Girl With Guitar by Caisey Quinn Read Free Book Online

throw stuff at your head.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Understood,” the manager said with a nod.
    She turned to walk away but Pauly called out after her. “Wait! Hey, Kylie. Your wardrobe options are hanging in your closet.”
    She nearly laughed out loud when got back to her room and unzipped the sleek black garment bags. There were three choices—a short red sequined dress that was a size too small; an even shorter black skirt with a white lace top, if you could call the scrap of fabric that; and a pair of designer jeans with a dark blue t-shirt with a faded American flag that said Pride across it.
    Door number three , she thought to herself. She knew there was a lady who picked out their performance stuff, but Pauly had to have gotten the t-shirt. He was the only one who knew the name of her hometown. It was cut so low that she wished she had time to dig through her suitcase and find a tank top to put on under it. But when she put it on, a smile spread across her face. She could do this. Lulu would be proud of her. Maybe her dad would be, too. Though he might not have approved of the top.

“T race?” Pauly called from the front of the bus.
    Kylie was already dressed so she stepped out of her room.
    “Kylie, you seen Trace?”
    “No, not recently, why?” No he was not doing this again. No fucking way. Pauly muttered something equally as harsh under his breath and stomped off the bus. Her mind raced. What was his freaking deal? Was he trying to get dropped from Capital Letter Records, the biggest damn label in Nashville? Whatever, not her problem. Him pulling another no-show where the audience would blame her and then the tour getting canceled before she could blink, that was her problem.
    Kylie racked her brain as she made her way to the bar. Surely Pauly had checked the green room. Some bars, nice ones like this, had private party rooms for VIPs only, according to Tonya. If she could get into the one here at The Texas Player’s Club, she’d drag Trace Corbin out by his ass, stick her arm up it, and do his entire set ventriloquist style if she had do.
    Pushing through the crowd, she found a back hallway backstage similar to the one at The Rum Room. After several failed attempts, she found a locked door with voices, mostly high-pitched female ones, coming from within.
    Freaking hell, she did not want to think about what was happening on the other side of that door. But she had to get in somehow. Yanking a bobby pin from her hair, she took a deep breath to brace herself for whatever lewd acts she might be about to witness. Just as she was about to pick the lock like her dad had taught her to do in case she ever forgot her house key when he worked late, a male voice from behind her stopped her.
    “No need to pick the lock, sweetheart. Pretty girl like you can come in as my personal guest.”
    Kylie turned slowly, trying to keep the guilt off her face. The man was tall-ish, though not as tall as Trace, and he looked to be about her age. Something about his bright blue eyes, black hair, and wicked tattoos swirling up his thick muscular arms was vaguely familiar. “Steven Blythe,” he said, winking at her. “Hero for a Night,” he added.
    “Um, I don’t need a hero. I just need—”
    Dark laughter made her insides quiver. “Hero for a Night is the name of my band. We play here a lot, though tonight we’re just here to see Trace.”
    “Oh, right. I knew that.” Kylie’s cheeks heated as the man she now recognized from the cover of last month’s Rolling Stone magazine let his eyes dip to the swells of her breasts protruding from her low cut top.
    “Here,” he said, producing a key from his pocket and opening the door. “Welcome to the Player’s Club.”
    If she thought she was embarrassed about her little faux pas with Steven Blythe, she was downright mortified at what she was walking in on. It was like the seventh circle of hell, if the devil was a porn director.
    Half-naked girls pranced around, some serving