15 China Girl
China Girl
“We have to go to Sammy’s Pub in Blacksburg, Virginia!” I snap Mom’s diary shut and hug it, holding my breath until my head swims. I must find that undiscovered piece of her, left behind like breadcrumbs in a forest.
The corner of Dash’s mouth tips into a smirk as he navigates us back to the highway, leaving the Cookeville Supercharger in the rearview mirror. “Change your mind about getting drunk?”
“No.” I roll my eyes. “Mom’s picture is on the wall.”
Dash’s smile slips, and I know what he’s thinking. What if they took it down?
“Thirty years is a long time.” His eyes soften. “Are you sure the bar is still in business?”
“No.” My heart sinks. I never even considered that the bar might not be there.
A quick search for Sammy’s Pub returns dozens of images of historic Blacksburg, and I scroll through the quaint brick buildings and tree-lined streets until I land on a fairly recent picture of the Sammy’s marquee.
I skim the online description. “One of the oldest pubs in town ... Hugely popular with the college crowd. And ...” My pulse skips as I skim down until I find what I’m looking for. “The original wall of fame has grown to include all four walls!”
Relief sweeps through me, and I sink into the seat. Her picture has to be there.
“I’m afraid to ask how your mom ended up on the wall of fame,” Dash says, his sexy smirk firmly in place.
I flash my teeth. “It may or may not have involved my granma’s boobs.”
He shudders, and a laugh bursts out of me.
“Sammy’s has karaoke every Friday and Saturday night. Mom and G-Lo won a contest.” I gaze out the window, trying to imagine Mom singing for a crowd. When I was a kid, she barely sang in the shower. “I wonder what they sang.”
“‘China Girl’?”
I groan. “ Anything but that.”
“Come on.” He turns his dazzling smile on me. “It’s a great song. I think you secretly love it.”
Warmth flutters through my belly, and I tear my gaze from his face, focusing on the road outside to keep from climbing over the center console. Forget the damned song. The urge to kiss him is driving me insane.
I’ve never been the sort of girl who makes the first move, but if he doesn’t make one soon, I may have to reevaluate that position.
The line of people in front of Sammy’s stretches halfway down the block, and after almost an hour waiting with what appears to be half the Virginia Tech student body, our progress has slowed to a crawl.
One by one, the streetlights come on, drawing every bug in Virginia.
At this rate, the place will be closed by the time we reach the door.
“Stop fidgeting.” Dash pries my fingers from a rip in my jeans.
I tear my gaze from the small group of people behind us, passing a silver flask back and forth.
“What if they don’t let me in?” I whisper. Even if I had my stolen wallet and ID—both of which are probably sitting at the bottom of a dumpster somewhere in Cleveland—I’d still be three months too young to get in.
“Relax.” His hand slips into mine. “Stay behind me.”
The warmth of his palm seeps beneath my skin, and I nod, open to whatever it takes to get inside.
We finally reach the front of the line, and Dash lures the doorman aside, slipping something into his hand. They exchange a few words before the man grins and waves us through.
Hidden behind the quaint brick facade, Sammy’s Pub is half sports museum and half pop-culture explosion, with a side of spring break at the beach. The place reeks of stale beer, furniture polish, and sweat. And nearly every square inch is packed wall-to-wall with people.
A swarm of twentysomethings, stacked three bodies deep, crowds the long mahogany bar running almost the full length of the front wall, and every high-top table perched on the worn wooden floorboards is standing room only.
In the far corner, under the blue-and-red Sammy’s marquee, a small crowd forms around the tiny stage, where a group of guys belts an off-key rendition of “Friends in Low Places.”
Dash leans in and shouts over the music. “I’ll look for a table.”
With a quick nod, I set out to find Mom’s picture.
Starting from just below my waist and reaching several feet above my head, a patchwork of assorted sports jerseys, trivia cheat sheets, and glossy black-and-white photos cover the weathered brick walls.
The daunting task of searching the entire pub would take me days, maybe longer. If only I knew where to start.
I flag down a passing waitress. “Where can I find the original wall of fame?”
She points toward the back of the building. “There.”
With a shiver of anticipation, I weave my way through the crowd, passing a row of arcade games, an empty table, and a stack of unused chairs on my way to the photo gallery wall.
I gaze up at the messy quilt of framed eight-by-tens. Each one is dated at the bottom, with a photo from 1996 sandwiched between one from 1989 and another from 2001. The odds of finding Mom in this mess are slim, but I have to try.
Working my way from one side of the wall to the other, I scan at least two decades’ worth of pictures, each one so similar, my eyes cross.
Hundreds of photos, hundreds of smiling faces, all posed under the same Sammy’s sign behind the stage.
With no apparent pattern to their placement, the black-and-white images begin to blur, and my last shred of hope slips away.
Did we come here for nothing? Did her picture even make it to the wall all those years ago?
On the other side of the pub, another pair of singers stumbles their way through a classic party anthem, and it hits me.
Mom and G-Lo were here, and whether I find their photo or not, their memories are part of this place.
Just being here means I’m part of this place, too.
With one last glance at the wall, I walk away.
I find Dash at a high-top table directly in front of the stage, jotting something down on a napkin. As soon as I sit beside him, he tucks the napkin into his pocket and slides a menu in front of me.
“If you want something, we should order now. Kitchen closes at eleven,” he says.
“I’m not hungry.” My stomach growls.
He lifts a brow. “Really?”
