Small Town Hottie

Chapter 1

Adrian

Leaning against the oak tree, I tap my well-worn script rhythmically against my lap. I’ve found a comfortable spot between two roots, a space at least somewhat devoid of acorns. At least this position won’t let me slide into the ground. 

It’s beautiful in McChester, a sleepy little place somewhere along the East Coast. It took months of scouting to find the perfect location for our movie, and now we’re finally here. You’d think after all that prep, there’d be no other issues, but there are several – as proven by the noise I can hear behind my closed lids.

“You can’t get to me,” I mutter. 

The chirping and the chipmunks initially took some getting used to, but now I’ve adjusted, and it no longer fazes me to see them dashing about. I hear the rustling of the leaves, the reds and yellows looking brighter under the sun. In a couple of weeks, these leaves will drop and blanket the ground with their foliage. 

I don’t have much experience living in small towns unless it’s for a film or vacation. But even so, the thought of the mountains of leaves just waiting for children to jump on, makes me smile. 

I bend over to touch the grass. The blades feel dewy under my fingers. Luckily, I chose to stand and not sit on the wet ground. We don’t have anything particular to film today, though the production crew has their hands busy. 

I can hear the voices rise louder. John’s is quite clear and distinctive, his frustration obvious. It’s my first time in the executive producer chair, and it’s a different perspective to be sure. I’m standing in the wings, away from the line of fire.

“Adrian! Adrian! You here?” 

My eyes open and my ears prick up when I hear my name. I stand straight and dust the dirt off my sweatpants, a nervous habit.

The whispers of the oak leaves follow me as I approach the production crew huddled around the monitors. So far, the actual filming has been going smoothly—a well-oiled machine firing on all cylinders in idyllic McChester. But the rigidness in everyone's shoulders makes it obvious there are still major issues that need to be solved.

John's agitated voice cuts through the rustle of leaves. "No, no, no! That won't work at all." He shakes his head, face flushed, as he rewinds the vocal take. "I need an authentic singer, not hollow imitations."

The crew exchanges apprehensive glances behind his back. I step forward, brow furrowed. "What's the problem, John?"

He whirls at the sound of my voice, eyes blazing. "Adrian! I can't find the raw passion we need in any of these vocals." Wild gesticulations slice the air. "My creative vision demands authenticity—honest emotion straight from the soul!"

A solution sparks as I nod slowly. "What if the actors lip-sync the musical numbers to a live singer?"

John freezes mid-rant, mulling it over. The birds and the crunch of leaves are all that can be heard. Then his face darkens. "No lip-syncing, no tricks! Anything less than complete authenticity won’t do justice to this movie!"

His fist pounds the air, and I bristle at the slight edge in his words. But we've been friends too long for me to take offense.

"You know I respect your vision, John," I say evenly. "But surely having them perform to a live voice would—"

"No lip-syncing!" he cuts me off, his piercing gaze resolute. "This film's credibility hinges on finding an untapped vocalist who can unleash raw, genuine emotion from real-life experience. An undiscovered heartland songbird waiting to be uncaged!"

I slowly exhale, holding his stare for a tense beat before giving a resigned nod. "You've made your stance clear."

John's lined face softens a degree. "You're a good actor, Adrian, and you’re proving to be a good producer, too. No one would think this is your first time, which is why I need you to hear me on this." His hand claps my shoulder firmly. "Let's shake the trees and find that elusive voice to make this soar, yeah?"

"Sir?" A timid voice from the edge of the crew huddle cuts through the stillness. "I've compiled a list of potential singers from the surrounding towns if you'd like to review it."

My gaze shifts to the young production assistant tentatively cradling her tablet, eyes wide with apprehension under John's withering stare. She shrinks back instinctively as he dismisses the notion with a curt shake of his head.

"No, no—they need to be local. From right here in McChester." John's raspy tone leaves no room for argument. "I won't settle for someone who can't be on set at a moment's notice to capture the raw authenticity we need."

