Read Online Twang by Julie L. Cannon - Free Book Online Page B

performer was talking into the mike, I had such a letdown I felt trembly. But I kept a smile plastered on my face as I watched the skinny young girl in a Minnie Pearl getup warble a song about pickled okra, which was really funny and quite good. Before she finished, a man appeared at my elbow, tapping my forearm insistently, as though I should have been ready to acknowledge him. When my eyes met his, a feeling of awe washed through me, and I knew:
This man’s a big shot, somebody I ought to know
. I held my breath, waiting for him to speak. “Mike Flint,” he said, nodding without smiling, only he didn’t look mean or grumpyas he held out a hand. I put mine in his and it was huge, warm and so solid.
    “Jennifer Anne Clodfelter.”
    “I know,” he said, “wonderful name, but I’m thinking we oughtta shorten it to Jenny Cloud.” His voice was deep and very Southern, with a drawl that was soothing like a river can be.
    I could only nod, staring at his face, which was attractive in a rugged way: a Roman nose and hazel eyes that had lots of smile crinkles, topped by intentionally disheveled sandy-colored hair in a Keith Urban style. He was tall, lanky, in his mid-forties I guessed, wearing khakis and a rumpled Oxford. For some reason I glanced down at his feet, and from what I knew from my forays into shops downtown, he wore very expensive cowboy boots.
    “Looks like you created quite a stir,” Mike Flint said, drawing my eyes to his. “How long you been singing?”
    “I was born singing.”
    He didn’t laugh. “It shows. You’ve got a gorgeous voice, and you were born to be onstage. What you did up there was amazing. You have the gift of truly connecting with an audience. They were captivated, and that’s rare.”
    “Thank you, sir,” I said, swallowing my pleasure, feeling it spread like soda bubbles through my body.
    “You’ve got spunk too. I can tell you’re a hard worker.”
    I nodded and didn’t add the word
desperate
.
    “Ever think about a career in the country music industry?”
    “Maybe.”
    He didn’t bother to ask if I wanted to leave, he just said, “We can talk better out in my truck,” and started guiding me by the elbow toward the door. I had to twirl around to grab my shoulder bag and the Washburn.
    My heedless trust that night amazed me later. The way I hung on and believed Mike’s every word, never doubted his motives as I climbed into the cab of a huge red truck that smelled like chewing tobacco and cologne. Heart beating like crazy, I crossed my legs, clasped my hands in my lap, and waited as he sat quietly for a while.
    “I don’t think you know what you possess,” he said finally.
    Responding to this was tricky because I did know. I’d heard it so much I believed it. But if I answered yes, it made me sound like I thought I was really something, and I knew there were a lot of talented singers out there. I also knew humility was a very attractive character trait. “I’ve been told I’ve got a gift,” I said.
    Mike nodded. “You’re phenomenal. Like I said, you had that audience eating out of your hand. I never saw anybody get a crowd into a song like that. And here’s the amazing thing—you did it with
no
backup singers. Do you know how incredible that is?”
    “Really?” More humility.
    Mike nodded, leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. “You got any more original songs?”
    I pulled my song notebook out of my bag and handed it to him. He turned the pages, leafing through them with his mouth open for at least ten solid minutes without a word. When he got to the end, he thumbed back through it and paused on the page with “Smoke Over the Hills” and began singing with his pointer finger tracing the lines. His pitch was way off, but he had the melody. He tapped his boot toe as he did the same thing with “River Time” and “Sitting and Rocking Is Good for Your Soul.”
    “There’s enough here to make an album,” he said after a loud breath, cradling my