The Pool Boy (Nashville Neighborhood Book 2)

by Nikki Sloane

  My voice dipped to a hush. “Still haven’t answered my question, Erika.”

  Her eyes were wild and her expression anxious, like she worried her answer was signing the song rights over to me alone and for all time. I opened my mouth to tell her that wasn’t true. She hadn’t even finished—

  “Yes,” she whispered. “It’s for you.”

  I kissed her, because how could I not? I’d only heard part of the song, but I’d wanted it so badly, it felt like an enormous gift. No, not felt—it was a gift.

  Our kiss wasn’t like the ones we’d had before.

  Until this moment, kissing her had been foreplay. Part of something larger, working toward a goal of getting us naked and sweaty. But this slow, deep kiss wasn’t about that at all. It echoed what she’d sung about, how she was scared but didn’t want to be released. Our mouths moved together, silently singing how we both wanted more.

  The intense kiss faded until she ended it. If I had any doubt it hadn’t gotten to her, it disappeared when she touched her fingertips to her lips, like my kiss lingered there.

  My voice was full of gravel. “What’s my song called?”

  “I was thinking of calling it ‘Power.’”

  I nodded, liking that. “Will you play it again?”

  She did, and when she finished, she then began to teach it to me.

  I wasn’t sure where the best place would be to throw up in the green room of the Grand Ole Opry House. It was called a green room, but the dressing room had cream-colored walls and furniture decorated in purple velvet. It was fancy as fuck, and basically wallpapered with framed photos and show posters of all the legends who had performed here. Willie Nelson stared down at me.

  No pressure.

  There was a bathroom attached that I could use, but it was shared with another dressing room, and I wasn’t quiet when I hurled. Whoever was waiting in the other room was my competition, and I didn’t want them to hear me being a pussy.

  Hopefully, it didn’t come to me using the trashcan in the corner. My stomach was bubbling and acidic, but it usually went away when I stepped on stage. This waiting was fucking killing me though, and why the hell hadn’t I taken more time to distract myself while tuning my guitar?

  I checked my phone again to see if I had any new text messages from Erika, but there was only the one from thirty minutes ago.

  Erika: We’re behind schedule, so sit tight. Probably another 20 minutes.

  I’d warmed up my voice, so now I paced the room to stay loose. It was weird to be alone right now, but there was nothing I could do about it. Preston had work, so I didn’t bother asking him to come, and if I had, he might have flaked anyway. Erika was the only one who knew I was here, and she couldn’t be back in the green room with me. She was sitting in the audience with Ardy and the rest of Stella’s crew, judging.

  Plus, I wasn’t her only client auditioning today.

  I didn’t have a clue how many acts were auditioning in total, but she’d told me to block off the entire day. It was a bare minimum of fifteen performers, but probably more. My call time had been eleven a.m., and while I’d been escorted to my room to prepare, I’d heard music coming from the main stage. The auditions were already happening.

  Pacing was making my cold sweat worse, and I glanced in the lighted mirror to make sure I still looked okay. I wore the same thing I usually wore when I performed. Jeans, a blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled back to the elbows, and my leather cuff. My hair looked decent and my face wasn’t shiny yet, so that was good.

  A knock at the dressing room door made me flinch. “Osbourne?”

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “It’s time,” the production assistant announced.

  Fuck. I should have thrown up and gotten it out of the way. Now that window had closed. I grabbed my guitar, pulled open the door, and followed the guy wearing a headset down the hall.

  I’d been backstage in the famed theatre before, but that had been years ago during a middle school class tour. It was really hitting me what was about to happen. If this was it—as far as I ever made it as a singer—I couldn’t complain, could I? I was getting to perform on the same stage as Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley, and Dolly Parton. Last week, Dierks Bentley had sold this place out.

  We wound through the hall, passing other production people and what I assumed was the band that had gone on before me, because they were carrying instruments. My brain could barely register it over the noise that played as nervous static in my head.

