The Pool Boy (Nashville Neighborhood 2)

We wound through the hall, passing other production people and what I assumed was the band that had gone on before me, because they were carrying instruments. My brain could barely register it over the noise that played as nervous static in my head.

The guy I’d been following wasn’t much older than I was, but he looked serious and was dressed head-to-toe in black, so he reminded me of an executioner. Maybe he was. It kind of felt like I was walking toward my doom.

What if I bombed?

What if I let Erika down?

Pressure mounted at the base of my spine and crawled up my back. Over the last week, I’d spent every available moment either practicing or thinking about the audition. Erika had gotten me a gig at a bar on the far side of town this past Thursday. It was dark and cramped, a total dive. The crowd had been more interested in their drinks than me when I’d started my set, but I’d been able to convince most of them to come around by the end.

I was as prepared as I could be, she’d told me last night, and she believed in me. She’d invited me over to her house to talk business, but after hearing that, it’d been impossible to keep my hands off her. It led to a quick fuck, both of us needing to let off some steam, before she sent me packing. I needed my rest, she told me.

“Hold here. Don’t go out until I tell you to,” the assistant said when we reached the curtains at the side of the stage. “When I say so, you’ll walk to the mic, someone will get you plugged in, and there will be a quick sound check.”

There was a lump the size of a baseball in my throat as I peered ahead. The stage was brightly lit and empty, other than a microphone stand in the center. It was placed on top of a six-foot circle of yellow hardwood, while the rest of the stage was made of darker planks of wood, lightly scratched and scuffed from years of performances. The ring in the center was made from the original stage at the Ryman Auditorium, where the Grand Ole Opry Show was born nearly a hundred years ago. It even miraculously survived the catastrophic Nashville flood in 2010, while the rest of the stage couldn’t be salvaged.

The assistant nodded to whatever was said to him through the headset and put his focus on me. “Okay, we’re all set. Good luck.”

My heart thudded in my chest and my guitar weighed a million pounds, but luckily my feet still seemed to work. I rolled my shoulders back, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the stage.

The lights were so powerful I had to blink against them, but I forced an easy smile onto my face. I’d fake it until I made it in the confidence department, because who’d want to watch some nervous kid as the opening act for a superstar?

The stage was huge as I crossed it. Overhead, red curtains were draped as scallops, and the lights from beneath the balcony tier winked back at me. When I approached the legendary circle of oak, my anxiety vanished. Yeah, this wasn’t the same as performing a show at the Grand Ole Opry, and the red seats of the large theatre were mostly empty, but—

This was a moment I’d remember the rest of my life.

And it was all thanks to Erika Graham, who I was finally able to find through the blinding lights and see the big, encouraging smile on her face.

I wasn’t going to blow this audition.

I knew because I’d be performing for her.

Once my feet were planted in the ring, I lifted the guitar strap over my head and settled into playing position. A tech guy appeared from out of nowhere, clipped a microphone onto the edge of my guitar’s sound hole, and asked me to play a chord.

He got a thumbs up from the guy working the board in the booth, which made him scurry off stage.

“Hey, Troy,” Ardy said in his booming voice. He was sitting near Erika, both of them on the main floor center seats. “We’re going to start by having you introduce yourself.”

I glanced at the camera up on a tripod a few rows behind the team from Warbler. There was a second camera up on a guy’s shoulder, who stood in the floor aisle down below the end of the stage. I didn’t want to ignore the camera entirely, since the videos were what Stella would judge as she kept her tour going, but I needed to show how I performed live.

I lifted my chin and spoke clearly into the microphone. “Hi, I’m Troy Osbourne, from right here in Nashville. Today, I’m going to be performing U2’s ‘Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’”