The Pool Boy - Nikki Sloane Page 0,23

to hurry after him. A mixture of emotions swirled inside, including irritation. He was inexperienced, but still too good for this to have been his first-ever performance. Plus, I knew how Blanche’s entertainment worked. He’d either auditioned or performed elsewhere to make it onto their standby list.

So, why the hell didn’t I know how talented he was? The only thing that made sense was that it had been kept from me. But why?

Blanche’s Honky Tonk had a cozy, dive-like atmosphere, but it was manufactured. The décor was fabricated to look aged and the seating worn, but it was actually new beneath. The building itself was old, but had been renovated recently, keeping its charm, while hiding the newer upgrades.

But not in the ‘staff only’ area of the bar. The hallway was grimy and ancient, with a light overhead that could barely illuminate my path as I wove around boxes of liquor and broken equipment. I’d been back here enough times and could find my way through. The guy who ran the place was a friend of Ardy’s, and I’d helped schedule Lauren’s standing gigs with him.

I loved this section of the building. It was real.

The white walls had been graffitied by past performers and staff. Cables for the sound systems ran in a jumbled mess along the wall and were strewn across the ceiling, leading toward a rack of electronics in the corner. Set lists had been tacked up to a cork board, along with employee shifts for the week.

Behind the manager’s office and an employee break area was the green room. It wasn’t big—only enough space for an old sofa, a mini fridge, and a desk perched in front of a lighted mirror. More than anything, it was a place for the talent to store their gear, tune, and mentally prepare for the stage. It was where Troy was, zipping his guitar up in its padded case on the couch as I stepped inside.

When I shut the door, he snapped upright in surprise. “Ms. Graham?”

I ignored the urge to correct him on my name, or the fact he looked both excited and nervous to see me. Instead, I demanded, “How long have you been doing this?”

He glanced quickly around the room, confused by what I was asking, and searched for the answer like it was written on the walls somewhere.

“How long,” I clarified, “have you been performing?”

His gaze returned to me and the confusion dissipated. “Two years, I guess?” He let out a tight breath. “I started doing shows when I was in Chicago.”

Meaning, when he was in college. It made a little more sense now why I hadn’t seen him before. The last thing I had wanted to do during my long divorce was hang out in bars alone, on the off chance I’d scout some talent.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure if he meant in this room or the bar. “You know what I do, right?” Surely Jenna had told him I was an agent and manager, or at least in the business. “Lauren—the act before yours—she’s one of my clients.”

It wasn’t news to him, that much was clear. His lips parted to say something, but nothing came out. I shifted my weight and put my hands on my hips.

“Why didn’t your mom tell me you were performing? She knew I was going to be at Blanche’s tonight.”

He lifted a noncommittal shoulder. “Because she doesn’t know I . . . Look, this is just something I do for fun.” He jammed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I’d appreciate if you, like, didn’t tell her about it.”

I blinked against the enormous information he’d just lobbed at me. He didn’t do it for money, which wasn’t surprising. At most, he’d made an extra hundred bucks tonight. But I liked how Troy had climbed on that stage because there’d been an opportunity, and he enjoyed performing.

Yet he wanted it kept a secret? “Why?”

“Because she’ll tell me about all the people she knows who tried to make it and failed. That it’s a pipe dream, and I need to finally get serious about my life.”

My heart thudded painfully in my chest. I knew Jenna well enough that I heard the conversation they’d had with perfect clarity in my head. The hardest thing was I was likely the shining example of failure my friend had used when she’d talked to him. I’d struggled for five years before realizing my big break wasn’t coming, and it