Page 74 of Perfect Pitch

Prodigy DJ Kensington brought down the house at Redemption last night. If you’re smart and have the connections to get in, go listen to her. Holy @^%$ She’s a game changer!

—@PRyanPOfficial

“I’m certain I packed both of them,” I mutter. I’m looking for one boot—just one!—amid the explosion of my suitcase in my mother’s suite. Unable to vent my anxiety any other way, I tap the latest tune floating through my brain on the counter. I frown before picking up a half-drunk glass of water and a spoon and tapping with that instead.

Yeah, I’m even driving myself nuts.

I drop down into the chair and reach for my guitar, since all my equipment is already locked and loaded at Redemption. My fingers don’t falter on the strings, not once, not even when I begin replaying the events of last night in my mind.

Especially Trevor’s call around five this morning. He groaned, “Austyn, you’re going to hate me.”

“What happened?” I yawned, still trying to wake up.

“I’m at urgent care, and...”

“Do you need me to come down? I’ll get dressed right now.” I threw back the lush covers and immediately began scanning the floor of my room for my pants.

“No, no! It’s nothing that serious. I just rolled my bad ankle while trying to read the reviews walking home last night.”

I teased gently, “Trev, you can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.”

Trevor sounded disgusted with himself. “You’d think I’d have learned that by now. The pain was killing me.”

I winced even as I sank back onto the bed. “Ouch. Are you okay? Is Mitch with you?”

“He’s parking the car. I’m waiting on X-rays. God, I just hope it’s not crutches again.”

“Doesn’t the doctor realize you’re a hazard to yourself on them?” What I meant to say is a hazard to our living space. After Trevor hurt his ankle the last time, he knocked a stool out from under the counter when he passed through the kitchen. He also took a painting off the wall—something I’m still trying to figure out exactly how he managed.

“God, I hope not. You know what this likely means though.”

“You won’t be able to be at Redemption tomorrow night,” I accurately guess.

His voice sounds like I just kicked a puppy. “Probably not. I tried and... ow! Crap!”

“Trevor, are you trying to stand on your foot?”

“I don’t want to let you down.” His voice is laced with regret.

“You aren’t. You couldn’t.” I rub my hands over my forehead, the ramifications of what he’s clueing me in on sinking in. Trevor’s been monitoring sound and shooting up decibel levels to the booth so I know whether to raise or lower the sound for certain songs amid the magnificence that is Redemption.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“I just feel so bad about this.”

“You can’t help being a klutz,” I teased gently.

“And you can’t help being amazing. You’re the best, Austyn.”

After I hung up with Trevor, feeling awful for his renewed pain and wondering what kind of disasters would await me when I returned to the apartment, I tossed and turned. Just as the sun began dragging the night away from the New York skyline, an idea struck. “She could totally stand in for him.”

And there’s nothing my mother hasn’t proved she wouldn’t do for me. Finally, I drift off to sleep.

I’m not sure how long I’m down before my phone begins pinging frantically.

Bleary-eyed, I snatch it up and check out the Lock Screen. Drawing in a sharp breath, I unlock my phone and dive into the tens of hundreds of posts about last night’s performance.

And they’re raving.

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