She couldn’t wait for tonight to be over.
“Look at this!” a girl beside her exclaimed. She was staring at the glowing screen of her phone and leaned over to her friend to show her. Probably a picture of a cat playing piano or something.
Oh, good grief, the Beateaters were getting a standing ovation. They weren’t done. Juno gritted her teeth and clutched her satchel with the contract, counted to five for patience.
There was murmuring around her, though, and people weren’t as enthralled with the band as they had been. Couples and trios were staring at their phones and whispering to each other.
Annoyed, she finally asked the girl next to her, “What’s going on?”
“Rhett Copeland. He’s playing at some bar!”
“What?” she said, her voice wrenching up an octave. “Can I see?” She pulled the girl’s phone to her. “Is this live?”
“Yeah! It’s streaming live. He’s at some bar called Sammy’s.”
What the fucking fucking fucking fuck? The video was shaky, and the bar was crowded and dark. Looked just the same as she remembered it. Dark wood floors and old street signs on the walls. On the stage where her father had played a hundred concerts sat Rhett. Just him on a single stool, with another stool beside him serving as a tabletop a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. He wasn’t playing his guitar because she had it. Instead, he was playing the old guitar her father had bought her from the pawn shop all those years ago.
She teared up the second he leaned toward the microphone. He didn’t look nervous at all. His smile was easy and relaxed, and the gray T-shirt he wore clung to him just right. It was V-neck, and he wore a couple of thin leather necklaces. His belt was made of worn leather, his jeans had holes in the knees, and his hair was messed up just right.
“This is a song I wrote a couple days ago,” he said into the mic, his voice deep and sexy. “I met this girl, and she loosened up my muse. And I’m gonna ramble here for a moment, but y’all…my muse was a mess for a while. So me being able to hear a song in my head again…well, that’s a big deal to a dried-up songwriter. And I owe it to her.” He looked right into the camera and said, “Juno Beck, I’m in your hometown. I talked your dad into letting me use your guitar tonight since you have mine. It’s waiting here for you. Come on, get it, girl.”
Someone in the audience yelled, “Or come get him!”
He chuckled and lifted a shot of whisky with a wink. “Yeah, what that guy said. Or come get me, Juno. I’m gonna play here every night until you walk through that door.” He grinned at the audience. “Are y’all ready to hear some music?”
The crowd was so loud it made the sound go staticky. The girl next to her was leaning over her shoulder, watching it with Juno. “God, whoever he is talking to is so lucky.”
Oh, that girl had no idea just how lucky.
Rhett took the shot of whiskey during the cheering, set it down neatly on the stool next to him, and gripped the neck of the guitar. He closed his eyes, and then he sang the first line of a song, his deep baritone voice with that southern accent ringing out clear as a bell. The crowd went still.
The first time I saw her standin’ there, I knew I was done
She was the one
Gonna wreck the wild right outta me.
He strummed the guitar on the last word and the crowd turned into a chorus of girl-screams.
Juno sat there watching the video of him playing, from the first word to the last of the song. He was mesmerizing. Around her, the world didn’t exist. It was just her and Rhett, and he was singing right to her. When he finished the song, he told the audience, “That one’s called ‘Juno’s Song.’”
The cheering was deafening. God, what she would give to feel the energy of that place right now. Because that’s what music did. It healed the heart and spoke to something deeper than the mind. She knew Rhett was filling that room with joy tonight and giving people a concert they would never forget.
The next song was his biggest hit, the one everyone in Sammy’s would know. And they did. They sang every word, the lights on their cell phones held up high and swaying as Juno sat there watching in a bar hundreds of miles away, tears streaming down her face, so damn proud of him.
This…this was what she’d gotten into the industry for. This is what she remembered from her childhood.
This was the important grit.
Chills rippled up her arms on the first line of the next song. It was a tribute to the great old singers of country. He stopped mid-song to lift a shot to the crowd, and they kept singing for him while he took the shot. He closed his eyes, bobbed his head, and played guitar for his audience, leaned into the mic a few lines later and picked it back up for them at the chorus.
He was doing it acoustic—his whole set.
No drums, no lights show, no tambourine, no extras. Just him and an acoustic guitar making magic happen in an old bar that had built her. Stripping it back down to the basics—an instrument and a voice.
She’d been doing this wrong, hadn’t she?
She’d been trying to change the industry, searching for someone with that it-factor to feed to a big label so they could get their songs to the masses.
But look what he was doing.
“Hey, Juno!” Timothy, the lead singer for the Beateaters, greeted her.
“Juno?” the girl whose phone she was using asked. “The Juno? Juno Beck? The Juno that Rhett Copeland is singing to?” Her voice was super high-pitched right now.
