by Grea Warner
Table of Contents
Title Page
Heads Carolina | Heads and Tails: Book 1 | Grea Warner
OTHER BOOKS BY GREA WARNER
Dedication | Bethany’s unique apartment complex was inspired by a place where I once lived. This book is for every woman pursuing their dream in the big city. | You can do it! | And for my family. It is because of their support, encouragement, and love that I was able to venture out and follow my own dreams.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SneAK PEEK AT Tails California | August 2021
Fall In Love With the Country Roads Series:
Grab the whole series! | Available in Ebook and Print at all major book retailers.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Heads Carolina
Heads and Tails: Book 1
Grea Warner
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Heads Carolina
Heads and Tails: Book 1
Copyright © 2021 Grea Warner
All rights reserved.
ISBN: (ebook): 978-1-953335-32-6
(print) 978-1-953335-33-3
Inkspell Publishing
207 Moonglow Circle #101
Murrells Inlet, SC 29576
Edited By Yezanira Venecia
Cover art By Najla Qamber
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
OTHER BOOKS BY GREA WARNER
COUNTRY ROADS SERIES:
Country Roads
Almost Heaven
Take Me Home
Teardrop in My Eye
The Place I Belong
STANDALONE:
Every Mile, a Memory
COMING SOON:
Tails California
Whiskey Girl
Dedication
Bethany’s unique apartment complex was inspired by a place where I once lived. This book is for every woman pursuing their dream in the big city.
You can do it!
And for my family. It is because of their support, encouragement, and love that I was able to venture out and follow my own dreams.
Chapter One
“You’re just too raw. You don’t have the maturity. There are others way ahead of you. It’s definitely a no.”
The group of young women gathered with me in the upstairs lounge booed and threw napkins at the television screen after those cruel words about me were broadcast. They were shocked, but I knew it was coming. After all, it had been three months since the show had been recorded ... three months since I had stood there in front of the three people in charge of my fate. Under television contracts, though, I hadn’t been able to reveal the outcome to anyone until after the show aired.
I had known the slim probability of succeeding going in. Heck, all of America knew what to expect when trying out amongst thousands for Singer Spotlight. And now, after the actual broadcast, all of America knew I hadn’t even made it through to the first round.
Compared to other cruelties in the world, my non-advancement on a televised talent show didn’t make any lists, though. It wasn’t a natural disaster. It wasn’t an incurable, spreading disease. I just wasn’t going to be the next singing superstar and, most likely, neither were any of the other women in the room, despite most of us coming to Los Angeles for exactly that reason ... to be in the entertainment business. Some had entry-level jobs and internships in the industry. Some hadn’t even gotten that far. And my fifteen minutes of fame, I guess, was going to be right there on that screen—rejected by a stone-faced Ryan Thompson on national television. At least the other two judges had said sorry and gave supportive smiles.
“Maturity, schamurity.” Willow grumbled. “You are more mature than most of us. Responsible, considerate—”
“I don’t think he was talking about me as a person.”
“Well, he better not have been complaining about your body.” Only a model, having been repeatedly judged by her shape, would have made a comment like that.
I shook my head. “No. I don’t think that was it, either.” A pushup bra helped, but I was pretty lucky with my hourglass figure on a five-eight frame. “It was my voice. I never had the training some of those people do. I just like to sing and write lyrics and was half-decent in local theater. It was a pipe dream. I can’t regret it.” Nevertheless, a resigned, semi-depressed state had still found home in my heart.
I was fielding an I-just-saw-you-on-TV text from a coworker when another of my fellow housemates asked if I was following my Twitter feed. I hadn’t been. It wasn’t something I did constantly—maybe once or twice a day—but, I guess, right then I should have been.
When I pulled it up, there for the world to see—or at least the thousands who followed Singer Spotlight or Ryan Thompson—was a tweet mentioning me, and it was from the TV show judge/music manager himself. @Bethany_Lenay beautiful song, heartfelt words, real potential as a songwriter. #DontGiveUp
I checked Twitter. I checked Ryan Thompson’s website. I double-checked both. It was legit. The real Ryan Thompson, blue checkmark and all, had just posted those words alongside a clip of me performing my original song on the show. I breathed in a few times and, despite protests from my apartment mates, exited to the quiet hallway. I needed to react to the tweet. But I didn’t know how. Those beautiful, heartfelt words Ryan Thompson claimed I had, completely escaped me.
I wrote something quickly, though, so he didn’t think I was ignoring him. It was short and not lyrical at all. @RyanThompsonMusic For real?
