Page 3 of Playing With My Heart Strings

dusty

Can’t Trust a Drunk Girl

I cross my arms over my chest as the producers ask me yet another question about why I wanted to be on the show. I didn’t. But saying the only reason you’re here is because someone forced you to be is apparently not reality TV worthy. Ironic, considering that is my reality right now.

“Maybe if we get some shots of you playing guitar, that’ll be more natural for you?” the blonde woman who’s been trying to tell me how to answer these ridiculous questions suggests.

“I think that’s a great idea! Someone get him a guitar!” the obnoxiously loud executive producer orders one of the film crew members. Her hair is bleached far too light, and she’s got on this cherry-red lipstick that makes her resting bitch face stand out even more.

Someone hands me my guitar as another person grabs a stool for me to sit on. I strap on the guitar and take a seat. “So, what? You just want me to play something?” I ask, only slightly annoyed by all of this.

“Yeah, play whatever is comfortable for you,” the younger blonde tells me.

“Alrighty then.” I sigh and start to play one of my newer, more popular songs.

Soon enough, a crowd gathers around behind the camera crew, including the brunette woman who I flashed a smile at when I walked in.

She has her phone held up, clearly recording me, which immediately makes me think she’s a fan.

It’s odd that a fan would be on set, but then again, there were enough of them crowding the entrance to the studio when I got here that one easily could have snuck in.

Not to mention, the droves of women and young girls pressed up against the studio windows trying to get a glimpse of what’s going on.

Some of them even have signs like it’s Good Morning America .

Whatever, it’s not important.

She doesn’t stay for the whole song, only about twenty seconds of it, before she’s on the move again.

Fans don’t usually leave partway through my performances, so I’ll admit this is new for me if she even is one.

My eyes track her as she leaves, but then they snap back at the cameras I forgot were there.

I finish my song, and clapping fills the set.

“That was great, Dusty. Can you tell us a little about that song? What’s the meaning behind it?” a producer asks as the cameras continue to roll.

Meaning? Fuck if I know. That song is one of the popular ones. One I didn’t write. The label shoved it in my face saying listeners would love it, so I put it on the album. I have no idea what the meaning behind it is. There’s nothing particularly profound about the lyrics either.

“Uh…” I smack my forehead with my palm as the director once again yells, “Cut!”

Jesus. Why did I have to be the one to be subjected to this stupid TV show?

Another painful hour of interviews passes, and by the time we’re done, I’m officially over it. I’m about ready to march into Ace High Entertainment and give Rob Acerra the middle finger. Fuck my contract; I can deal with the consequences later.

“Hey”—the blonde grabs my forearm as I’m trying to leave—“this is obviously hard for you, but the more you cooperate and actually try to answer the questions, the sooner we can all move on.”

I stare at her, slightly in shock at her bite, a bit like a feral kitten, before looking down at my arm and back up at her.

“Sorry.” She takes her hand off me and extends it for a handshake. “I’m Daniella. I do public relations for Sparks Studio Productions. I don’t mean to be rude or harsh, I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Well, Daniella. I should probably apologize. You see, I don’t want to be here any more than I imagine you do.” I stumble a little on my apology. “I’ll try to do better. Interviews just aren’t my thing.”

“That’s all we can ask for.” She looks down at the ground and back up. “All right, you need to get headshots done.” She dismisses me just like that.

All business, I guess.

An assistant leads me over to the backdrop where the photoshoot is taking place. C’mon, Dusty. It’s just a couple photos and then you can go home.

It is in fact not just a couple photos. The photographer has me do every stupid pose on the planet, and just when I think it’s over, they tell me to stay put because they have to make sure all of the shots look right.

You would think I was going on the cover of GQ and not an ad for a reality show.

They even made me put on makeup. Makeup! What kind of bullshit is this?

The knowledge that this show is crucial to me being able to keep my music career alive so I can support my family is the only thing keeping me from walking out.

That and the small glimpses I get of the girl who was taking videos of me playing my guitar.

She’s still here, snapping photos, but every time I try to make eye contact with her, she disappears.

I’m starting to believe it’s possible she’s not actually real and my brain has made her up.

We finally wrap up, and the producers give me the okay to leave the set. I’m ready to go home and forget this day ever happened, but a hand grasps my shoulder before I can get to the door.

“Where’re you going, Dusty?” the staff member asks.

“Home?” I raise my eyebrows at him.

