I started writing this about a year ago. The story is based upon truth,
names and a few other little details were disguised to protect the
innocent. It’s not all sex and action, more about falling in love,
and being in love. I tried to make the sex scenes sensual rather than
blatant, so I don’t really care if it gets low ratings. However any
feedback will be welcome.

Her thirty second birthday had been a blast, it lasted three days. She
couldn’t remember the last twenty four hours of it, but she knew that
she had had a good time, if hangover was anything to judge by. Then add
she couldn’t find the underwear she had worn at the beginning of her
party; in fact she woke up from her drunken stupor on the floor of her
bedroom in an ill-fitting man’s shirt half buttoned and at least two
sizes too small for her 34C breasts, one of which lay unrestrained and
exposed, from the tight shirt, and someone else’s way too short skirt
that had rucked up, exposing the bare fact she was without any underwear at
all. She peeked in at her roommate; Shelly was passed out naked on her bed
three naked guys were arranged artfully around her. Obviously she had
enjoyed the party too.

She was thirty two! Well actually thirty two and two days. Arleen
looked at herself in her full length bedroom mirror. She was tall at
5’10”.Her cornflower blue eyes were bloodshot and the lids
puffy, the long lashes that shrouded them, normally making her eyes appear
mysterious were matted and clumped. The eye shadow was smudged and her
eyebrows had been plucked to thinnish arches above her enigmatic eyes. Her
cheekbones were high and complimented her eyes. Her face was heart shaped,
her nose was straight and slender with narrow nostrils, her mouth was wide,
with sensual lips, her chin was sharp but slightly rounded, making her
appear determined rather than darn right ornery, which she knew she could
be.

She staggered to the bathroom and managed to stumble into the shower
without tearing the shower curtain down. In her borrowed clothing she let
the warm water cascade over her. She slipped out of the sodden clothes,
turned up the hot water and stood as the almost scalding water stung her
naked body, what was left of her make up ran down her cheeks in twin
grayish rivulets she guessed she looked like a raccoon. She stood letting
the water soothe her soul for at least fifteen minutes before, gingerly,
she applied soap, shampoo and moisturizer and cleaned herself.

After drying herself with a big fluffy towel and brushing her teeth she
walked to the kitchen still wrapped in her towel, the apartment was a mess,
bottles everywhere, some quiet full but mostly empty, and overfilled
ashtrays were strewn carelessly everywhere. Her answering machine had been
destroyed by some maniac with a baseball bat and lay in two hundred
unfixable parts in the center of her bed. Someone was thoughtful enough to
drink all the coffee cream as well as the milk, when they raided the
fridge, leaving it bare except for three empty beer bottles and half a
bottle of Russian Vodka. Well with the way she felt it would be wise to
drink her coffee black, she went about the complicated task of filling the
coffee maker and switching it on.

Thank God the coffee maker still worked; scalding black coffee and the
handful of Advil she took began to deaden the dull throb behind her eyes.
Within an hour she was almost capable of rational human thought, and simple
coordination like getting dressed and brushing her long dark hair.

It had been more than a birthday bash; her birthday had coincided with
the end of the tour. She had spent the last year touring with
singer-songwriter Harry Hamilton as one of his back up singers. They had
toured every major city in North America, now he was headed to Europe, but,
because of some complicated union rule he was not able to take his back up
singers to Europe and would audition for European back up singers once he
landed.

She was out of a job, her agent had mentioned some commercials where she
might be able to get her an audition for, but there was nothing
‘concrete’ on the horizon for her. Being on the road had been
hard, it drove the final coffin nail into her nearly four year relationship
with Bradley, he had, she found out waited at least a week after she left
to go on tour, to fuck her best friend. They were still together and
blissfully happy, or so she had been told. She’d miss Angie! She
sighed and sipped her third mug of the now overcooked stale black coffee.

She searched for her purse, and found it stuffed behind the sofa with
her mail, and latest copy of Variety. Bills, credit card statements
nothing of interest, no Hi Arleen your long lost Uncle has named you the
only heir to his multi million dollar estate, please contact us at 555-1234
…. Blah, blah…..

She refilled her coffee mug with the dregs of the pot, and thumbed
through Variety, noting who had shafted who, who was sleeping with whom,
who was hot and who was not. When at the back she saw a square bordered
advert:

COUNTRY SINGER NEEDED The World Famous (one day)

ROS?IFFS TAVERN Seeks A TALENTED COUNTRY MUSICAN Entertainer Contract
will be discussed after audition Send CD or DVD to……

It was a Canadian advert. Ah what the hell, she had nothing on the
horizon, right? There was nothing to loose. She dug through her closet,
finding a copy the blurb she had printed on her computer and a promo CD and
she had cut a few years before, when she still had dreams she’d make
it as a headliner, in Nashville. She sighed self pityingly, yet another
steppingstone to mediocrity. Still singing back up and making jingles beat
waiting tables or taking off your clothes for a living, right?

