Page 4 of Four More The Merrier

"Tommy, what aren't you telling me?"

"Listen Quinn, focus on the important part - three grand per show."

My knees go weak. I slide down the wall, not caring about the grime getting on my black work pants. "Three... thousand?"

"Plus lodging expenses covered. Twelve shows, do the math."

Thirty-six thousand dollars. More money than I've made in the last three years combined. More than enough to move out of my rattrap apartment, maybe even buy a car that doesn't sound like it's gargling rocks.

"What's the catch?"

"Catch? No catch! What kind of guy do you think I am?" He squeaks.

The kind that uses dollar store cologne and lives in his mom's basement, but I decide against saying that.

"Tommy, I need more details. Who am I opening for? What's the venue size? How long are my sets?"

"Baby, baby, slow down. Trust your manager. When have I steered you wrong?"

I bite back a laugh. Last month he "steered" me to a gig that turned out to be a child's birthday party. The kids threw cake at me.

"Okay, fine. I'm in." My fingers drum against my knee. "When do we start?"

"That's my girl! First show's in Montana. Meeting with the headliner Friday at eight AM."

My stomach drops. "This Friday? As in three days from now Friday?"

"Did I not mention that part?" His laugh sounds like a squeaky toy being stepped on. "Minor detail."

"Minor det- Tommy, I have a job! An apartment! I can't just-"

"Quinn, this is your shot. Real venues, real crowds. You want to keep serving lattes forever?"

The train rumbles past, rattling the brick wall behind me. Through the coffee shop window, I can see Sandra giving me the evil eye.

"Look. I've got to go… tie up some loose ends." I say into the phone.

"No worries baby, I'll email you over the deats. Congratulations Quinny!"

I end the call and let my head thump back against the brick wall. Time to face the music, literally.

I push through the coffee shop door, my heart hammering against my ribs. Sandra's standing behind the counter, arms crossed, tapping her foot like a disappointed mother.

"That was fifteen minutes." She adjusts her wire-rimmed glasses. "Break's ten."

"Actually..." I untie my apron, folding it with shaking hands. "I need to quit."

"You what now?" She barks out a laugh that makes a customer jump and spill their latte.

"I got an offer. A real one." The words tumble out as I place my apron on the counter. "Starting Friday."

Sandra exchanges looks with Beth, our resident barista queen. They both burst into laughter.

"Oh honey," Beth wipes her eyes, smearing mascara. "Remember when Jamie quit because he was 'definitely' getting signed by Sony?"

"He's working at Golden Corral now," Sandra adds, still chuckling. "Look, Quinn, we all have dreams, but-"

"This is different." My voice cracks. "I have a contract, a manager."

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