  The guy I’d been following wasn’t much older than I was, but he looked serious and was dressed head-to-toe in black, so he reminded me of an executioner. Maybe he was. It kind of felt like I was walking toward my doom.

  What if I bombed?

  What if I let Erika down?

  Pressure mounted at the base of my spine and crawled up my back. Over the last week, I’d spent every available moment either practicing or thinking about the audition. Erika had gotten me a gig at a bar on the far side of town this past Thursday. It was dark and cramped, a total dive. The crowd had been more interested in their drinks than me when I’d started my set, but I’d been able to convince most of them to come around by the end.

  I was as prepared as I could be, she’d told me last night, and she believed in me. She’d invited me over to her house to talk business, but after hearing that, it’d been impossible to keep my hands off her. It led to a quick fuck, both of us needing to let off some steam, before she sent me packing. I needed my rest, she told me.

  “Hold here. Don’t go out until I tell you to,” the assistant said when we reached the curtains at the side of the stage. “When I say so, you’ll walk to the mic, someone will get you plugged in, and there will be a quick sound check.”

  There was a lump the size of a baseball in my throat as I peered ahead. The stage was brightly lit and empty, other than a microphone stand in the center. It was placed on top of a six-foot circle of yellow hardwood, while the rest of the stage was made of darker planks of wood, lightly scratched and scuffed from years of performances. The ring in the center was made from the original stage at the Ryman Auditorium, where the Grand Ole Opry Show was born nearly a hundred years ago. It even miraculously survived the catastrophic Nashville flood in 2010, while the rest of the stage couldn’t be salvaged.

  The assistant nodded to whatever was said to him through the headset and put his focus on me. “Okay, we’re all set. Good luck.”

  My heart thudded in my chest and my guitar weighed a million pounds, but luckily my feet still seemed to work. I rolled my shoulders back, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the stage.

  The lights were so powerful I had to blink against them, but I forced an easy smile onto my face. I’d fake it until I made it in the confidence department, because who’d want to watch some nervous kid as the opening act for a superstar?

  The stage was huge as I crossed it. Overhead, red curtains were draped as scallops, and the lights from beneath the balcony tier winked back at me. When I approached the legendary circle of oak, my anxiety vanished. Yeah, this wasn’t the same as performing a show at the Grand Ole Opry, and the red seats of the large theatre were mostly empty, but—

  This was a moment I’d remember the rest of my life.

  And it was all thanks to Erika Graham, who I was finally able to find through the blinding lights and see the big, encouraging smile on her face.

  I wasn’t going to blow this audition.

  I knew because I’d be performing for her.

  Once my feet were planted in the ring, I lifted the guitar strap over my head and settled into playing position. A tech guy appeared from out of nowhere, clipped a microphone onto the edge of my guitar’s sound hole, and asked me to play a chord.

  He got a thumbs up from the guy working the board in the booth, which made him scurry off stage.

  “Hey, Troy,” Ardy said in his booming voice. He was sitting near Erika, both of them on the main floor center seats. “We’re goin
g to start by having you introduce yourself.”

  I glanced at the camera up on a tripod a few rows behind the team from Warbler. There was a second camera up on a guy’s shoulder, who stood in the floor aisle down below the end of the stage. I didn’t want to ignore the camera entirely, since the videos were what Stella would judge as she kept her tour going, but I needed to show how I performed live.

  I lifted my chin and spoke clearly into the microphone. “Hi, I’m Troy Osbourne, from right here in Nashville. Today, I’m going to be performing U2’s ‘Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’”

  I’d been kind of a mess when I’d played for Ardy last week, and this was so much bigger than that. So it was shocking when a calm moved over me and took hold. I flashed a relaxed smile at the crowd, positioned my fingers for the opening chord, and readied my pick.

  Three, two, one . . . go.

  My hands moved easily, and I strummed with energy, letting the music keep me loose. Although I wouldn’t move from my spot during the song, I didn’t want the performance to be static. I filled my lungs with air to support my vocals and belted out the opening lyric. As my voice and instrument flooded the music hall, I gathered strength.

