Page 21 of Four More The Merrier

We round the corner and I stop dead in my tracks. Holy shit. Quinn is standing by the stage entrance, and she looks... different. The glam squad's worked their magic, transforming her from that defensive spitfire in bell bottoms into something else entirely. The brown sequined dress catches the light, making her shine like autumn sunshine.

"Damn," I whisper under my breath.

"What was that?" Jarron elbows me in the ribs.

"Nothing." I clear my throat. "Just surprised."

I look over to Beau who looks like a teenager that just saw his first pin up in a playboy magazine.

Lyle appears behind us. "You two look like vultures prepared to watch the carnage. Cut her some damn slack."

"Whatever," Jarron says, but I notice his cocky smirk has faded slightly.

Quinn's talking to one of the stage hands, her shoulders straight, head high. No sign of nerves. Not what I expected at all.

"That dress though," I say, trying to sound casual. "Makes her look like a?—"

"Walking disco turkey?" Jarron finishes.

But I wasn't going to say that. The way she's holding herself, all quiet confidence... it's got me wondering if maybe we underestimated her.

Beau drifts over, his ever-present book tucked under his arm. "I'm going to laugh like hell when she becomes more successful than all of us," he mutters, but stays to watch anyway.

Quinn steps up to the microphone, her sequins catching the stage lights. "Hi everyone. I'm Quinn Dupree, I'm going to start with an original song I wrote called?—"

"What the hell?" Jarron lunges forward, and I grab his arm.

"She can't do this," I hiss, running my free hand through my hair. "We haven't even heard her sing, and she wants to start with an original?"

"I'm going out there." Jarron tries to shake me off.

"And do what? Tackle her mid-sentence?" I scan the wings for our manager. "This has to be some kind of joke. Where are the cameras? Is Ashton Kutcher gonna pop out?"

"You two need to simmer down," Beau drawls, not looking up from his book. "Let the girl sing."

"Simmer down?" I release Jarron to face Beau. "Our reputation's on the line here. She skips soundcheck, now she's gonna bust out some karaoke bullshit?—"

"Maybe it's good," Lyle cuts in, crossing his tattooed arms. "Y'all remember your first originals?"

"That's different," Jarron snaps.

"How?" Lyle raises an eyebrow. "Because you had a dick when you wrote yours?"

"Because we weren't opening for the biggest act in Nashville," I counter, but my conviction wavers.

"Just shut up and listen," Beau says, finally closing his book. "If she bombs, she bombs. But I've got a feeling..."

"That's heartburn from that gas station burrito," Jarron mutters, but he stops trying to charge the stage.

Quinn's voice carries over the speakers: "This one's called 'Lonesome Lane.'"

The first chord rings out, clear and pure, and my smirk freezes on my face. Quinn's fingers dance across the guitar strings with a confidence I wasn't expecting. Then she opens her mouth to sing, and... shit.

"Holy fucking hell," Lyle whispers behind me.

Her voice fills the arena, raw and honest, with just the right amount of grit. The kind of voice that makes you feel things you'd rather not admit to feeling. I catch myself leaning forward, drawn in despite my best efforts to stay detached.

"She wrote this herself?" Beau's voice cracks with admiration. "The chord progression is..."

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