On her way to meet her agent, she popped the CD and blurb into the post
and promptly forgot about it. The meeting with her agent led to a little
work over the next few days singing jingles for under arm deodorant and dog
food, which helped pay the rent and restocked their depleted refrigerator.
There was also talk of some radio work.

A week later she had been asked by KLXJ to do some commercials. It
turned out to be a bitch of a day, the radio station for which she was
doing a jingle had a manic art director and he demanded that he sit in on
the takes. He was short and obese; he had tried to rub up against her and
it had taken all of her tact to keep him away without ruining her chances
for more work at the radio station.

The traffic home was bumper to bumper her nine year old Nissan
constantly threatened to overheat, typical of any bored nine year old she
reckoned. She looked forward to getting home, sprawling out on the sofa
and watching the CMT awards.



Shelly, her roommate was doing a short stint as a replacement in a
musical, and she had the place to herself. She had kicked off her sneakers
and just opened her second beer, and watched while Toby Keith took a jibe
at Natalie Mains of The Dixie Chicks before telling everybody he was just a
working stiff, like everybody else, and who cares if he owned two mansions,
his own jet and about a dozen sports-cars, his success had not spoiled him
or his family, and while they were thinking about buying a small Caribbean
island, they still considered themselves white trash.

The phone interrupted the pontificating white trash, Arleen who normally
would have let the answering machine pick up the call, but of course some
demented idiot with a baseball bat had destroyed it, she hit mute on the
remote and picked up the phone.” Hi Arleen Armstrong, speaking to you
live from her sitting room!”

A female responded at the other end. “Um, hi Arleen this is
Thelma Verren, from the Ros?iffs Tavern, my sister and I really liked
your promo CD, would you be prepared to come up to Ontario Canada for a
final audition? Well gladly meet your expenses.” She added.
“If you like we can have a return airline ticket waiting for you at
the airport.”

Arleen did not understand and stammered. “Huh? What CD, what
audition, what are you talking about?” she said warily suspecting
Shelly or one of her friends was pulling a prank.

“Is this Arleen Armstrong the country singer? You sent us a promo
CD in answer to our advert in this month’s Variety.” The soft
spoken woman on the other side of the phone continued.

Vague memories of posting off a CD and publicity blurb while hung over
after her birthday party surfaced. “Oh yes.” She responded.
“That’s right, yes,yes,yes, I’m Arleen Armstrong, sorry,
I was watching Toby Keith being an asshole to Natalie Mains on TV it threw
me for a sec, but yes of course I’ll like to come on up there,
I’m free after next week, I can fly up either on the Friday night or
Saturday morning, if that suites you?”

“Oh that’s so cool, let me see what I can arrange with the
airline, can you hang on a sec?”

Arleen could hear Thelma Verren’s muffled voice even though she
held her hand over the phone. “Mel, she says she can come the
weekend after next, its two weeks before we open, its perfect, get hold of
Air Canada see when you can get a ticket, she’s holding on.”

After a minute or two, Thelma spoke to her again. “Hi again. We
can get you on the Friday night flight; it leaves Nashville at 6:00 PM you
have to change planes in Rochester New York, and should arrive at Toronto
10:00 PM. My sister will drive down and meet you at the airport. When you
get to Nashville airport, just give the Westjet counter your name and this
code RC46732, they’ll have your ticket, transfers and stuff, is that
ok?”
Arleen was all professional by that time.” That sounds perfect, I
will contact my agent and see about a work permits and what documentation
I’ll need in the mean time, I look forward to meeting both you and
your sister the weekend after next, thank you both for giving me the

opportunity.”

“We look forward to meeting you too, bye, now.” Thelma said
as she put down the phone.

Carefully Arleen wrote RC46732 on her calendar for the following Friday,
and settled down to watch the awards show.

The two weeks went by fast enough, her Agent gave her information about
working in Canada and gave her some forms and documents she’d need if
she wanted to work in Canada for more than three months, as well as the
necessary contact and fax numbers. By 6:30 on Friday her plane was rolling
along the runway. Her guitars and amplifier being the bulk of her luggage
was in the cargo hold. She was in time to catch the New York transfer, and
enjoyed a glass of wine and a few elegantly prepared sandwiches that tasted
like cardboard during the short flight from Rochester to Toronto.

She walked into the Terminal carrying her overnight bag of clothes, and
was happy to see that her equipment had arrived safely with her in Toronto,
and was already rattling around the baggage rotunda and had not flying out
to some exotic destination like Freezeyerassoff in Iceland, Fuckenmuddy in
Brazil or Yourawanka in Australia.

She picked up her instruments, mixer board and amp and wandered along to
the exit with the hundred odd passengers, from her flight. A young woman
stood to one side with a number of uniformed limo chauffeurs holding a sign
“Arleen Armstrong”. Arleen estimated she was somewhere in
twenties with curly dark hair. She was short, just over 5’ Arleen
guessed. Her eyes were green, with a cute turned up nose, her lips wide
and sexy, her boobs, beneath a thin silvery blouse were generous and proud,
her designer jeans, showed her figure off extremely well. When Arleen drew
nearer she noticed that her large eyes were green and flecked with gold and
her skin unblemished and unadorned by any cosmetics.