When he didn’t respond, I tried not to wonder why. A litany of possibilities raced through my head, though. He wasn’t going to respond because ... a) I blew it with my stupid insecure reply, b) he thought he’d done his one good deed for the year by throwing poor little me a bone and didn’t want to get caught in a Twitter dialogue, c) he was too busy answering all his other social media sites, d) it wasn’t really him replying but an assistant who needed permission on how to respond, e) he was too busy making out with his gorgeous rock star wife, or f) all of the above.
I walked back to my room. I had to use the bathroom for one thing. Plus, I needed a quiet spot to think in case he actually did answer.
It was when I placed the phone on my bed and flopped next to it in exasperation that his response came through. For real. It was quickly followed by, lf you have other material, would like to see it.
That shot my body back up to a sitting position. Holy ... wow! I waited how long? And my possible bre
ak was happening right then? I wanted to look around to see if I was being punked. Get it together, Bethany, I encouraged myself. Reply before he disappears. Reply before your second chance opportunity blows away in the westerly winds. Reply correctly and confidently. And remember, the whole world is kind of watching again. Oh, geez!
@RyanThompsonMusic I definitely have songs.
His response that time was immediate. Maybe we’ll find a time to meet.
Before I knew it, there was a multitude of comments and likes on our conversation. A lot of people were supportive, saying I deserved a second chance. There were a few others who suggested that other people who were let go were better than me. And there were, actually, a few restaurants that said they would send food if I was interested in writing something with their brand attached. I laughed. Jingle writing was not my aspiration or talent skill ... at all.
As I was scrolling through the tweeting fest notifications, another came in from Mr. Thompson. I will DM you. Hope you’re hungry with all these sponsors.
I clicked on the heart symbol to like and end our public conversation. And then I ran to the bathroom before I had an I’m-too-darn-excited accident. Did all of that just happen? And what did it mean?
***
It was a week later when I was sitting in the sleek, modern lobby of the talent agency that Ryan Thompson ran. I had gone over every song in my repertoire, seemingly trillions of times—making sure every line flowed to the right beat, and the meaning and even spelling were absolutely the best. Willow had told me to quit picking ... I was making it worse. She had then played fashionista and decked me out in some of her clothes before sending me on my way. I was fiddling with the crepe, pale pink, button-down top—which she said personified innocence and femininity, along with a touch of cleavage—when the man himself bustled in.
“Sorry ... running behind.” He spoke to his secretary sitting at the desk in front of me. “Something’s gotta give. She didn’t show up yet? That’s not good.”
The middle-aged woman, sporting a dark pixie haircut, corrected him. “She’s been here. Twenty or twenty-five minutes now. Early.”
As she pointed her finger toward me, the exec turned my direction. His deep blue eyes found my brown ones as I sat on the broken-in leather sofa, which was not complimentary for either sitting with correct posture or ladylike. It was also not good for getting up gracefully, as I tried to do then. Thank goodness I had on simple black slacks ... with zippers because Willow said they looked “rock star.”
I held out my hand, hoping the deodorant I had put on them earlier absorbed any nervous perspiration. “Mr. Thompson.”
Dressed in dark slacks, a white shirt, and royal blue tie, he shook my hand in return and apologized. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you. Your hair ... it’s different.”
“Since the audition? Yeah. It was much lighter a few months ago ... a bunch of bleachy blonde streaks.” My hair was back to its natural dark brown color ... almost as dark as Ryan Thompson’s.
“It’s longer or something, too, right?”
That was also true. I hadn’t had it cut until I had someone at my apartment complex give me a trim a couple days before. Plus, at the audition, it had been pinned up to look almost bob-like.
“Yep. I keep pulling at it ... helps it grow.” I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with the quick, non-boring response. But then I immediately wondered if it came across as disrespectful or, possibly worse, an old-man joke.
What I did not expect was his reply. “Really?”
I tried not to laugh, but I think a soft snort may have come out. “My brother used to fall for that. I didn’t think you would.”
“I should try that trick on my kids when I don’t shave.” He acknowledged his dark beard. “But they would probably pull too hard on my face.”
My mind scrambled quickly to recall all the information I had researched online about Ryan Thompson during the week. I had concentrated on his professional side as the owner of a talent agency, which had seen a good number of stars rise in the singing ranks. But I also made sure to know a little about the man himself. Making small connections, I knew could easily help any meeting. Originally from Iowa, he was married to his chart-topping, contemporary rock wife. Both in their low to mid-thirties, they had two young kids. The girl was five years old, and the boy was four.
“That’s a fun kid age,” I offered and then internally cringed. I wondered if he would catch on that I had done some behind-the-scenes research since he hadn’t mentioned their age nor were there any photos present in the lobby area.
But he seemed more focused on the content of my words rather than the source. “I can’t say I disagree.” Was that a smile on the face that had been so rigid at my audition?
