Page 4 of Sing Your Heart Out

So as soon asI worked up the nerve to leave him, I applied to get a spot in this contest. I figure it’ll give me somewhere to stay while I try to figure out where I’m going.

Plus, the whole songwriter lifestyle really calls to me on a soul-deep level. I stare out the window at boring beige houses, but in my head, I’m dreaming about who I could write for.

Alright, I’ll admit it. I want to write for Dolly Parton, even though I know that’s not likely to happen. She’s just my idol, that’s all.

But still.

“Next stop, Clinton and Fairfax Streets,” comes a voice over the bus’s intercom.

Shooting straight up, I make sure that I push the button indicating that I’d like to stop. Gathering my duffel bag, my guitar, and my purse, I struggle to the exit. I should’ve probably waited until I got there to put on my sky-high heels, but I traveled all the way here in them because… well, you never know when you’re going to be discovered, right?

The bus driver pulls over and opens the door. A wave of heat puffs against me, a warning of what’s outside. I am probably going to regret this denim jacket too, but it just looked so cute with the matching denim skirt that I couldn’t resist.

“Thank you, darlin,” I say, hustling off the bus. The bus driver doesn’t even look my way. She’s too busy closing the doors behind me.

The bus pulls away, leaving me four blocks from the address I was given. I check the map on my phone with a grin. As I start lugging my bag toward the house, I can only wonder what is in store for me.

A new career? I mean, I’ve done a few songs, enough to send my demo to Heartstroke Studios at least. But this could really be a whole entire thing!

When I get to the address they gave me, I look up at the big house they’ve got, wide eyed. It’s absolutely huge!

The door opens, a lady shading her eyes against the sun. “Sarah?”

I get so damned excited, I’m nearly tongue tied. I feel my stomach flip flop.

“Yeah!” I say, dragging my stuff toward the door. I’m nervous and excited, my heart banging loudly in my ears.

“I’m Dee,” she says, grinning. She is dressed very casually, just jeans and a t-shirt. “Hurry and come in. You’re the last one of the contestants to arrive.”

I step into the cooling blast of air conditioning with a sigh of relief. She closes the door behind me and I stare up at the foyer with awe.

“Two staircases?” I ask, looking up. “Gosh, this place is so nice!”

Dee gives me a warm smile. “Leave your bags here. Dwayne will carry them upstairs to your bedroom. Come, come meet your competition.”

I follow her down the hall straight ahead to a huge multipurpose room. There are a few people lounging in the kitchen. A couple more on the couches.

But the one that catches my eye right away is an enormous guy wearing all black, writing down something in a lined journal. When I enter he looks up, his amber eyes landing on me.

I feel a strangle sizzle of connection sliding down my spinal column. His gaze is frank and intense, his curiosity definitely piqued.

My cheeks turn red and I have to look away.

Who is that?

“Oh, you must be Sarah!” a slim man says. He’s wearing the same t-shirt as Dee and he opens his arms as he approaches. “Give me a big ole hug! I’m Dwayne!”

Everyone else stops what they are doing to watch. Dwayne hugs me. I don’t really trust a man to be that close but I grin and bear it, patting him on the back lightly.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

He pulls back. “You’re some kind of Southerner, I can tell by your accent. Where are you from?”

“Georgia. Right around Statesboro, if you know the area.” My face is on fire.

“That’s so great! I’m from Tennessee myself,” he confides, beaming. “Here, let’s see…” He turns to the room, pointing people out. “Those four ladies are Theresa, Tabby, Fiona, and Roxie. Then there’s Hamel, Logan, Sloane, Alex, and Rafael.” He turns a little wider, pointing to the living room, and continues the introductions. I’ll be honest, most of the names slide in my ear and out the other side.

But the last one — the big guy with the whiskey-colored eyes — that one I hear. “Smith,” I say.

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