“Hi there, I’m Arleen, are you Mel?” She asked.

“Hi Arleen, uh huh, yeah, I’m Melody Verren, welcome to
Canada, eh. I hope you enjoyed your flight. Can I help you with your
stuff, it looks heavy.”

Arleen unburdened herself of the amplifier and cased mixer board; the
amp was designed to be pulled along on recessed wheels. Melody tugged it
behind her as they made their way out towards the car park.

They stowed her guitars and other equipment in the back seat of
Melody’s four wheel drive SUV and headed out of the airport and along
the freeway, making small talk. “Have you been to Canada
before?” Melody asked.

“Oh yeah we did Toronto as part of the tour, also, Ottawa,
Montreal and Vancouver.” she rattled off.

“Well we’re a little off the beaten track, our club is about
three hundred kilometers North of Toronto, in a little town called
Birchacres. We grew up there my parents died last winter in a car crash,
Thel and I have spent most of our time and money rebuilding it and bring
the place up to code. It’ll take about four hours to get there,
would you like to stop and get something to eat?” Melody continued.

“Oh no, it’s fine, I had something on the plane.”
Arleen answered politely.

“Well then let’s get moving shall we?” Melody said,
turning onto a wide highway and headed north. She pointed out various
landmarks along the way, Arleen found her to be a lively and animated tour
guide. Melody, she discovered, was not a garrulous type, and there were
often times of silence, not stilted silence but easy contemplative times
when it didn’t seem necessary to speak, she enjoyed Melody’s
company. Although it would have appeared rude, she stared at Melody who
was concentrating on driving quiet a bit during the trip.

It was close to 2:00 AM when the white SUV pulled up outside a motel and
Melody handed her the keycard. “We’ve booked you in here for
the weekend. Its room eleven. Sorry it’s not a Jacuzzi suite Try
and catch some sleep, I’m really sorry it’s so late; Thel will
call you around noon to set up the audition. Oh yes, I forgot you
musicians don’t go to bed before three AM and don’t get up
before noon anyway, eh?” She giggled prettily.

Melody helped her take her equipment into the motel room; it was medium
sized with a large bed and colour TV with a bathroom leading off opposite
the closets. It was neat and clean, and far better than some of the rooms
she had used while on tour.

“Well get some sleep, Thel will set up the audition in the
afternoon, see ya, eh?” Melody said while walking out the door. For
some reason it was an awkward moment, almost as if there should have been
more.

Arleen lay awake for a while, Melody seemed really nice, and she hoped
her sister would be too, it would be good to get out of Nashville for a
while, even this weekend, although it was also an audition seemed like a
vacation. These thoughts soon lulled her to sleep.

She rolled out of bed around 10:00 she showered and dressed in black
jeans and a tooled leather belt with an oversized oval western buckle and a
simple white tee-shirt and slid into a pair of fancy stitched high heeled
black western boots that matched her belt; she used the room’s
hairdryer to blow-dry her hair, before venturing out. It was a shock. The
temperature was close to 100 degrees. The Birchacres Motel was just off a
long straight tarred road. About one hundred yards to the right was a gas
station and a Subway sandwich store and one hundred yards to the left a
MacDonald’s, and nothing else to see for miles but farmer’s
fields. This had to be a prank, ok a really expensive prank, Ashton
Kushner better watch out. Damn! She’d fallen for it.

She ambled over to the MacDonald’s and ordered a burger and fries
and a coffee. The young guy who took her order, who’s name was Dave
according to his nametag seemed to be the only employee; rushed about and
put her order in front of her on the standard brown plastic tray. She dug
into her jeans and pulled out a $10.00.

Dave, Employee of the month, verified by his picture against the wall,
shook his head. “No, no!” He said.” Thelma and Melody
Verren were running her tab; it was all already paid for.”

“What would have happened if I went to the sub place at the gas
bar? She asked Dave.

“Oh, they probably made arrangements there too, I saw Thelma or
Melody, I’m not sure which, stop by there after she came here
yesterday”. He said.

She sat down and ate her burger, and sipped her coffee wondering what
the hell she had gotten herself into.

She finished her meal and wandered back to her room and cranked the air
conditioner up higher, she took her acoustic Hohner guitar from its case
and practiced a few chords while tuning the strings before moving into
Gretchen Wilson’s raunchy ‘Redneck Woman’. She then took
her Fender electric guitar, plugged in her amp, and launched into a heady
version of Heart’s ‘Barracuda’. She continued practicing
with her acoustic guitar doing the haunting ‘Don’t tell me the
time’ made famous by Martha Davis, until the phone rang.

“Hi this is Thelma Verren, we have set aside all afternoon for
you, so tell us what time you think you’ll be ready, and I’ll
come and fetch you.” She said.

“Hi Thelma, thank you for the burger at MacDonald’s that was
kind of you.