  There wasn’t anything like the sound of it.

  Everything I felt, I channeled into the emotion of the song. I knew all about being restless. About striving for something and not getting it. But for the first time, I found meaning in the song that was uplifting. I hadn’t found what I was looking for yet, but there was a promise that I could.

  It was hard not to keep my gaze fixated on Erika as I sang. I was looking for even more from her than we had, and a spark ignited inside me. I could find whatever I needed to and convince her to truly give us a chance.

  Her expression as she watched me was . . . intense. Captivated. She stared at me like how I was sure I’d gazed at her the night she’d sang ‘Power.’ The rest of the small crowd watched with different levels of interest. One of the other agents, a dude in the back, nodded along in time with the music, but stared at his phone.

  The only person who seemed as mesmerized as Erika was by my performance was the girl who worked the front desk at Warbler. Charlotte, Erika had said her name was.

  The girl gaped at me like I was naked. It wasn’t an entirely new experience for me. I’d had some girls legit toss their panties at me at bars, usually a bachelorette party where the women wanted to be wild and show off for their friends. Charlotte’s gobsmacked look didn’t hurt my ego either, but it also couldn’t compare with how Erika seemed to hang on each line I sang.

  I could feel her with me on every note.

  The three and a half minutes it took to play went so fast. I brought the song to a close, winding down the volume, the tempo, and power to demonstrate my control. Hopefully, I had the rest of the audience on the edge of their seats like Charlotte was. I sang the final refrain, struck the last note, and held still to let it wash over the crowd.

  Their applause broke me from my daze and unleashed a smile from my lips.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “How long have you been playing?” someone in the crowd asked.

  I’d been told there was an interview at the end, and this was what I sensed Erika dreaded. My inexperience was a clear disadvantage. I relaxed my grip on the guitar neck and stood tall. “About five years.”

  The next question came from a woman in the row in front of Erika. “Are you doing music full-time?”

  “No, ma’am.” It was clear she wanted me to elaborate, and I struggled to maintain my smile. “I just finished school, so I’m taking as many gigs as I can get.”

  “What do you do for work?”

  “Sports training and some construction. Like, home remodels.”

  “I thought you were a pool boy,” Ardy quipped.

  I laughed to downplay my embarrassment. “Oh yeah. I do pools too.”

  The interview turned serious. It continued with questions about what kind of show I’d like to put on if I landed the opening act. Who my musical influences were. If I were to perform a song from Stella’s library, which one would it be and why?

  I was crushing my answers . . . all until the last question.

  “What’s the largest audience you’ve performed to?”

  The smile on my face froze and my voice wasn’t as solid as I wanted it to be. “I did a friend’s wedding that was, uh, probably four hundred people.”

  This was Nashville, the music city, with venues on Broadway that could accommodate twenty-five hundred covers. Even more if it were outside, or in one of the auditoriums.

  And it was likely my competitors had played them. I was up against people who’d moved to this town from all across the country with dreams of making it. Performers who had years of experience and far more skill than I did.

  Hell, I’d met a guy one night at Blanche’s before my set who was a bouncer at Blake Shelton’s bar. He’d come from Vermont and taken the job only so he could fill in and do acoustics whenever they had a light entertainment week. Maybe he deserved to be up here more than I did. I hadn’t been hungry like that until recently.

  But . . . wait. Fuck that. I hadn’t been hungry because I hadn’t believed it was even possible. Now that it was? I craved it with every inch of my soul. Standing on the stage felt right. I knew that I belonged here.

  Although a lot of the people in the audience were looking at me like I didn’t. There was distrust in their eyes. This kid Troy from Nashville was unproven, and probably not a risk Stella should take with her brand.

  “Can I say something?” I asked.

  Ardy motioned for me to go ahead.

