Page 22 of Four More The Merrier

"Genius," Lyle finishes.

I glance at Jarron, expecting another smartass comment, but he's just standing there, arms crossed, jaw clenched. I know that look. It's the same one he wore when we first heard Chris Stapleton live.

Quinn transitions into the chorus, and goosebumps rise on my arms. The lyrics punch straight through my chest – something about broken dreams and proving everyone wrong. It hits too close to home.

"Remember when we used to write like that?" Beau says softly. "Before all the..."

"Production value?" Lyle supplies.

I run my hands through my hair, trying to shake off the effect her voice is having on me. "She was right, she doesn't need a soundcheck," I mutter. "Jesus Christ."

"Man, shut up," Jarron snaps, but there's no real heat in it. He's too busy watching her, probably thinking the same thing I am – we've made a huge mistake underestimating her.

The crowd is dead silent, hanging on every note. That never happens during an opening act. Never.

"Still think she's going to embarrass us?" Lyle asks, nudging my shoulder.

I can't even answer. I'm too busy trying to figure out how we're supposed to follow this act.

I grab Monica's arm as she shuffles past us. "Where the hell did you find her?"

Monica raises an eyebrow. "What happened to 'amateur bar singer'?"

"Just answer the question." I run my fingers through my hair, still processing what we just witnessed.

"Some dinky label in Nashville signed her. She plays Tuesday nights at The Rusty Nail." Monica checks her phone. "That's literally all I know about her."

"The Rusty Nail?" Jarron scoffs. "That place where the karaoke machine's held together with duct tape?"

"That's the one." Monica smirks. "Why? Having second thoughts about your little welcome wagon routine?"

Beau leans against the wall, still clutching his book. "You're telling me no one's picked her up yet? Like, for real?"

"Nope." Monica pops the 'p'. "Just that indie label. They haven't even recorded anything with her yet."

"Bullshit," I say. "There's no way?—"

"Way," Monica cuts me off. "Want to know the best part? That's the very first song she ever wrote."

Lyle whistles low. "No wonder it felt so..."

"Raw," I finish. The word tastes strange in my mouth. When was the last time we wrote something that honest?

"Well," Monica says, gathering her things. "If you boys are done being judgmental assholes, I've got work to do."

I watch her go, then turn to Jarron. His jaw's still tight, like he's chewing on something he doesn't want to say.

"Don't even think about it," he warns.

"Think about what?"

"Whatever's going on in that head of yours. We're not here to play talent scout."

But I'm already thinking about it. About that voice, those lyrics, the way the crowd went dead silent. About how long it's been since we wrote something that made people feel like that.

12

BEAU

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