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Do keep in mind it is not edited so please be forgiving - I'm working on Rock Stars in Disguise: Rhiannon.
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When the casting agent standing by the door butchered Rhiannon’s name, pronouncing it Rain-an-on-on Macallen, she had drawn herself up to her full five feet plus two whole inches, lifted her chin and nose in the air, and walked into the conference room.
Inside, black-suited security men stood behind five men sitting at the conference table. The guys at the table looked like a staff meeting on Olympus, and Rhiannon stopped hard, nearly catching her high heels on the carpeting. Those guys had been on the cover of last month’s Rolling Stone, all shirtless in the photo because they were all ripped. They had released two indie, MP3-only albums that had gone multiple platinum. The article’s headline was "War Breaks Out over Killer Valentine" because three recording companies had launched a bidding war for their next album.
*Holy fuck.* Well, she wouldn’t have to worry about anyone looking at *her* on the stage.
*What an amazing opportunity* flashed through her head, and instead of her throat closing up with nerves, she pulled out the stops and left it all on the floor.
Her piece, an a cappella arrangement of No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak,” was in the right range for her bright mezzo soprano voice, and she sang the crap out of it even though she could hear all the beautiful women with the coloratura voices and low-cut dresses warbling in the lobby behind her.
The drummer, Tryp Areleous, began tapping out a complementary beat on his thighs and the table with his long fingers as she sang, even though he looked asleep, slouched in his chair with his head resting on the back of the seat, sunglasses covering his eyes. His black hair curled softly around his ears and twitched with his drumming hands.
She got into it more, letting his beats infuse her voice.
He drummed harder. Tattoos of scarlet roses and black swirls peeked through rips in his white tee shirt as his muscles flexed with the beat.
When she was done, the dummer glanced at her from his slouch and took his sunglasses off. His dark, dark eyes, as mysterious and inky as his middle name, Diavolos, settled on her for a second, like he hadn’t looked at her until just then. He tossed her resume down the table at the other guys. “She’s got a rocker name, Rhiannon. That’s cool.” He pronounced it just like Stevie Nicks had, Ree-ANN-un, which was the right way. Tryp continued, “And her last name is a scotch whiskey.”
Yes, Macallen.
“I am less concerned with her name,” Xan Valentine said. He had been working both thumbs over his phone the whole time, only once glancing up at her with little expression. His long, brown hair had been bleached pale blond below his shoulders. “Names can be changed, if they haven’t already. Her voice is interesting.”
Do keep in mind it is not edited so please be forgiving - I'm working on Rock Stars in Disguise: Rhiannon.
******************************
When the casting agent standing by the door butchered Rhiannon’s name, pronouncing it Rain-an-on-on Macallen, she had drawn herself up to her full five feet plus two whole inches, lifted her chin and nose in the air, and walked into the conference room.
Inside, black-suited security men stood behind five men sitting at the conference table. The guys at the table looked like a staff meeting on Olympus, and Rhiannon stopped hard, nearly catching her high heels on the carpeting. Those guys had been on the cover of last month’s Rolling Stone, all shirtless in the photo because they were all ripped. They had released two indie, MP3-only albums that had gone multiple platinum. The article’s headline was "War Breaks Out over Killer Valentine" because three recording companies had launched a bidding war for their next album.
*Holy fuck.* Well, she wouldn’t have to worry about anyone looking at *her* on the stage.
*What an amazing opportunity* flashed through her head, and instead of her throat closing up with nerves, she pulled out the stops and left it all on the floor.
Her piece, an a cappella arrangement of No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak,” was in the right range for her bright mezzo soprano voice, and she sang the crap out of it even though she could hear all the beautiful women with the coloratura voices and low-cut dresses warbling in the lobby behind her.
The drummer, Tryp Areleous, began tapping out a complementary beat on his thighs and the table with his long fingers as she sang, even though he looked asleep, slouched in his chair with his head resting on the back of the seat, sunglasses covering his eyes. His black hair curled softly around his ears and twitched with his drumming hands.
She got into it more, letting his beats infuse her voice.
He drummed harder. Tattoos of scarlet roses and black swirls peeked through rips in his white tee shirt as his muscles flexed with the beat.
When she was done, the dummer glanced at her from his slouch and took his sunglasses off. His dark, dark eyes, as mysterious and inky as his middle name, Diavolos, settled on her for a second, like he hadn’t looked at her until just then. He tossed her resume down the table at the other guys. “She’s got a rocker name, Rhiannon. That’s cool.” He pronounced it just like Stevie Nicks had, Ree-ANN-un, which was the right way. Tryp continued, “And her last name is a scotch whiskey.”
Yes, Macallen.
“I am less concerned with her name,” Xan Valentine said. He had been working both thumbs over his phone the whole time, only once glancing up at her with little expression. His long, brown hair had been bleached pale blond below his shoulders. “Names can be changed, if they haven’t already. Her voice is interesting.”