Juno handed back her phone. To Timothy, she said, “That was a great show. You’ve been working really hard as a band and Halfstone Records would like to offer you a contract.” She pulled the thick stack of papers from her satchel along with a pen and handed them to Timothy. Behind him, his bandmates were freaking out. As they should be. This was a big deal. They really had worked hard to get where they had. This just wasn’t her place and didn’t speak to her heart. “Let your lawyers look over it. Negotiate if it’s something that means a lot to you, and when it’s signed, send it back to Manny Drummund at Halfstone Records. The address is on this envelope along with the postage.” She shook Timothy’s hand, and then his bandmate’s one by one.
“Wait, where are you going?” Timothy asked. “Party with us tonight! We’re celebrating! You made this happen!”
“Oh, you don’t need me to celebrate. You did this for yourselves. Congratulations. I have a flight to catch.”
The girl near her squealed. “To go see him, right? To go get your guitar back from Rhett Copeland?”
Juno winked at her and picked up the handle of Rhett’s guitar case. She hadn’t let it out of her sight since he’d given it to her. Her nose didn’t bleed if she had it with her. It had become her friend. Juno made her way out of the bar, smiling as the murmurings behind her got louder. Rhett’s reappearance was spreading like wildfire, and apparently so was the mention of her, because a few people followed her out of the bar, taking pictures. Of her? Why? She hadn’t done anything. Rhett was the magic one.
And as she made her way to her rental car, the emptiness that had sat like a bowl of cement in her center filled up. She was making her move. She was doing what she’d been meant to do all along. She just hadn’t been able to see it.
Guitar tucked in the passenger’s seat, Juno answered her vibrating phone. It was Manny.
“You knew where Rhett Copeland was?” he yelled. “And you didn’t tell us? You didn’t sign him? You didn’t do anything about it?”
“I gave the Beateaters their contract. I think they’ll sign.”
“Rhett! Copeland!”
“Hey, Manny? I quit.”
“What?”
“I really fuckin’ quit.” God, it felt good to say that. The emptiness was completely demolished now. She’d gone out on her own terms, followed through with her commitments, finished her job. It was a loose end that she’d needed to tie up before the end, and she’d tied the hell out of it.
“What are you gonna do?” Manny demanded.
Juno grinned and started the car. “I’m gonna go live while I can.”
“Look at this!” a girl beside her exclaimed. She was staring at the glowing screen of her phone and leaned over to her friend to show her. Probably a picture of a cat playing piano or something.
Oh, good grief, the Beateaters were getting a standing ovation. They weren’t done. Juno gritted her teeth and clutched her satchel with the contract, counted to five for patience.
There was murmuring around her, though, and people weren’t as enthralled with the band as they had been. Couples and trios were staring at their phones and whispering to each other.
Annoyed, she finally asked the girl next to her, “What’s going on?”
“Rhett Copeland. He’s playing at some bar!”
“What?” she said, her voice wrenching up an octave. “Can I see?” She pulled the girl’s phone to her. “Is this live?”
“Yeah! It’s streaming live. He’s at some bar called Sammy’s.”
What the fucking fucking fucking fuck? The video was shaky, and the bar was crowded and dark. Looked just the same as she remembered it. Dark wood floors and old street signs on the walls. On the stage where her father had played a hundred concerts sat Rhett. Just him on a single stool, with another stool beside him serving as a tabletop a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. He wasn’t playing his guitar because she had it. Instead, he was playing the old guitar her father had bought her from the pawn shop all those years ago.
She teared up the second he leaned toward the microphone. He didn’t look nervous at all. His smile was easy and relaxed, and the gray T-shirt he wore clung to him just right. It was V-neck, and he wore a couple of thin leather necklaces. His belt was made of worn leather, his jeans had holes in the knees, and his hair was messed up just right.
“This is a song I wrote a couple days ago,” he said into the mic, his voice deep and sexy. “I met this girl, and she loosened up my muse. And I’m gonna ramble here for a moment, but y’all…my muse was a mess for a while. So me being able to hear a song in my head again…well, that’s a big deal to a dried-up songwriter. And I owe it to her.” He looked right into the camera and said, “Juno Beck, I’m in your hometown. I talked your dad into letting me use your guitar tonight since you have mine. It’s waiting here for you. Come on, get it, girl.”
Someone in the audience yelled, “Or come get him!”
He chuckled and lifted a shot of whisky with a wink. “Yeah, what that guy said. Or come get me, Juno. I’m gonna play here every night until you walk through that door.” He grinned at the audience. “Are y’all ready to hear some music?”
