Page 3 of Four More The Merrier

"Watch it there, rockstar." Derek's gravelly voice makes me jump, and the turkey slips from my fingers. "Though I gotta say, falling through a ladder might get you more attention than your label."

"Harsh, train station Mozart." I climb down, retrieving the sad turkey. "At least I'm not playing 'Wonderwall' for quarters."

"Hey, 'Wonderwall' paid for my breakfast today." He leans against the counter, guitar case propped beside him. His fingerless gloves have new holes in them.

" I'll have the usual, Ms. Congeniality." He says with a smirk.

"Coming right up, shithead," I say with a smile. I turn and start making his americano. "How's the morning crowd?"

"Tourist season's dying down. But hey, got a whole dollar from some kid who thought I was homeless."

"Aren't you?"

"I prefer 'residentially flexible.'" He grins, fishing change from his pocket. "What's with the depression turkey?"

"Manager's orders. Gotta spread that holiday spirit." I hand him his coffee. "Keep your money. You need it more than corporate coffee does."

"Such charity." He takes a sip. "Speaking of holiday spirit, what's your plan for Turkey Day?"

I focus on straightening the napkin dispenser. "Oh, you know. The usual."

"The usual being?"

"Microwave dinner and Netflix."

"Damn, that's sad even for you." He sets his cup down. "Listen, I'm headed to Mom's. You should come. She makes some pretty mean stuffing."

"I don't know..."

"Better than another hot pocket dinner with your neighbor's stalker cat." He picks up his guitar case. "Just think about it."

"I'll think about it."

"That's all I can ask," he says with a saccharine smile.

"You know, one day Derek, we'll both be too famous to play for quarters and turkey decorations." I adjust my apron string. "You'll be selling out arenas, and I'll be accepting my fourth Grammy."

"Fifth, minimum." He raises his coffee in a mock toast. "Keep the dream alive, Quinn." He heads for the door, guitar case swinging. "Remember - the invitation is open."

My phone buzzes in my apron pocket, blaring "Rockstar" by Nickelback. I like them, so sue me. It's the ringtone I assigned to Tommy, my so-called manager. My heart skips - he hasn't called in weeks.

"Hey, Sandra!" I call out to my supervisor who's arranging muffins. "Taking my break now!"

The November air hits my face as I step outside, huddling against the brick wall. My fingers tremble as I swipe to answer.

"Quinn! Baby, you sitting down?" Tommy's voice crackles through the speaker.

"I'm standing, but I can handle it."

"Well, plant your feet firm because I just scored you something big. You heard of the 'Hometown for the Holidays' tour?"

"Uh no, can't say I have," I lean against the cold brick wall, watching my breath form little clouds in the November air. A train whistles in the distance, making me strain to hear Tommy's response.

"Big stuff, baby, big stuff. Twelve cities, all through the Northwest. You'll be opening for some real talent."

"Who exactly?" I wrap my free arm around my waist, trying to keep warm in my thin work shirt.

"Well, we're still finalizing the details..." Tommy's voice takes on that used-car-salesman quality I've come to dread.

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