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“Of course, it’s completely up to you to continue,” I assure him because I can’t quite tell if he’s angry or just in shock. “But yeah. You’ll be in the lineup to perform at the festival.”
Shaking his head, he mutters, “Holy shit. Is this really happening?”
“It is… if you want it,” I remind him. I may be part of the biggest record label in the world, and I’m certain I can promote the shit out of him. But he’s got to want this for himself, or it’s a moot point.
This man is suddenly like a steel trap when it comes to sharing his thoughts.
Standing, he paces a path in front of me, from the left to the right, with his fingers steepled over his jaw. He takes about eight strides, pivots, and returns in the opposite direction. I’m quiet as I let him process everything. Though if I weren’t on pins and needles waiting for his reaction, I’d probably find it comical.
My gut has never been wrong when it comes to finding talent. Jax has what it takes. I can feel it so deep in my bones, it hurts. Maybe if he tells me what’s holding him back, I can help him through this?
As I wait for him to talk, my heart pounds in my chest. I truly hope I haven’t upset him by taking the initiative to enter him into the competition. I thought I made that clear to him the first night we spoke.
Finally, he stops and pins me with a stare, as his hands move to his hips. His voice is thick with emotion as he demands, “Tell me, Sloane, have you ever been so excited and scared to death that you literally can’t make a decision to save your life?”
“Uh…” I take a moment to think through my response. I answer in the most honest way I can. “I’ve been scared… yes… but I’m not sure I’ve experienced what you’re describing.”
“Ha… That’s probably true. I can’t imagine you scared of anything. Could you get on stage and sing in front of thousands though?”
“Uh, I find musical talent. Not make it… trust me… I can barely carry a tune in a bucket. So, my answer is no. I couldn’t. But that’s not to say I couldn’t get on that stage and talk or introduce acts. Crowds don’t scare me. Put me somewhere up high and unprotected, and I’d be shaking like a leaf. We all have fears, Jax—it doesn’t mean we can’t conquer them.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he looks down at me. “You make it sound so easy.”
“I’m sure it’s easier said than done. But talk to me. Tell me what’s bothering you most, and I can help you find a way to work through this.”
Shaking his head, he exhales heavily. “I’m not even sure what’s wrong. First, I’m in shock. I can’t believe I’ve already made it through the first round. But mostly, I’m terrified I’ll get onto that big stage and choke or fall off or do something that will go viral, and I’ll be the laughingstock of the world.”
“Has any of those things ever happened in the past?” I ask, wondering if this has triggered some childhood trauma or something.
Huffing out a quick breath, he grunts, “No… but who’s to say it couldn’t?”
“What would you say if I could work my magic and build up some hype for your music? Let’s release some of these clips onto social media, and you can see for yourself how fans react.”
When he doesn’t readily respond, I quickly add, “We can also work on getting you to perform in some bigger venues. We’ve got a few weeks before the competition. You can use working at Pop’s to build your set list. You saw how the crowd of strangers loves your music already. I’m certain everyone else will, too.”
Hesitantly, he asks, “And… I don’t have to decide today?”
“Not at all.” He watches as I pull up my go-to app for Smashing Waves Records and ask, “What’s your handle? I want to tag you in this. That way you can see for yourself just how much fans will love you.”
He briefly tells me, and it’s almost too good to be true in terms of name recognition. The man used his full name and not some crazy nickname with a zillion numbers or something abstract. It’s something I would’ve hand-picked for him if I could. After a few clicks and selecting the perfect hashtags, I look to him and ask, “You ready for this?”
Letting out a deep breath as if he’s been holding the weight of the world, I see his shoulders finally relax. “There’s only one way to know… go for it.”
To maximize his exposure, I switch media apps and go through the same process a few more times. Once I’ve posted everywhere I normally do when I’m trying to get all eyes on a client, I look up to him with a grin. “Done.”
“Now what do we do?” he sighs, plopping down beside me.
Reaching for his hand to calm his nerves, I give it a squeeze.
“We sit back, enjoy this sunset, and wait.”
It’s barely six in the morning, and my phone won’t stop pinging with notifications. I tossed and turned for hours after dropping Sloane off at her house, and I’m too damn tired to get out of bed just yet. For some dumbass reason, I’ve got my phone plugged in and resting on my dresser—a trick I use to make myself get out of bed to turn off my alarm in the morning. I don’t have to work until two, and I don’t have any alarms set, so who the hell is blowing up my phone at this hour?
When my phone buzzes again, I groan in frustration and drag myself from my bed. Trudging to my dresser, I grab the phone and throw myself back under the covers of my bed.
I’d planned to turn it off and go back to sleep, but curiosity gets the better of me. I type in my passcode, and of course, I get it wrong the first time—damn thick fingers. But my screen opens on the second try.
I open the offending app that’s keeping me from sleep, and I can’t believe my eyes. Rubbing them to make sure they’re working properly, I blink rapidly and look again.
