We shift from that into a few more stock country songs, boring but the kind of thing the crowd can really get into, songs they know and can sing along to, slosh their beers to. Finally, it’s time for a break, and Kylie and I slip out into the alley behind the kitchen. As soon as the door closes behind us, Kylie is jumping up and down, squealing and clapping.
“They love us, Oz!” She flings herself into my arms and buries her face in my neck, kicking her feet as I lift her off the ground. “Can you believe it? They really like us! I think we have a real shot at this.”
I let her down to the ground, and my hands slide against her back, hold her flush to me. “It’s crazy, but I love it. I never thought this would be me, but I really love performing.”
She lifts up on her toes and wraps her arms around my neck. “I never doubted you, Oz. You’re so talented it’s insane.”
I can’t help but kiss her. “It was all you, Kylie. You believed in me, pushed me. I would never have discovered that I was even any good at this if it wasn’t for you.”
She smiles, her lips curving against mine. “I’ll take the credit for that. But the talent is all you.”
The smile and the laughter become heat, become a kiss, become her hands against the back of my neck, pulling me closer, keeping me locked against her, as if I’d ever willingly pull away. The door to the bar opens, and we break apart, only our hands remaining in contact.
“You guys are back on in five,” Colt says, lifting an eyebrow.
“Gotcha,” I say.
He reaches out a hand and I take it, shake it. “You two are seriously f**king killing it. I’m proud of you.”
It should sound condescending — I should be irritated or pissed at the way he says that, but I’m not. I’m giddy, I’m all sappy and happy-clappy at his praise. Coming from an industry pro like Colt Calloway, it’s huge.
“Thanks, Daddy. And thanks for coming. Having you here makes it that much better.” Kylie goes in for a hug, and Colt smiles tenderly at his daughter.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Ky.” He kisses the top of her head, and then nudges her toward the door. “Ya’ll better get back in there. You’ve got fans waiting. And I think I saw Andersen Mayer from RCA out there, just by the way.”
“Way to make me nervous all over again, Dad, thanks.” Kylie smacks Colt’s shoulder.
“Nah, he’s cool. He knows talent when he sees it.”
Kylie’s eyes narrow. “Did you tip him off?”
Colt gives his best impression of innocence. “Tip him off? No.”
“Dad.”
He sighs and waves a hand. “For real, I didn’t. I was talking to him and just mentioned, in passing, that I was going to watch my daughter play her first gig tonight. That was it, I swear. He came on his own.”
Kylie groans. “That counts as tipping him off. You knew he’d show up.”
“I didn’t know. I just hoped.” He takes Kylie by the shoulders. “Listen, Ky. Andy won’t even talk to you after the show if he doesn’t see potential in you, and that’ll have nothing to do with me. He wouldn’t sign someone, not even my own daughter, unless he thought they’d sell records. He owes me nothing, so me hinting that you’d be here, hoping he’d come, that was just…stacking the odds in your favor a tiny bit. The rest is up to you. I know you want this to be on your own talent, without using me and Mom, but you can’t fault for me for wanting to at least help, just a little.”
Kylie kisses him on the cheek. “I know, Daddy. And thank you.”
He nods, and pushes her toward the door. “Now get. Go play your ass off.” I follow a few steps behind Kylie, but stop when I feel Colt’s hand on my bicep. “Hey, one quick thing. She’s happy with you. So…good job. You’re a good guy, Oz.”
I feel emotion squeezing my throat. “Thanks, Colt. That means a lot.” I suck in a deep breath and push the emotions down. “Gotta go play. I’ll see you after.”
The rest of the gig goes even better than the first part. There’s an older man sitting at Nell and Colt’s table. He’s slim, trim, wearing a pair of faded dark-wash jeans and a white button-down, black belt, and black boots. Silver hair swept back, glittering, sharp dark eyes, thin mouth. He’s focused on us, on me. Watching my hands as I play, I can tell he’s thinking, considering, listening carefully to each note. This has to be Andersen Mayer, the record label guy. What is he, an executive? Talent scout? I don’t know. I know jack shit about the music industry, the way it works behind the scenes. I try to push him out of my mind and focus on playing, on singing, on my breathing, on not straining my vocal chords. Nell sat in during a few of the practice sessions in Kylie’s basement, and she gave me some pointers on how to improve my singing. After I started using her advice, I heard an immediate difference in the sound of my voice. The breathing especially made things a shitload better. Knowing when to draw breath, how to let it out with the notes, it all made a huge difference. So instead of wondering what Andy Mayer thought, I focused on my breathing. On each chord, each shift of my fingers.
We did two more original songs, and we closed with “She Is Love” by Parachute. We stripped that song down to a very basic series of chords, making our harmony the focal point of the piece. We’d practiced this song a hundred times, I think, knowing it was probably our best cover, and I couldn’t help glancing at the man sitting with the Calloways, watching his eyes and the toe of his boot tapping, the nod of approval, the way he leaned in to whisper to Colt, his eyes on Kylie and me.
When we say goodnight to the audience and unplug is when the nerves really hit, when the disbelief that we really pulled this off slams into me. I mean, shit. I learned enough material for a two-and-a-half-hour set in less than a month. I messed up a couple of times, missed a word, skipped a line, but nothing major. Which, to my thinking, is pretty amazing, considering I’d never even thought about actually performing before the talent show. I mean, sure, I’d daydream about being in a metal band or something, but it was just daydreaming, idle thoughts that I never tried to turn into reality.
We don’t have much gear to pack up, so it doesn’t take us long. I’m stacking the guitar cases into Mom’s pickup, which I borrowed for this gig, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around to see the guy from the label standing behind me. Kylie is leaning against the truck, facing away, tapping at her phone. I nudge her as I shake his hand.