With that, he turns his back to start pacing, leaving the assistant to slink backward, despondent. Leaning against one of the massive camera dollies, I twirl my pen idly between my fingers—a nervous habit from my acting days, my fast fingers reflecting how quickly my mind is racing.

My eyes scan the apprehensive faces around me as the crew waits with bated breath for direction. They know how fervently John upholds his artistic integrity, uncompromising in his commitment to realism. It's an obsession we both share on some level, driving us to chase that elusive spark of human truth.

Where in this sleepy town could we possibly locate the raw, emotive vocalist John so desperately craves?

A cacophony of suggestions erupts around me as the team senses my pensive state and tries to help. "What about putting out a local casting call?" Jen, our head of casting, pipes up. Her brow furrows as she swipes through pages on her tablet. "We could hit up all the community centers, churches, even high schools for auditions."

"Or maybe check if any local talent shows are happening?" Greg, a grip, pitches in with a hopeful lilt. "Sometimes you can find hidden gems in places like that—"

"No, no, it has to be someone truly raw, not someone searching for fame!" John interjects, waving off the ideas with a brusque shake of his head. "Not some kid who's already been trotted out on stages and had their soul crushed out of them by applause-hungry parents."

Shoulders slumping, the crew exchanges helpless looks as the suggestions rapidly devolve into stressed, simultaneous volleys ricocheting across the dimming forest clearing.

"What about the local music shop? Maybe someone who—"

"Do any nearby schools have choir programs still intact?"

"There's gotta be a few dive bars or—"

Raising my hand, I finally cut through the escalating din.

"Enough!" Startled faces whirl toward me, the sudden stillness allowing the chorus of crickets and rustling leaves to wash over us once more.

I exhale slowly, carefully considering my next words. I can sense the psychological distance widening between John's uncompromising ideals and the rest of the crew's pragmatic realities.

"John, you know I share your commitment to excellence as well as anyone. Which is why I want you to hear me now." My eyes bore into his, equal parts promise and plea. "We're going to find your singer. Even if I have to walk every last stretch of road in this town myself until the perfect voice emerges."

His angular features remain impassive for a suspended beat. Then a slow nod, almost imperceptible. An ember of understanding passes between us—that unspoken bond of creative partnership that's fueled all our greatest triumphs.

"See, that’s what I’m talking about," he murmurs at last, hoarse voice cracking with apparent gratitude. "I can count on you to move heaven and earth for the art, Adrian."

His weathered features break into a ghost of a smile, that familiar spark of respect flashing behind his eyes. Pivoting to face the crew with a renewal of energetic purpose, John jabs a calloused finger skyward.

"You heard Mr. Bailey! We've got a gem to excavate, so everybody better start digging!" His voice booms with the authority of a battlefield commander rallying the troops. "We're not stopping until we unleash the voice to elevate this picture to high art!"

A rallying cry unleashes a flurry of activity around me as the crew jumps into focused action, their earlier unease washed away by the surging creative tide. 

Because in the end, the true artists among us never settle for anything less than transcendent authenticity. No matter what sacrifices it takes to obtain.

Pivoting to survey the now-rapt faces behind me, I straighten into the authoritative stance that's marshaled armies on the battlefield of the big screen. A natural-born leader, ready to galvanize the troops for our latest quest.

"Everyone, get some rest tonight. Because tomorrow, we start fresh with maximum effort!" My words resonate with the rallying cadence of a motivational speech. "No stone will be left unturned, no shadowy hollow left unexplored until we excavate the perfect voice to immortalize John's transcendent vision."

As the crew murmurs with newfound determination, I allow my gaze to drift back toward the sleepy township tucked between the dusky hills. Out there somewhere lies our elusive holy grail, waiting to be discovered. Feeding off the electricity crackling through the twilit forest air, I snag a jacket and head out to begin my own search alongside them.

But how do I find a singer capable of making John's cinematic aria soar to the artistic heights we both crave?