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“Elliot.” Her fingers stopped as she gripped onto my forearm, the pressure of her fingers tight against my skin. “I’d rather you be there, performing for that label than sitting in a chair watchingsome rich assholes bid on my painting. Hell, I’d go to California with you if I could, but I’m assuming I’m going to have to drive your car back to Portland.”
“You’d drive the Jeep back?”
“Well, the plan was to head home on Sunday, right? I’m assuming you’d still be in California on Sunday. So . . . Elliot . . . here’s what you’re going to do.” Her hands relaxed, sliding up to my neck, her fingers finding my hair with ease. “You’re going to kiss me, and then you’re going to go upstairs and get ready to pick up the guys. You’re going to call the label from the hotel room and set up anything you need to. Then you’re going to go to the bar and set up. I’ll meet you there and you can tell me all about the plans. You’ll kiss me again and then you’re going to put on the best show of your life, here in Park City, Utah.”
I smirked, totally in awe of the woman in front of me. I kissed her, breathing her in, intending to follow all of her directions.
“You’re something else, Jamie Gaines,” I mumbled against her lips, kissing her again before she stepped away.
“Go get ready, and you’re not changing your mind. You get your ass to California.” She lifted a finger and pointed at me, still looking sexy as hell in my t-shirt.
I twisted my lips. “It’s not a song.” I chuckled, taking her all in before I pushed myself off the counter to make my way upstairs.
“Yes!” she shouted after me. “It is! I’ll even play it right now!”
I laughed as I went into the bathroom, shaking my head as Thomas Rhett’sT-Shirtbegan playing on all the Bluetooth speakers.
“Check, check . . .” I spoke into the mic, that familiar feeling on my lips.
“Are you sure you want to start the show with a Thomas Rhett song?” Bennett asked.
“Yes,” I said into the mic, singing out the “e.”
“People are going to think that’s all we sing.”
“If I recall correctly, there are only two Thomas Rhett songs on that set list.” I turned towards Bennett, my voice fading as the mic got further away. “And one Ben Rector song, and a Chord Overstreet . . .”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s mostly our stuff, plus this new one, but really . . . opening with him? Madeline isn’t even here.”
“No, but Jamie will be on FaceTime with her, I guarantee it. Check your mic.” I pointed to Bennett’s mic. “Jameson, check yours too.”
They both made their way to my sides, Jameson to my left, Bennett to my right.
“Check,” Jameson grumbled. “Still don’t know why I have a mic.”
“Because you sing,” Bennett sang.
I chuckled as I went to the mic and puffed a breath of air in it, finding Pete up behind the bar with the sound board. I gave him a thumbs up and turned back to the guys.
“Two Thomas Rhett songs, one Ben Rector, two Chord Overstreet, one brand spanking new song that only a kid has heard, and sixty minutes of our original works and yes, Jameson, you have to sing back up on a few of them.” I opened my arms to the stage in front of me. “Last show being indie, you guys.”
Jameson rolled his eyes, “Just promise me I won’t have to sing on the record.”
I pointed at him. “No promises.” I gave him a quick wink. “Get your instruments, let’s get this check going.”
The moment Jamie snapped me back to reality, the moment I took control. We made the call the second I stepped into their hotel room. The entire time the agent spoke to us on the phone, giving details about what to expect, my mind was thinking about Jamie and how I so desperately wanted her in that room listening in on the phone call. The plan was to leave tomorrow afternoon, have a car meet us in California and take us to the hotel. Then we would meet with the agent on Saturday and talk about what they wanted and expected from us. Sunday was a prep day for us, when wewould pick our top five favorite songs to preform and perfect before we walked into the studio on Monday. Monday was the day we would find out if they wanted to sign us, and if they did . . . we would sign a contract Tuesday and be out the door and back home on Wednesday.
Reaching down I grabbed my guitar, slinging it over my shoulder. Jameson had his bass situated, his keyboard to his left, and Bennett was already strumming a few chords while Chase tapped on his cymbal. I watched as Pete left the sound bar, leaving it up to me and the guys to make sure we sounded good. Normally I knew the man behind the sound bar, I knew his signals as he would help direct us, but this man didn’t even look up from the controls.
“Chorus,” I looked over at Bennett, “ofPilgrim.”
Chase tapped his drumsticks together, counting us down and then—all in sync, all perfectly timed—we picked up and played one of our most upbeat songs as if we had started from the beginning.
Just hearing the music, I came to life.
Chase kept rhythm, Bennett carried the tempo, and Jameson led the beat, all the while my voice brought the entire thing together. I could hear a few tweaks to be made to the sound but all in all, this was us. We sounded great no matter the imperfections and just holding this simple sound check, I could feel it in my gut that the label would sign us. As Bennett kept saying, it was happening.
Once the chorus was over and the sound died, I reached up and adjusted my mic.
