se.”
“Fuck. Did you just say per se ?”
“Shut up,” she mumbled and then struck him across the head with one of the overstuffed black pillows.
“Come on.” He pulled himself up off the bed. “Let’s find the porn-loving Aussie a bed.”
After that it didn’t take too long for Jonte to settle on a frame. Although Cash was intrigued by the fact that, despite all their clowning around and the non-stop wall-banging sex jokes he’d made, she’d still picked one with a fully upholstered headboard. Even though it was a relatively cheap bed, it looked luxurious, finished off in a classic beige linen fabric with button tufting. He packed the boxes into the back of Pop’s truck and tried really hard not to think about doing things to her that would result in banging her head against it. Of course, he failed miserably.
12
J onte’s quest for a gig was painful. She’d gotten all dressed up in her new Dolly-approved clothes and even spent hours curling her hair before heading out that first day, but it didn’t help.
“So you’re a soloist?” asked the bartender with big 80’s retro hair and Pamela Anderson breasts.
Jonte smiled and nodded eagerly, relieved the woman hadn’t waved her out the door already like the last three places.
“I guess you’re attractive enough.” The woman pulled a beer and set it on the bar in front of an older guy in his mid 50’s with greasy hair. “You’ve got sixty seconds, so whip out your guitar and show me what you’ve got.”
Jonte fidgeted with her denim shorts and kicked her boots against the wooden floor. “Um, the thing is, I don’t actually play the guitar.”
“You’re a soloist and you don’t play?”
“I sing and I –”
“Don’t bother.” The bartender shook her head. “Do yourself a favour and find a band or somebody to accompany you.”
“But I –”
“Do you know how many wannabes walk through those doors every day?” She pointed at the heavy wooden doors. “Too many to count. Good luck and all,” she said before turning away.
“I’ll give you twenty for a private show in the bathroom.”
Jonte eyed the slimy barfly grinning and grabbing for his wallet.
“Back off, Walter,” the bartender growled. “Scoot,” she added, waving her hand at Jonte and nodding at the doors.
“If she don’t want it, why don’t you bend over and I’ll put the twenty in those juicy tits,” Mr. Slimy said to the bartender.
Jonte shook her head in disgust and headed to the door. Nineteen years of lessons and practice, and all she’d managed to do was get propositioned by some pathetic barfly.
She tried four more bars, striking out at each and every one. Damn it! It was time to call it a day. She wasn’t stupid; she’d known it would be a challenge, but she simply had to make this work.
This is your dream. No one makes it on their first day.
Regroup and take control, that’s what she needed to do. She jumped in a cab and headed back to the apartment.
Her plan had been to hit every bar on Broadway as quickly as possible, but if this morning was any indication, she needed a modified plan of attack and some guitar lessons stat. No use burning through all of Broadway in a week.
Besides, Jonte still had an ace up her sleeve – she was a finalist in the American Country Star auditions next month. The judges had loved her online audition tape, and their invitation to perform in the upcoming live summer auditions had been the reassurance and push she’d needed to fly to the US.
Jonte thanked the cabbie and headed for her apartment, rethinking her options.
Worst case scenario: she’d just have to work at Cash’s until the auditions rolled around.
Best case scenario: she’d get lucky and score a gig before then.
Her cell phone rang as she neared the stairwell entrance. She pulled it out of her pocket and cursed at the sight of Jack’s name on the screen. Bugger. Her time was up.
“Hi, Jack,” she said, faking enthusiasm and
“Fuck. Did you just say per se ?”
“Shut up,” she mumbled and then struck him across the head with one of the overstuffed black pillows.
“Come on.” He pulled himself up off the bed. “Let’s find the porn-loving Aussie a bed.”
After that it didn’t take too long for Jonte to settle on a frame. Although Cash was intrigued by the fact that, despite all their clowning around and the non-stop wall-banging sex jokes he’d made, she’d still picked one with a fully upholstered headboard. Even though it was a relatively cheap bed, it looked luxurious, finished off in a classic beige linen fabric with button tufting. He packed the boxes into the back of Pop’s truck and tried really hard not to think about doing things to her that would result in banging her head against it. Of course, he failed miserably.
12
J onte’s quest for a gig was painful. She’d gotten all dressed up in her new Dolly-approved clothes and even spent hours curling her hair before heading out that first day, but it didn’t help.
“So you’re a soloist?” asked the bartender with big 80’s retro hair and Pamela Anderson breasts.
Jonte smiled and nodded eagerly, relieved the woman hadn’t waved her out the door already like the last three places.
“I guess you’re attractive enough.” The woman pulled a beer and set it on the bar in front of an older guy in his mid 50’s with greasy hair. “You’ve got sixty seconds, so whip out your guitar and show me what you’ve got.”
Jonte fidgeted with her denim shorts and kicked her boots against the wooden floor. “Um, the thing is, I don’t actually play the guitar.”
“You’re a soloist and you don’t play?”
“I sing and I –”
“Don’t bother.” The bartender shook her head. “Do yourself a favour and find a band or somebody to accompany you.”
“But I –”
“Do you know how many wannabes walk through those doors every day?” She pointed at the heavy wooden doors. “Too many to count. Good luck and all,” she said before turning away.
“I’ll give you twenty for a private show in the bathroom.”
Jonte eyed the slimy barfly grinning and grabbing for his wallet.
“Back off, Walter,” the bartender growled. “Scoot,” she added, waving her hand at Jonte and nodding at the doors.
“If she don’t want it, why don’t you bend over and I’ll put the twenty in those juicy tits,” Mr. Slimy said to the bartender.
Jonte shook her head in disgust and headed to the door. Nineteen years of lessons and practice, and all she’d managed to do was get propositioned by some pathetic barfly.
She tried four more bars, striking out at each and every one. Damn it! It was time to call it a day. She wasn’t stupid; she’d known it would be a challenge, but she simply had to make this work.
This is your dream. No one makes it on their first day.
Regroup and take control, that’s what she needed to do. She jumped in a cab and headed back to the apartment.
Her plan had been to hit every bar on Broadway as quickly as possible, but if this morning was any indication, she needed a modified plan of attack and some guitar lessons stat. No use burning through all of Broadway in a week.
Besides, Jonte still had an ace up her sleeve – she was a finalist in the American Country Star auditions next month. The judges had loved her online audition tape, and their invitation to perform in the upcoming live summer auditions had been the reassurance and push she’d needed to fly to the US.
Jonte thanked the cabbie and headed for her apartment, rethinking her options.
Worst case scenario: she’d just have to work at Cash’s until the auditions rolled around.
Best case scenario: she’d get lucky and score a gig before then.
Her cell phone rang as she neared the stairwell entrance. She pulled it out of her pocket and cursed at the sight of Jack’s name on the screen. Bugger. Her time was up.
“Hi, Jack,” she said, faking enthusiasm and
Similar Books