The crowd was so loud it made the sound go staticky. The girl next to her was leaning over her shoulder, watching it with Juno. “God, whoever he is talking to is so lucky.”
Oh, that girl had no idea just how lucky.
Rhett took the shot of whiskey during the cheering, set it down neatly on the stool next to him, and gripped the neck of the guitar. He closed his eyes, and then he sang the first line of a song, his deep baritone voice with that southern accent ringing out clear as a bell. The crowd went still.
The first time I saw her standin’ there, I knew I was done
She was the one
Gonna wreck the wild right outta me.
He strummed the guitar on the last word and the crowd turned into a chorus of girl-screams.
Juno sat there watching the video of him playing, from the first word to the last of the song. He was mesmerizing. Around her, the world didn’t exist. It was just her and Rhett, and he was singing right to her. When he finished the song, he told the audience, “That one’s called ‘Juno’s Song.’”
The cheering was deafening. God, what she would give to feel the energy of that place right now. Because that’s what music did. It healed the heart and spoke to something deeper than the mind. She knew Rhett was filling that room with joy tonight and giving people a concert they would never forget.
The next song was his biggest hit, the one everyone in Sammy’s would know. And they did. They sang every word, the lights on their cell phones held up high and swaying as Juno sat there watching in a bar hundreds of miles away, tears streaming down her face, so damn proud of him.
This…this was what she’d gotten into the industry for. This is what she remembered from her childhood.
This was the important grit.
Chills rippled up her arms on the first line of the next song. It was a tribute to the great old singers of country. He stopped mid-song to lift a shot to the crowd, and they kept singing for him while he took the shot. He closed his eyes, bobbed his head, and played guitar for his audience, leaned into the mic a few lines later and picked it back up for them at the chorus.
He was doing it acoustic—his whole set.
No drums, no lights show, no tambourine, no extras. Just him and an acoustic guitar making magic happen in an old bar that had built her. Stripping it back down to the basics—an instrument and a voice.
She’d been doing this wrong, hadn’t she?
She’d been trying to change the industry, searching for someone with that it-factor to feed to a big label so they could get their songs to the masses.
But look what he was doing.
“Hey, Juno!” Timothy, the lead singer for the Beateaters, greeted her.
“Juno?” the girl whose phone she was using asked. “The Juno? Juno Beck? The Juno that Rhett Copeland is singing to?” Her voice was super high-pitched right now.
Juno handed back her phone. To Timothy, she said, “That was a great show. You’ve been working really hard as a band and Halfstone Records would like to offer you a contract.” She pulled the thick stack of papers from her satchel along with a pen and handed them to Timothy. Behind him, his bandmates were freaking out. As they should be. This was a big deal. They really had worked hard to get where they had. This just wasn’t her place and didn’t speak to her heart. “Let your lawyers look over it. Negotiate if it’s something that means a lot to you, and when it’s signed, send it back to Manny Drummund at Halfstone Records. The address is on this envelope along with the postage.” She shook Timothy’s hand, and then his bandmate’s one by one.
“Wait, where are you going?” Timothy asked. “Party with us tonight! We’re celebrating! You made this happen!”
“Oh, you don’t need me to celebrate. You did this for yourselves. Congratulations. I have a flight to catch.”
The girl near her squealed. “To go see him, right? To go get your guitar back from Rhett Copeland?”
Juno winked at her and picked up the handle of Rhett’s guitar case. She hadn’t let it out of her sight since he’d given it to her. Her nose didn’t bleed if she had it with her. It had become her friend. Juno made her way out of the bar, smiling as the murmurings behind her got louder. Rhett’s reappearance was spreading like wildfire, and apparently so was the mention of her, because a few people followed her out of the bar, taking pictures. Of her? Why? She hadn’t done anything. Rhett was the magic one.
And as she made her way to her rental car, the emptiness that had sat like a bowl of cement in her center filled up. She was making her move. She was doing what she’d been meant to do all along. She just hadn’t been able to see it.
Guitar tucked in the passenger’s seat, Juno answered her vibrating phone. It was Manny.
“You knew where Rhett Copeland was?” he yelled. “And you didn’t tell us? You didn’t sign him? You didn’t do anything about it?”
“I gave the Beateaters their contract. I think they’ll sign.”
“Rhett! Copeland!”
“Hey, Manny? I quit.”
“What?”
“I really fuckin’ quit.” God, it felt good to say that. The emptiness was completely demolished now. She’d gone out on her own terms, followed through with her commitments, finished her job. It was a loose end that she’d needed to tie up before the end, and she’d tied the hell out of it.
“What are you gonna do?” Manny demanded.
Juno grinned and started the car. “I’m gonna go live while I can.”
