This One is For You

Chapter One

Hudson

I look out into the smoky bar. Music pulses out of the speakers as my calloused fingers strum the six strings of my beaten up, blood red acoustic. My voice is tired after back-to-back shows, but still powering through.

Drunk people sway to my song, a few even full-on dancing. Others are acting like I'm not even here, going on about their night and maybe mildly annoyed that I'm blaring over the conversations of their date, or important drink after work with a coworker. Me? I'm on fucking cloud nine.

Before me is an audience of no more than two hundred, and that can be cut in half by the people not even listening to me. It doesn't matter. I'm doing what I love. Music gives me a high I can only relate to hard drugs, though I've never tried them. There is no way the rush is much different.

Music saved me. It keeps on saving me. Music was there when nothing else was. When I couldn't speak, I could sing it. When I couldn't communicate, I could write lyrics. When nothing else in this fucking world made sense, my guitar did. The strings are imprinted on my fingers; the chords burned into my muscle memory.

I'll play in every damn bar across the country if it means I get to make this my living. I'm not cocky, but I'm good at what I do. People are starting to take notice of my music, and I'm taking the steps necessary to get a record deal.

I have a manger, Deanna, who took notice of me when I traveled out to Los Angeles last fall for about a month. She's helped several men and women get a deal, and I hope she can pull through for me as well.

Deanna has set me up with a few producers so far, but none of them have wanted me. In a couple nights, I have another attempt to impress someone. I've been thinking of ways to wow him, but ultimately coming up short. It's just me up here. I've paid for backtracks to my set list, and even paid a live band to be behind me once, but it hasn't worked yet. I need something new.

I end my show, winning applause from the dedicated listeners. I sling my guitar around to my back, unplug it from the amp, and exit the stage. Immediately, wasted college girls are rushing to me like flies to fruit. A lot of nights I indulge, because why not enjoy the benefit of having a voice and an instrument? No pun intended.

Tonight, though, I'm exhausted, and the idea of staying up late just to get some mediocre head doesn't sound better than sleep.

I get out of their grips and go to the small room where I stored my things earlier. It only takes me a couple minutes to pack everything up, throw them into my black pickup, and then I'm on my way.

When I arrive at my crappy motel, I flop down onto the bed with deadweight. I never realize how sore I am until I get still. Living in the city, one with colleges surrounding it at that, every night is a party night. I can book shows almost every day of the week and have almost the same crowd as I would on a Friday or Saturday.

Before drifting off, I look at the time. Taking a deep breath to brace myself, I call Rylie.

"Hey, bro." Her sweet voice fills the phone, and I can't help but smile. "What's up?"

"I just finished a show. I have one tomorrow night, then I have to play for that producer on Saturday."

"Oh, shit. You nervous?"

"No." I lie, knowing my baby sister won't believe my bullshit for a second. "It'll be better this time."

"I believe in you. After all, I would just disown you if I thought your music was bad."

"Please." I scoff. "I raised you."

"And, thanks, but now I'm not a baby. Lucky for you your music is good, or else I'd lie when people asked if you are my brother."