“No, we’ve got a hotel room set up for you tonight. The car is packed and ready for you to go.”

I cross my arms, already annoyed with this contract. “I need to get some things from my house.”

My hope of them understanding and letting me go home is demolished when he replies, “What do you need? We can have someone go get it for you.”

“I—never mind. It’s fine,” I grumble as I roll my eyes.

He leads me in the opposite direction to the car that will take me away from my normal life, into this alternate reality where I’m the star of a TV dating show. I wish it were all a dream and that tomorrow I’d wake up in my bed, able to laugh about it with Craig.

baylor

We wrap up filming for the day after countless complaints from our leading guy.

I have to bite my tongue several times to prevent myself from making a sarcastic comment under my breath.

If he didn’t want to be here, why did he allow the label to force him to?

He seems like a bit of a pushover, but then again, I would probably do the same thing if Colette was at my throat telling me I had to.

“Are you regretting taking the lead on interviewing Dusty?” I tease Daniella as we walk out of the building.

“We both know it was for the best that I took the lead on it.” She laughs, but from the tone, I can tell she’s mentally exhausted. “I’m sure you’d be halfway home to Denver by now if I hadn’t.”

“That bad?” I cringe. I already know the answer. What would normally be quick shots took twice as long with Dusty, because apparently the man has zero emotion in real life. A stark contrast to the country superstar on stage.

Her eyes widen as though she’s recalling the events of today. “Bad enough that I feel like I need to drown myself in margaritas tonight. You down?”

“I’d never say no to a marg.” I link my arm with hers as we continue to the employee parking garage.

That evening, we find ourselves in a small bar on Music Row, and Daniella’s already deep into her fourth margarita.

“Baylor, I don’t think you realize how much I love you.” Her words slur together as she giggles into her glass, no doubt an effect of the alcohol.

“Okie, I think that’s enough margaritas for you.” I gently pull her drink away from her as a singer gets on stage.

“Ooh, music!” she squeals, practically falling out of the booth as she gets up to move closer.

I follow her, grabbing my glass but abandoning hers. Miss Ma’am does not need any more alcohol.

The singer on stage is a young guy, probably in his mid-twenties like Daniella and me. He’s playing an acoustic Johnny Cash cover, and I have to admit, he’s good.

“Thanks, y’all. If you have any requests for songs you’d like to hear, let me know.”

He flashes a smile as Daniella shouts, “MY FRIEND CAN SING!”

No, no, no, Daniella. God, no.

“Is that right?” He leans into the microphone. “Well, where is she?”

Daniella points right at me— subtle, thanks —and he beckons me to come up on stage. I start to shake my head no, but then Daniella is pushing me to the front and everyone is whistling and clapping, fueling the fire. The last thing I want is for them to start chanting, so I begrudgingly comply.

“What’s your name?” the singer asks once I’m on stage.

“Baylor,” I reply with a sigh.

“Well, Baylor, are you familiar with this song?” he asks as he nods and the band starts to play the starting notes to “You Ain’t Dolly (And You Ain’t Porter).”

I roll my eyes as he hands me a microphone. We start singing lyrics about how the other is nothing like Dolly Parton or Porter Wagoner, and how everyone will probably see me singing on that TV show with the blind auditions one day— doubtful —and then I notice Daniella holding her phone up.

Note to self: make sure that video doesn’t see the light of day.

She’s so drunk she probably won’t even remember taking the video, and it’s probably so shaky that no one would want to watch it anyway. She won’t miss it when I delete it.

The song ends, and the singer tips his hat to me, while also slipping me a piece of paper that most likely has his phone number on it. I put it in my pocket with zero intentions of ever texting him. I don’t have time for relationships, serious or casual.

“You owe me for that,” I mumble to Daniella as I get off stage and the guy continues with his set.

“You were so good !” She takes my hand and skips out of the bar.

We bounce from bar to bar, Daniella sneaking shots when she doesn’t think I’m watching.

I’m absolutely keeping track, though, and occasionally I tell the bartender to give her a shot of water instead of whatever liquor she’s craving.

She doesn’t notice the difference. Must be some kind of placebo effect.

We’re waiting for an Uber to take us back home when I notice my phone has been vibrating non-stop, which is extremely odd given that it’s eleven thirty on a Monday.

I fumble through my purse to dig it out and look at the screen where hundreds of notifications for the Heart Strings social media await me.

Oh. No.