I shrug.
His lips turn down at the corners, and he sets the menu aside, his gaze focused on me. “You didn’t find it.”
I blow out a breath and shake my head.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I force a smile. “I knew it was a long shot.”
“Do you ...” He glances at the stage as a young brunette steps up to the mic. “Do you want to leave?”
“I don’t know.” I focus on the singer. She doesn’t look old enough to be here, and I wonder if she used a fake ID, or if someone slipped a few twenties to the bouncer to get her through the door.
The mic trembles in her hand as she sings along to an old Britney Spears track.
Her nervous excitement strikes a chord in me, and I imagine Mom standing on that same stage thirty years ago, stitching herself into the fabric of this place.
Butterflies flutter through my stomach, and I grab Dash’s arm with both hands. “We have to sing.”
“Oh, no!” He pries himself free with a nervous chuckle. “I’m not getting up there. You go right ahead, though.”
“Please?” Alternating my gaze between his blue and brown irises, I coil my fingers around his wrist.
He swallows, his pulse racing beneath my fingertips.
“It’ll be fun,” I promise. “I’ll even let you pick the song.”
His lips curve into a diabolical grin. “Anything I want?”
“Sure.” I release a shaky laugh. “As long as it’s something I’ve actually heard of.”
“Oh, you’ve definitely heard of the song I have in mind.” He leaps from his chair and bounds to the DJ booth. “Just remember this was your idea.”
For someone who hated the idea when I suggested it, Dash can barely contain his excitement when the DJ calls our names.
The song title flashes across the monitor, and I suck in a breath. “Dash, no!”
“You said I could pick.” His grin turns sinful as he drags me to the stage and thrusts a mic in my hand.
“I know I did, but ...” My stomach bottoms out. “Pick something else. Anything else.”
I groan as the opening guitar riff of “China Girl” plays and the lyrics roll onto the screen.
Too late now.
Heat flares low in my belly as Dash rakes his smoldering gaze over me and sings the first line.
His soft lips wrap around every syllable, his rumbling voice caressing me to the depths of my soul.
Every off-key note slips through my crumbling defenses.
What the hell is he doing to me? By the time he reaches the end of the first verse, I’m ready to kiss the hell out of him.
And I’m certain one kiss won’t be nearly enough.
“Come on, Zoey,” he purrs. “Sing with me.”
My stomach swoops, and the hungry gleam in his eyes turns my bones to jelly.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I join him on the second verse, giving it all I have.
For one frozen moment in time, the whole room falls away, and it’s just the two of us on that stage, singing our hearts out to one another.
And then I blink, and the moment is over, leaving me a trembling, blissed-out, needy mess as we return our mics to the DJ.
Dash throws a sweaty arm over my shoulders, leading me back to our table.
I open my mouth to tell him how much fun I had, but he presses a finger to my lips.
“ Shhh. ” His pulse thrums against my skin for the longest moment before his gaze darts to my eyes. “Don’t spoil the moment.”
We stand there, in the middle of the crowded pub, for what seems like hours, and then he pulls his hand away with a lazy grin. “Told you it’s a great song.”
“It is.” I catch my breath and glance around the room one last time. Singing a Bowie song—possibly even the same song Mom and G-Lo sang all those years ago—gives me the closure I need. “We can go now.”
Dash dips his head, meeting my gaze. “You sure?”
“Why spoil the moment, right?”
Chuckling, he whips out a wad of bills and leaves it on the table. “Why, indeed.”
As we reach the exit, the gritty guitar intro to “Rebel Rebel” blares through the speakers, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
“Dash, wait.” I grab his arm like a life preserver. “Before we go, I need to check one more time.”
He slips his fingers through mine and squeezes. “I’ll help you look.”
We weave our way through the thinning crowd toward the back wall, where I start my search from the opposite side, working backward from where I searched before.
One at a time, I run my gaze over every picture.
Then, as if Ziggy Stardust himself has guided me to this very spot, the image of someone who resembles a young version of G-Lo catches my attention.
Beside her is a young woman who looks almost exactly like . .. me .
Dash was right. I do look like Mom.
“There!” He points, finding the picture at the same moment I do. “Is that her? You could almost be twins.”
Tears blur my vision as I gape up at my mom.
She looks so young, grinning at the camera with one arm around G-Lo’s waist and a mic in her hand ... so happy .
I dig out my phone and snap a few photos of the wall, zooming in on the picture of Mom and G-Lo for Jeanie. The angles are off, preventing me from getting a clear shot. If Jeanie were here, she’d climb onto a table, snatch that picture from the wall, and take it home. But Jeanie isn’t here. I am.
Dash brushes a lock of hair from my face. “What’s wrong?”
A spike of adrenaline kick-starts my heart, and I dart my gaze between Mom’s picture and Dash’s face. “Give me a boost?”
His answering grin sends a completely different sort of rush through my veins. Dragging an empty pub table against the wall, he glances over his shoulders before extending a hand to help me climb up. “You’re turning into a regular Lois Lane.”
“Don’t make me laugh while I’m standing on a table.” Rising onto my toes, I lengthen my limbs and reach as far as I can until my bones cry out in agony. Wrapping my fingers around the plastic frame, I pull it from the wall and pass it to Dash. “Take this.”
He frees the photo from its frame and tucks it under his shirt, then offers his free hand to help me down. “Come on, Lois. Let’s get out of here before someone catches us.”