Page 2 of High Note

Here are the garage door opener, the keys for the front and back door. The alarm code is on the key fob, leave off the first and last number and put it in backward. The beds have been made, there’s a gift certificate for Cherry’s pizza here, and I brought in a bill of groceries to tide you over for a day or two. Call me if you need me.

Hannah.>

Whoa.

That was too cool for school. Talk about service. She was tickled as a pig in shit. She wandered, checking out the kitchen, the powder room, which she needed worse than she thought, and then the upstairs with its pretty master bedroom. Nice.

The whole house was charming, warm, and quiet. Even better, the garage was clear, so she could park in there and not have to clean ice off the SUV. Perfect.

She moved the car into the garage, then moved in her guitars first, her suitcases next.

Skyla wasn’t traveling with all her normal shit, but traveling light wasn’t in her vocabulary.

As she put her last suitcase on the bed, she wondered if Cherry’s was within walking distance.

Chapter Two

“Hey, sweetpea.” Kirsten brushed the snow off her guitar case. “It’s coming down out there.”

Cherry grinned over at her, hands filled with pitchers of beer. “It’s a busy night. You make sure you put your tip jar out, huh?”

“Totally. You need some help?” It wasn’t like she hadn’t spent years waiting tables in this place. Waiting tables. Cooking in the back. Washing dishes. Whatever it took to keep her in guitar strings and cat food.

“Nope. You set up and make music. There’s a crowd in the big room already, waiting for someone to take the stage.”

“Thanks.” Cherry really fostered a good place to play, letting people know that if they sat in the main room in the sprawling pizza place, they’d hear a live show several nights a week. So, folks came just for that.

“Kirsten!” The cheer set up for her as soon as she stepped up to the stage. She wasn’t ever going to be famous or anything, but god, she did love pretending to be a star under the single spotlight focused on the spindly chair and mic.

“Ladies!” She ran one hand through her short hair, encouraging the pink spikes to stand a bit taller. Then she pulled out her guitar, which raised up another shout. “How are we doing tonight? Having a party?”

She sat in the chair, strumming a few chords, tuning up as she listened to the women telling her about their evening, about their fun, about their requests. She recognized so many of the ladies—and a couple of the men—here for her and beer and pizza.

Not necessarily in that order.

Still, it was good for the ego how a hoot went up when she got set and started her first song, people singing along with her, which was like, an artist’s dream. She loved that shit.

It didn’t matter that she didn’t sing any of her own stuff. That wasn’t the gig.

This was about dancing on the postage stamp dance floor, about singing along, and more than that about encouraging customers to stay and eat more, drink more. Cherry gave her a piece of the action as well as her tips, so how could she complain? No one else in town was that generous for as easy as the gig was.

She did a ton of easy listening, then a couple of super poppy hits, before leaning into her alt-country roots. The boot-stomping number she ended her first set with had a lot of people dancing, even without the benefit of a backup band, and she let the last few notes roll out with some gusto, doing a ching a ling on her guitar to signal the end of the song.

There was a huge cheer, and she waved to everyone. “I’m taking a half-hour break. Y’all be good.”

“Good set. Kirsten!” someone called, and a guy stuck another ten into her jar. Hello beer money.

“Thanks, y’all!” She left her guitar on stage under the light and went to sit at the bar.

Evie and Chey—two of her best buds—were sitting at the bar, sharing potato skins.

“Hey, sweetheart! You sound good.” Chey kissed her cheek.

“Thanks! It’s a good vibe in here tonight.” She did love that, when everyone seemed into it, and all she had to do was ride the wave.

“It is. It’s busy for sure, especially for a Tuesday. It feels almost like a Friday.”

“If it was Friday, there’d be a DJ and a packed dance floor.” And she didn’t regret that, not a bit.

---