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She prattles on about something, but I’m no longer listening. I’m still stuck on the idea of performing in front of thousands. Hell, I just started in front of a live audience. How the hell does she think I’d be ready for a stage that big?
She finally regains my attention by waving a hand in front of my face and calling my name, “Jax? Did you hear what I just said?”
“Uh… no, I guess I didn’t,” I sputter. “Can you repeat that?”
“I said Smashing Waves Records is offering recording contracts to the top contestants in each category. This could be huge for you!”
Thank God I’m sitting down. First, she tells me there will be thousands of people watching; the next, she shares that a recording contract could be on the line.
Holy fucking shit, is she for real?
Tilting her head to the side, she scrutinizes my face. I have no idea what she sees, but suddenly, she gushes out, “What’s going on in that head of yours, Jax? You’ve always got something to say.”
“I… uh…” Shit, I can’t even find words. Clearing the huge lump in my throat, I finally manage, “I’ve barely begun performing for live audiences… and you want me to go from zero to ninety in a nano-second? Why on earth do you think I could compete at that level?”
Reaching for the phone in her pocket, she says, “You surely don’t see yourself clearly. Let me show you what the world sees when you perform. You could light the world on fire with the amount of energy you bring to each performance.”
She taps at her screen for a moment, then turns it toward me. “This was your first performance.”
Even I can clearly see how nervous I was during open mic night. My voice quavered in my introduction, and I vividly remember wanting to get the hell out of there after it was over.
“Now watch this.” It’s a shot of last night’s performance. It’s evident between the two that I’m no longer nervous. I’m singing right into the camera, which of course I was because I was singing to her. After a few more beats, my jaw drops as I watch.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say this video looks like one of those clips you’d find on your favorite social media app from a fan taken of a famous rock star. The guy in the video is living it up on stage. He’s got charisma and knows just how to play the crowd—which is going wild for a song I’ve written. They join in when I hit the chorus a second time.
“You must be one hell of an editor,” I mumble. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. There’s no way I’m this guy.
“I’m good, but you gave me great material to work with. Look at yourself through my eyes. You have what it takes to give everyone some steep competition.”
“But it’s in front of a small crowd at a local bar. The competition will have thousands of people— and it’s live. Not to mention all those that will watch it being recorded.”
Reaching for my hand, she gives it a squeeze. “What are you so afraid of?”
“Besides making a fool of myself?” I flippantly remark because my brain just can’t process what she’s suggesting.
“You won’t make a fool of yourself,” she assures me.
“Look, Sloane, I’m great in asmall—local—bar.” I stress each word for emphasis. “What makes you think I can perform at the caliber needed to even make it beyond the initial audition?”
Wincing, she shrinks into herself, then quietly admits, “What if I told you, you already have?”
“What do you mean?” I demand.
“I’ve been sending these clips to Tara after I’ve got the edited versions. She thinks you’re brilliant by the way. But she’s also passed them on to the other judges, and they’d love to see you move onto the live portion of the competition.”
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
Okay. Maybe he’s not ready for this. The way he practically needs a shovel to get his jaw off the ground should’ve been my first clue. But he’s got to know how good he is, right? I mean, I’ve been telling him this from the beginning. Does he really not believe me, or is there something else going on?
“I seriously think you’d blow the competition away, Jax.”
“I… You…” he sputters but stops and clamps his mouth shut into a straight line. I usually consider myself an excellent reader of the room, but in this moment, he’s got the face of a professional poker player, and I don’t have a clue what’s going on in that brain of his.
“Please tell me what you’re thinking,” I practically beg, needing to be put out of my misery.
“I don’t know what to think. I knew you were showing those clips to your boss, but… hell… I never thought it would go anywhere. I’m from a Podunk town and barely have a following on social media. I’ve never posted a single performance, so I had no idea what others would think of my music… you know I have very little experience on stage.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then practically shouts, “Wait… you’re telling me… I’ve already gotten through the first round?”