  “I just wanted to thank y’all for letting me come out and perform today.” I glanced around the theatre, taking it all in. “It’s an honor to stand on this stage, especially for an unknown like me, and to get this opportunity. I don’t know if Stella sees this part of the process, but either way . . . I appreciate what y’all have done.”

  I genuinely meant what I said, but I also hoped the words would reach Stella personally. She wanted to pay it forward and help someone launch their career, and she couldn’t find anyone more unknown than me.

  “No, thank you.” Did Ardy sound this friendly and warm as he said goodbye to everyone else who’d auditioned? “We appreciate your time. Erika will let you know if we need anything else.”

  The sound tech reappeared and unclipped the small microphone from my guitar.

  Audition over, I exited the stage the way I’d come and walked in a trance-like state back to the green room where my stuff was. All the prep and anxiety over it, and the whole thing had taken less than twenty minutes. I wouldn’t find out how I’d done for weeks. The auditions would be edited together and posted to Stella’s website.

  I moved methodically as I put the guitar back in its case, wondering how I’d survive the waiting, but then . . . I didn’t have to. My phone buzzed with a text message.

  Erika: You fucking nailed it.

  SIXTEEN

  Erika

  As soon as Ardy ended our team meeting, Charlotte practically climbed over the Opry House seats to get to me. It’d been a long day of listening to auditions, and the consensus among Warbler was to recommend Lauren as the agency’s pick to Stella. Like Troy, she’d also knocked her audition out of the park, but she had a terrific résumé, including touring experience, to back her performance up.

  Ardy wanted to play it safe.

  I was thrilled for my client, but the personal disappointment inside me was crushing. I wanted this so badly for Troy. All hope wasn’t lost though, I reminded myself. Stella’s fans would have a say when the series aired on her site, and the artist herself would make the final decision.

  Charlotte’s smile was bright and energetic. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  I stood from my seat and stretched, tired from sitting all afternoon. “Sure. What’s up?”

  She glanced around mischievously and lowered her voice, like sh
e didn’t want anyone else to hear. “The pool boy. He’s yours, right?”

  My body was suddenly made out of concrete. “What?”

  “Your client? Troy.”

  “Oh.” It was embarrassing where my mind had automatically gone. Of course she’d meant professionally. “Yeah, I brought him in.”

  This was the answer she was hoping for because her smile widened. “So, I know I’m probably not supposed to ask this, but like . . . what’s his deal? Do you know if he has a girlfriend?”

  The concrete was back, solidifying my bones. I could give her a line about not getting into the personal lives of my clients, but it’d be utter bullshit. Instead, I gave her the most honest answer I could. “No, I don’t know if he has a girlfriend.”

  Because while Troy and I were exclusive, we’d never put those labels on each other. It wasn’t like we dated. We had wild sex and I used him both as my personal sex toy and my muse to write music. That didn’t mean I was his girlfriend.

  Charlotte looked pleased. “Then he probably doesn’t. I think she would have been here if he did, or he would have mentioned her to you.” She quirked her head to the side. “I mean, it’s none of my business. It’s not like I can date him even if I wanted to. My dad would freak out.”

  The idea of Charlotte and Troy dating was a punch to my stomach. It wasn’t just how we were secretly together. It was the fact that Troy and Charlotte were the same age. They were both attractive, and no one would think twice about them if they went out. On the surface, she made a lot more sense for him than I did.

  I fucking hated it.

  And what happened when Troy eventually realized I was too old for him? He’d leave me for a girl half my age . . . probably one who looked just like Charlotte.

  “You look worried,” she said, “but you shouldn’t be.” She waved to her father across the theatre, signaling she’d be right along. “Everyone from Warbler can vote for Lauren, but there’s no way Troy doesn’t win the popular vote.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She laughed like I was being ridiculous. “Hello, do your eyes work? Lauren’s great and all, but he’s gorgeous and all of Stella’s fans are like me—girls.” She kept her gaze glued on me as she backed out of the row, her eyes sparkling. “I’d vote for him every day, and twice on Sundays.”