Page 18 of Four More The Merrier

I snort, earning a glare from Jarron.

"Listen, sweetheart," Jarron says, "This isn't some open mic night at your local dive bar. We've got a reputation-"

"Which precedes you," Quinn cuts in, her voice sharp. "Trust me, I've read all about your... reputation."

Monica shuffles through her papers, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. "Well, let's discuss the schedule, shall we? Quinn, you'll have a thirty-minute set before the boys. We're hitting nine cities before Christmas."

I watch Quinn jot down notes, her handwriting neat and precise. The schedule's brutal – two shows most weekends, with barely enough time to breathe between venues.

"Your set needs to be high energy," Monica continues. "Get them ready for the main event. We'll provide backing tracks unless you've got your own band?"

Quinn's pen pauses. "Just me and my guitar."

Jarron scoffs. "Amateur hour."

"Some of the greatest songs were written with just a guitar," I say, earning a small smile from Quinn.

"Here's the tour route." Monica slides papers across the table.

"Speaking of which," Austen leans forward, "how're you planning to get that heap of metal back to Nashville?"

"My car's fine now," Quinn says, not looking up from her notes. "But thanks for your concern."

Monica checks her watch. "Soundcheck tomorrow at five sharp. We'll run through your set, work out the technical details."

"If she shows," Jarron mutters.

Quinn closes her notebook with a snap. "I'll be there."

"Probably not," Austen coughs into his hand.

Beau finally speaks up, his voice softer than usual. "I can show you around the venue when you get there. Help you get set up."

"That won't be necessary," Jarron cuts in. "She's a big girl. Aren't you, sweetheart?"

The look Quinn gives him could freeze hell over. "I'll manage just fine on my own."

I hang back as the others file out, watching Quinn gather her things. Her shoulders are tight, and she's taking deliberate breaths – the kind people take when they're trying not to scream or cry or both.

"Hey." I lean against the conference table. "I'm Lyle. The one who hits things with sticks."

She looks up, a hint of wariness in those hazel eyes. "Quinn. Though I guess you already knew that."

"Don't let the jeckyll and hyde get to you." I gesture toward the door where Jarron and Austen disappeared. "They're what happens when you mix too much money with too little supervision as children."

That gets me a small smile. "Is that your professional diagnosis?"

"Well, I did take Psychology 101 in college. For about two weeks." I scratch my head. "Mostly to impress a girl, if I'm being honest."

She actually laughs at that, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Did it work?"

"Nah. Turns out she was more interested in my roommate. But hey, at least I learned what projection means, which explains about ninety percent of Jarron's personality."

Quinn zips up her purse, shaking her head. "I've dealt with plenty of fragile male egos in Nashville. These two aren't anything special."

"Ouch. Don't let them hear you say that. Their egos are the only thing bigger than their… trust funds." I straighten up with a smirk. "Listen, if you need anything – advice, someone to vent to, a guide to the best coffee shops in whatever city we're in – I'm your guy."

"Thanks." She pauses at the door. "I appreciate it, but I can handle myself."

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