Page 13 of Four More The Merrier

"No sir, I appreciate you confirming her identity." Another pause. "Don't worry, I'll make sure she takes it easy on these roads. You folks have a good one."

He hands the phone back. "Your parents are worried about you."

"They're always worried about me." I take the phone, hearing Mom still talking on the other end. "Thanks, Mom. I've got to go-"

"Quinn Marie Dupree, don't you dare hang up-"

I end the call and slip the phone into my pocket, facing the officer with what I hope is a winning smile. "So... about that warning?"

The officer approaches with my documents. I wait until he drives off before I high tail it out of there.

I check the GPS - arrival time now 30 minutes past my soundcheck slot. My chest tightens.

"Highway to Hell," starts to play through the speakers and at this point I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

The massive arenalooms before me, its marquee blazing against the darkening sky: "JUST SOUTH OF MASON - HOMETOWN FOR THE HOLIDAYS TOUR." My fingers go numb on the steering wheel.

"You've got to be fucking joking." I grab my phone, nearly dropping it twice before managing to dial. "Pick up, pick up..."

"Quinn! You made it-"

"Just South of Mason? Are you insane?" My voice comes out as a squeak. "They're like... they're..."

"Now, don't panic-"

"Don't panic? They've sold out every major venue in the country! Their last single was number one for twelve weeks!" My free hand clutches my stomach. "Oh god, I think I'm gonna be sick."

"That's why I didn't tell you who they were. I knew you'd back out."

"Because I'm not ready for this! I play coffee shops and dive bars, not arenas!" The parking lot spins a little. "Last week someone threw a beer can at me because I wouldn't play 'Sweet Home Alabama.'"

"Quinn, listen to me. The label wouldn't have picked you if-"

"I can't do this." I press my forehead against the steering wheel. "I'm going to walk out there and forget every word to every Christmas song ever written. They're going to laugh me off stage. It'll end up on ET: 'Local Nobody Bombs Opening Act, Career Dies Faster Than Her Car.'"

"Take a breath." His voice turns serious. "You're there because you deserve to be. Now get your ass inside before they give your slot to some other nobody."

The line goes dead. I stare at the marquee again, the letters burning into my retinas. Through the lobby windows, I can see people rushing around with equipment, clipboards, coffee cups.

This is really happening.

I burst through the doors, my boots squeaking against the polished floor as I nearly collide with a guy carrying a stack of cables. My guitar case bangs against my hip as I dodge around him.

"I'm here! I made it!" My voice echoes through the lobby. A woman in a sleek pantsuit looks up from her tablet, her expression shifting from annoyance to recognition.

"Quinn Dupree?" She extends a manicured hand. "Monica Morrison, Just South of Mason's manager."

"I am so sorry about being late." The words tumble out.

She holds up a hand. "Shit happens. The guys have already made adjustments to tonight's schedule."

My stomach drops. "What do you mean?"

"You missed soundcheck." She taps something on her tablet. "The divas aren't comfortable having someone perform without proper preparation. We can't risk technical issues."

"But I-" My throat tightens. "I drove as fast as I could to get here, I even got pulled over?—."

"And we appreciate your dedication." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "But they're just going to play an extended encore tonight instead. We'll need you in the conference room at eight AM sharp tomorrow to discuss the rest of the tour."

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