Page 6 of Playing With My Heart Strings

dusty

Give a Little to Get a Lot

The second day of auditions is in full swing.

After listening to fifteen singers yesterday, I feel like I have a better idea of what I’m doing and what I’m looking for.

It might be more difficult to choose seven more women at the end of today, if I keep Aspen and Sage in mind, but that’s something I’ll figure out when I get there.

“My name is Kelsie, and I’ll be singing an original,” the light, feminine voice on the other side of the barrier says before strumming a slow, melancholic tune on her guitar. Her voice is haunting, eerily beautiful. It’s not my usual style, but I feel like we could make it work.

When her song ends, I don’t say a word, much like how the auditions from yesterday went. She says a brief thanks, then they bring out the next girl.

I wish I could at least sing with them to see how our voices would fit, but I guess that’s something that will happen later.

It does seem odd that they have me choose singers based on their voices alone instead of how well they fit with mine, but it’s too late to change anything now that we’re halfway through the auditions.

I’m not sure I’d have any choice in the matter anyway.

The next singer comes out, and I find myself instinctively tapping my foot along as she sings a cover of an old Trisha Yearwood song. This is the type of girl Nashville wants me with. Even though I don’t have a single idea what she looks like, I’m already confident she fits the bill.

“Thank you, my name’s Katherine.”

I have ears on so producers can talk to me, if need be, since we’re rolling live and they can’t exactly come out on stage. They also take the opportunity to tell me when there’s someone they think would be a good fit for the show and strongly recommend I listen carefully to them.

“Up next is Jade. She’s high on our radar, just so you know,” the producer says in a dry tone.

I roll my eyes, hopefully not obviously enough for the camera to pick it up. That’s the last thing I need Rob Acerra seeing. I’m never in the mood for his nagging.

Heels click against the floor as Jade walks to where I assume is a stool. I’ve gotten into the rhythm and can predict whether someone is carrying an instrument or not based on the way they walk, and I don’t think she has one.

I know my prediction for Jade is right when a backtrack of a song I’ve never heard once in my life begins playing.

It’s a country song, but it’s one of the newer, poppier songs.

Just because I’m considered a mainstream country artist doesn’t mean I actually listen to mainstream country.

I’d rather not be clumped in with those guys—the ones who probably wear their cowboy hats backward and have never touched a horse in their life.

But realistically, am I that much better?

I may be from the country, but my dream was to always get out, get off the farm, and make something of myself.

Of course, the producers would say this girl is on their radar.

Not that she’s bad. It’s the opposite, in fact.

Even though I’ve never heard the song before, her rendition would no doubt make people want to get up and dance.

Her energy alone would be great for an album and a tour, assuming her stage presence matches her voice.

When the song wraps up and the click of heels fades away, I take a deep breath, letting my lungs fill, and then exhale, pushing everything out.

“You doing all right, Dusty?” the producer babbles in my ear.

I subtly nod, an action small enough that his prying eyes can see but the camera won’t pick up.

“Next singer is a go,” someone else says in the background through my earpiece.

I sigh, trying my best not to let my emotions show.

None of this is real. I need to keep reminding myself that. This is all for show. It’s no different than the media persona I’ve had to put on for the past eleven years.

After an hour or so, we’re down to the last four singers of the day.

Then comes the hard part: narrowing thirty women down to nine.

I kind of wish I had a notepad so I could write down all of their names.

Surely they’ll have recordings that I can listen to, even though the auditions are airing live.

My thoughts are interrupted by a crash backstage. My head whips to the side as I try to figure out what the hell is going on.

“Act natural! You’re on live television , Dusty!” the producer, whose name I still can’t remember, screeches in my ear, and I resist the urge to flip him the bird. That definitely wouldn’t look good on live TV.

I turn my head away from the camera and toward the crew off to the side of the stage and mouth, What the fuck is going on? I’m only met with a shrug and a gesture to turn back to the camera.

“What do you mean I’m not allowed on stage?!” A high-pitched shriek hits my ears, causing them to ring. “I’m part of the auditions! I deserve a fair shot!”

I hear a few mutterings of, “Ma’am, calm down,” and, “We’re going to need you to leave the premises.”

“Bring out the next singer, we need to keep rolling,” echoes in my ear.

I’m going to have a few words with the producers after this, even if just to figure out what the fuck is going on.

“I’m Abigail,” a sweet country accent greets me.

Her song is short and sweet, much like her introduction. I enjoy it a lot, though. Her voice matches what the label is looking for, and I already have a feeling our voices would mesh well together on an album. If she ends up making it that far, that is.

Only three more left.

The last three singers’ performances go by quicker than I anticipated. There’s only one of them who I truly see myself performing with, though. The other two probably won’t be on my final list.

“Cut! That’s a wrap on the auditions.” Once the cameras stop rolling, the lights on the stage dim and I immediately receive instructions from the producer who has been nagging in my ear all day.

