town car. My advice? Get out now. Go home to whatever corn-fed town you came from and say sorry to your momma and daddy for your little adventure in the big city. Forget this life, and all the shit that comes along with it.”
Gohome?
That’s not an option.
My hands curl into fists as fury ignites inside me. I take a step forward before I can stop myself.
“First of all, if you’d wait more than a nanosecond before passing judgment, you’d know I’m not a singer. I’ve got no interest in climbing on top ofanythingin this town, whether it’s this stage or the lap of some industry schmuck. I just want to wait tables and write some songs and save a little money.” I narrow my eyes. “Secondly, I’m not going anywhere, most definitely not back to thecorn-fed townI came from. It took almost everything I had in savings to buy my bus ticket.”
My voice cracks pathetically. I swallow hard, trying to keep myself together.
“You know what? I may not have a plan. I may not even have a place to sleep tonight. But heck if I’m leaving just because some jerk says I should.” I bend down to pick up my guitar and start walking toward the door, my breaths coming out in angry little puffs. “I came to this bar because I heard it was a good place to work, with a boss who treats his employees right. Apparently my source was mistaken.” I’m nearly to the exit, so I glance back at him and deliver one final parting shot. “You don’t want to help me? That’s just fine. I’ll find another way. I’ll knock on every door in Nashville until someone hires me. ‘Cause I may be young, but I’m notflightyorunpredictableorwild. You think you’ve got me pegged but I promise you don’t.I’m not peggable.”
Frankly, that line sounded a lot cooler in my head than it does coming out of my mouth. No amount of righteous indignation is enough to make it less lame. My cheeks are flaming red as I turn for the door. I’m just hoping to get out with some small semblance of my dignity intact when I hear the sound of a deep, martyred sigh from the direction of the bar.
“Wait.”
I spin around, hope blooming inside me. My heart is slamming against my rib cage like a stick on a snare drum and I’m shaking hard enough to rattle a tambourine on tempo. Still, I manage to keep my face composed in a placid mask as I meet Isaac’s skeptical gaze.
“Who told you about this place?”
“Devyn. She’s my—” I bite back the wordcousin. “—an old friend.”
“Devyn,” he murmurs. “That’d be Devyn Hayes, I reckon?”
I nod.
“She was a good employee. Worked here a while back, before her folks moved.” His eyes narrow. “Some kind of family scandal if my memory serves…”
My heart starts pounding faster. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.”
He glares at me.
“Sorry!Isaac.”
The silence drags out for a long while. The only sound is the slight squeak of his rag as he grabs another glass and begins to polish it. I hover by the threshold, hardly daring to hope…
“You got references?” he grunts.