Chapter 11: Ten Percent

The sweet teas sweated on the tray.

A man at table four waved at me for his.

"Miss Cowan?" the manager said. "Are you there?"

"I'm here."

"She really loves the song. If it helps, she's furious."

"It helps a little," I said.

"So what do I tell him?"

I looked out the front window at the Ryman across the street, red brick in the sun.

"Tell her I'm sorry," I said. "Tell him no."

I hung up and carried the teas to table four.

I only spilled one.

Breckin came in on Tuesday at eight, the busiest hour of the night.

He had two bandmates with him, and a baseball cap pulled low.

The single had hit a million plays.

He took a booth on my section on purpose and smiled at me when I came over.

"Hey, Kenz."

"What can I get you?"

"Five minutes."

"We don't serve that. We've got wings."

The bass player laughed and then looked at the table when Breckin glanced at him.

"Sit down," Breckin said.

"I'm working."

"I'll tip big."

"You'll tip ten percent," I said. "You always tip ten percent."

He leaned back and spread his arms along the booth.

"Funny you should say that."

He took a folded paper out of his jacket and put it on the table between the ketchup and the hot sauce.

I didn't pick it up.

"The label wants an album," he said. "Twelve songs by June. We've got 'Lanterns' and two others."

"Which two?"

"Covers," the bass player said, and Breckin kicked him under the table.

"So you need nine songs," I said.

"I need nine songs," Breckin said. "And you need money. I heard about the scholarship. Rough."

"You heard about it because your girlfriend's daddy did it."

He didn't blink.

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