“Dusty, we need to see you in the green room to debrief, and then we’ll need to get some confessional shots.”

I turn my head over my shoulder to see the producer already impatiently gesturing for me to follow. I give him a nod and face forward again, if only so I can get my annoyance out while I’m still in private and not in front of more cameras or an audience of producers.

Especially that executive producer lady. She scares me.

I plop down in a dark-green chair in front of a larger couch where several producers are sitting, running my hands over the fabric as I wait for them to say something.

“I think that went well.” The only female producer looks at her male counterparts.

“I agree,” one of them says, as if I’m not right there in the room with them.

I clear my throat, hoping it will prompt them to talk to me, instead of just amongst each other.

Their heads all snap toward me at once.

“Ah, Dusty, yes. Let’s debrief, shall we?”

I’m finally able to see the nametag of the producer who was talking to me through the headset. George. I frown. He looks too young to be a George. Wonder if it’s a family name or something.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do tonight. We need to narrow thirty women down to nine right here, right now.”

I nod slowly, trying to remember the singers, but it’s hard to remember names when I can’t place a face to them. “Are there…recordings or something that I can listen back to?” I ask.

“Sure, sure. But we’d much rather not have to listen to thirty performances again, yeah?” the female producer, Leah, points out.

“Here. This will probably help?” George slides a piece of paper over the glass top coffee table that separates us. I pick it up, seeing the names of all thirty women who auditioned…minus one that’s scratched out.

“Why is this name scratched out?” I furrow my brows, pointing out the name covered in black Sharpie.

“Oh, she’s…she’s not important,” Leah stutters, clearly hiding something from me.

“With one woman already having been chosen, we unfortunately had to cut someone from the auditions,” the second male producer, Tobias, cuts in.

“That hardly seems fair.” I look up at them, raising an eyebrow. “She made it to the auditions, why didn’t she get a chance?”

“The decision had already been made, Dusty, let’s not get into it too much. Besides, this will help make your job easier, won’t it?” George says impatiently.

So, this is how it’s going to be?

I’m already annoyed that I have to be here. Now I come to find out singers are having their fair chances taken away from them because of a girl I didn’t even choose?

Whether the producers like it or not, I will be taking hold of the reins for this show. On camera and off camera.

“All right,” I concede, although the thoughts of someone unfairly being cut still wash through my brain. “Let’s get into it, then.”

“We already have Aspen and Sage down on the list from speaking to Alex yesterday. Are you still confident in those choices?” Leah asks, picking up a clipboard and a pen.

I nod.

“Great, we’ll mark those as a go. Anyone else in particular you liked or disliked?”

“Abigail,” I immediately answer, since her performance is fresh in my mind. “I liked Abigail.”

Leah and George exchange a look while Tobias puckers his lips and nods slowly.

“Something wrong with her?” I ask, perhaps a bit too harshly, judging by the way Leah recoils slightly.

“Er, no, not necessarily. We just aren’t confident about the way she looks on television,” Tobias admits.

“That’s not what this is about, though, is it?” I snap. “It’s about finding a singer who matches my voice.”

“Well, that’s part of it, sure, but viewers want good television. They want sparks. Drama. Not…plain Jane from a podunk town in the middle of nowhere.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll have you know, I’m from what you would probably call a ‘podunk town’ and I’m doing just fine.” I earn myself shocked expressions, but I continue. “I want her on the list. And if not, I’m out.”

“You can’t—” George frantically tries to speak.

“Try me,” I counter, already ready to get up from my seat and walk out.

“It’s fine, George.” Tobias raises a hand to get me to stop. In a low voice, one he probably assumes I can’t hear, he says, “We can just eliminate her early. It’s fine.”

Not if I have any say in it , I think, even though it’s been made abundantly clear I really don’t have any say in things.

“Let’s get back on track. What were your thoughts on Morgan?” Leah asks, scribbling down some notes on her clipboard.

Who the fuck was Morgan?

“I’m not sure I remember her,” I admit.

The producers nod, and one of them picks up a remote to snap on the television. The camera angle cuts off Morgan so I can’t see what she looks like even now, but I don’t think I really need to. Her voice—the tone and pitch—doesn’t appeal to me.

Before I can even open my mouth, George gets his two cents in. “Our team likes her. And from the interviews we’ve seen of her, we think she’ll fit right in.”

Gotta give a little to get a little, Dusty , I tell myself. There’s clearly going to be no debate, especially after what just happened with Abigail, so I’m going to have to compromise. If that’s what it takes to get them to loosen the reins on me, I’ll do it, but I’m not exactly happy about it.

Too much time passes before our deliberations conclude and final decisions are made.

I had to fight for some of the singers, and, unfortunately, I did lose some of those battles.

At the end of the day, though, I won the most important ones.

And I showed the producers I’m not some puppet they can control for entertainment. I’m still going to do this my way.

Now, as long as this mystery girl—the one chosen by America—doesn’t ruin it all, everything should be smooth sailing.