Page 9 of Four More The Merrier

I sink onto the bed, springs creaking under me. "How much is this gonna cost?"

The number he quotes makes my head spin. There goes Abby's hundred dollars, plus most of my emergency fund.

"Fine." I press my palm against my forehead. "Just... fix it. Fast as you can."

I dial Tommy again, my fingers trembling. The line crackles.

"What now?" His tone already tells me he knows it's bad news.

"The car's worse than we thought. I'm stuck here until at least noon."

"Jesus Christ, Quinn." He exhales hard enough to make the speaker buzz. "This is not how you start a professional relationship."

"I know, I-"

"Hold on." Keys clack in the background. "I'm sending you Monica Morrison's number. Call her. Explain. And Quinn? Try not to sound like an amateur."

My phone pings with the contact. I stare at it for a full minute, gathering courage before dialing.

A woman answers, her voice sharp and clipped. "Monica Morisson."

"Hi, this is Quinn Dupree. I'm supposed to be opening for the Hometown for the Holiday's tour?" My voice rises at the end, making it sound like a question. Amateur hour indeed.

"Ah yes, the Nashville girl. Where are you?"

"That's why I'm calling. My car broke down in South Dakota. The mechanic says-"

"South Dakota?" She cuts me off. "You're supposed to be in Montana tomorrow morning by 8AM."

"I know. I'm trying to get there, but-"

"Listen carefully." Her tone softens slightly. "The meeting was just formalities - contract signing, tour rules, that sort ofthing. Legal can email those. Can you make it by showtime tomorrow night?"

"Yes. Absolutely." I clutch the phone tighter. "The second my car's fixed, I'm driving straight through."

"Good. Because if you miss that show, you'll be on their shit list and trust me, that's not a place you want to be. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"I'll have someone email you the paperwork. Sign it, scan it, send it back before you go on stage." She pauses. "And Quinn? Don't make a habit of this."

The line goes dead. I flop back on the motel bed, sending up another cloud of dust.

"Well," I tell the water-stained ceiling, "at least I'm not fired. Yet."

Around 7:30 PM,the mechanic finally wipes his hands on a rag as I settle the bill, my bank account screaming in digital agony. "She'll get you where you're going now, but take it easy on those mountain passes."

"Thanks." I check my phone's map. "Only about twelve more hours of straight driving. No biggie."

"Might want to fill up before you head out." He points west. "Station down there's got the best prices in town."

I force a smile, knowing my remaining fifty bucks will barely cover the gas. "Right. Thanks again."

Betty purrs to life - actually purrs, not her usual asthmatic wheeze. At least something's going right. I pull into the gas station, watching the numbers tick up with growing dread.

"Forty-seven fifty-eight," I mutter, releasing the pump handle. "Living the dream here, Quinn. Living the absolute dream."

I crank up the radio, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. The sun's starting to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Somewhere ahead, Montana's waiting. And maybe, just maybe, my big break.

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