“I guess going the California blonde direction didn’t work.” I backtracked to our original conversation while playing with a few strands of my hair.
“It wasn’t your looks, Bethany.” Although, I swear he did a slight grimace. “I know all this is hard to understand, and it’s a huge blow.” He stopped his train of thought and started again. “Look, sorry. That wasn’t how I wanted to get this started.”
Geez! Me, either. I didn’t want to talk about the negatives. There was going to be a positive, right?
“So, what’s first, then? Coffee from California Hut? Tacos from Mexican Mindset ...?” I joked, thinking of the companies that had chimed in on our initial public Twitter conversation.
“Yeah, that was a little crazy. Come on in.” He started walking toward his office just beyond the secretary’s desk. “I can get you some coffee if you want.”
“No.” I internally chuckled. “Thank you. Already had enough.” I picked up my purse and guitar, which had been resting to the side of the sofa, and followed him into the next room.
“Good deal. I think I am going to need an IV of the stuff. Have a seat.” As I sat in the straight-back chair, he did so on the other side of the desk, decorated haphazardly with papers. “I usually have things in much better order. Two full-time jobs and ...” His voice trailed as he began straightening the materials on his desk. “It’s a bit much.”
“The reason for the coffee?” I offered while examining the rest of my surroundings.
The all-glass wall behind him hosted a view of numerous buildings in downtown Los Angeles. The others were filled with either awards or photos of famous people ... most with him in them, too. It was a little intimidating—the world of the elite percentage who had achieved the dream of what I wanted. But it was also empowering, knowing I had gotten that far. I was actually a step—or a desk—away from possibly joining one of those walls. I didn’t want to get too far ahead of myself, though. I had, after all, read and reread what he had told me in the initial tweet. I was a good songwriter. My talent was in my words ... not so much my voice. If I was honest, I would agree.
“Exactly.” He settled more completely into his chair, and I had to remember he was talking about coffee.
When nervous, I tend to be oddly bold. “So, is this legit, or is it like a publicity stunt?”
“What? You being here?” He drew his dark eyebrows closer together.
“Yeah. I mean, do you pick one contestant or person and put it out there so you don’t come across looking so mean?” My boldness probably went a bit too far that time.
But he vibrated his lips in an appreciative burst of air. “Uh, no. I thought I answered the ‘real’ question with the tweeting last week.”
“You did. Just wanted to make sure.” I was trying to ease myself back into a respectable conversation.
“When the show actually aired and I was able to focus a little better ...” He hesitated and then continued, “I picked up on your songwriting side. I’m kinda regretting it, though ...” The expression on my face must have sunk as low as my stomach suddenly dropped because he quickly amended with, “No, no ... not regretting meeting with you. I’m regretting making the request public. I’m afraid I have gotten a
lot of other people wanting a second chance, too.”
“Oh.” So, it really was legit.
“This is new to me—the judging thing.” It was his first year on the show, which had been around a handful plus. “I thought it would be easy. I mean, essentially it is what I do for a living—weed out talent. And it would be nice to say ‘yes’ to everybody, but you can’t.”
“Because they’re too raw and people are way ahead of them.”
“An exact quote?” He lifted his eyebrows.
“I have it painted on my wall,” I teased.
“You do n—” He was starting to catch on to my sarcasm.
“It would be kind of good inspiration, though.”
“Just so there isn’t a dartboard with my photo on it.”
“No, I took that down after you sent the nice tweet.”
He laughed, but the funny part was, I had actually considered putting up a nasty Ryan Thompson picture right after the audition. “All right, Bethany, you got spunk. You didn’t show it so much on your audition, but I could feel it in your words.”
“Thanks.” Assuming that was a compliment. “I appreciate you reaching out and asking me to come in. I’m not sure what it all means, but—”
“It just means I want to hear and see more of your original songs. And then we’ll see where it goes from there.”
“Okay.”
“Whatcha got?”
I unzipped the soft, but secure, black guitar case and brought the instrument into my hands. Dark mahogany with fake gems encircling the soundhole, the guitar was a hand-me-down from one of my father’s parishioners, and I couldn’t love it more. In both the darkest and happiest of times, it was my trusted companion and revealer of truths.
After warming up with a few chords, I started playing and singing some of my original tunes. I wasn’t sure if I should make eye contact with him or not. I knew it was important during the show auditions, but his office seemed more intimate, and I found it harder to look into those eyes, which were closer yet just as hard to read. He didn’t say a thing during or after any of the individual songs. Although, I did see him scribbling some notes on the lyrics and bio info I had provided him. I tried to nonchalantly look at the papers, but his handwriting had something to be desired, especially from my upside-down point of view.
