Chapter 16
(Draven)
“When are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Johnny asked, his fingers laced with mine as we walked down the street flanked by Sully and Christine.
Christine had been named as one of Johnny’s two guards, while the pair that would be guarding me were currently wrapping up the assignments they were on. Since they were unavailable, Sully was guarding me himself tonight. Both guards had already been appraised of the itinerary for the evening, so they had a chance to scope the place out and work with the club’s management to figure out the best place to seat us. It took a load off my shoulders, to no longer have to worry about those things when planning an evening out. I got to focus on Johnny, who was the only one who didn’t know what the evening’s plans were.
I said nothing in response to his question, just enjoyed the feel of his hand in mine and his exuberant impatience as we approached the middle of the block and the brightly lit awning that read Here There Be Jokes.
Johnny’s gasp was followed by a soft squeal before he turned and crushed the breath from my lungs with a bone crushing hug.
“C-can’t,” I choked out, wheezing as he stole what little oxygen I had left when he kissed me.
When he turned and pulled out his phone to take a picture of the comedy club, I gasped and sucked in a lungful of air I nearly choked on. If that’s how he responded to surprises then I might need to invest in a suit of armor to survive all the ones I had in store for him. Small but mighty, damn. I rubbed my chest and chuckled as I watched him stretch his arm out as far as he could while angling the phone first one way, then the other, until I took pity on him and plucked the phone from his fingers.
“Thanks,” he replied, before grinning and waving for the camera while I took a few pictures of him.
We took a selfie together, too, his arm around my waist, mine over his shoulder, then Sully took one of us in front of the club before we went in with Christine in the lead and him bringing up the rear. With quiet efficiency, she spoke with the host, who nodded and led us to a corner booth, softly lit, but mostly tucked away in shadows. Horseshoe shaped, with black plush leather bench seats, it offered an excellent vantage point to see the stage, while allowing Christine and Sully to sit on either side of us, keeping me and Johnny buffered between them in the middle of the seat.
Johnny’s eyes were wide as he tried to take in everything, his mouth half-hanging open, so much so that I pressed a finger beneath his chin to gently close it while murmuring in his ear. “I seriously doubt flies taste good, especially this time of year.”
It took him a moment to get it, his body twitching as he cocked his head and scowled before his face split into grin as he began to giggle.
“I’m more interested in tasting a Tequila Sunrise.”
“And you can keep that all to yourself,” I murmured as I tangled my fingers in his hair and tugged him into a kiss.
I was never going to get tired of hearing him moan when I pulled his hair or feeling him melt against me when I cupped the back of his neck and gave a gentle squeeze. He loved when I ran my fingers along the muscles on the sides of his neck, digging in enough any tension there soon eased. Tonight, it was good not to feel stiffness beneath my fingers.
“Why?” he asked as we stared into one another’s eyes like a pair of lovestruck teenagers. “Are you afraid it’ll make your clothes fall off? ”
“I wish,” I replied as I pulled my device from my pocket and slid it on the table. It would be easier to communicate through it, especially once the first comedian took to the stage. “It makes me a mean bastard, so I avoid it.”
The way he went from flirty-teasing to serious and nodding made me feel like shit for wrecking the mood. Until he took my hand and gave a gentle squeeze.
“Good to know.”
When I opened my mouth to apologize for bringing down the mood before the show had even started, he pressed a finger to my lips.
“Seriously,” he said. “I don’t want to grab you something from a bar thinking you’ll like it only to find out too late that it was the wrong thing to give you. So, thank you for giving such an honest warning and not trying to sugar coat what it does to you.”
I kissed his finger and nodded, appreciating not only the understanding but the encouragement to talk about the unsavory parts of myself that I usually tried to keep hidden. He was right, it was good that he knew I shouldn’t drink tequila, especially when my band brothers had found out the hard way, after a night of mixing and pounding Sangritas. I’d thought we were drinking Bloody Marys. Later, I learned that I had to be careful with those too and be certain that mine were made with vodka rather than tequila, which was apparently an option for a Bloody Mary, too. Who knew? None of us had back then. We’d just fucked around with the drinks we’d learned about from television shows and movies, wanting to be as cool and sophisticated as Bond while we nearly choked to death on martinis, shaken, not stirred, with an olive on a toothpick for garnish and the four of us gagging as we choked them down.
So much for cool.
Johnny booped me on the nose, giggling when I scrunched my face a few times in response. I had no clue who the comedians were tonight or even if there was a theme in place, but when I looked around the room, I came to the realization that we were a bit underdressed. Some of the guys had seriously dressed sharp to come out tonight, mostly in dark or muted colors, though a few had opted for brighter purples and reds than the other men wore. The woman, however, filled the room with color. From slinky dresses to business casual skirts and matching, flowy blazers, they brought the space to life with their vibrancy.
So not our usual crowd, but I was good trying something new, even if I did find myself wishing I’d chosen something a little more upscale than a black and white button-down shirt with two dragons facing off across my chest. I’d rolled the sleeves up, too, showing off my arms, proud of the definition I’d maintained even after leaving my football playing days behind me .
Johnny, of course, looked stunning with his legs encased in black leather. A loose, short-sleeved crimson top that felt like satin showed off the tattoos on his forearms, while the one across his throat was mostly obscured by the chain he wore, padlocked with a silver heart he’d given me the key for. I didn’t know how long he’d had it, though I’d seen him wear it onstage several times. The fact that he’d handed me the key, like when we were younger and it was all the rage for couples to get key and heart necklace sets as a symbol that they were together. He who holds the key can unlock my heart, were the words inscribed on the hearts if I remembered correctly. If not spot on, I was at least close. I still had one in a keepsake box somewhere, given to me by Sapphire, my first serious girlfriend.
As the club MC stepped onto the stage to announce the first act, Johnny rummaged in the small leather backpack he always caried, retrieving the small sketchpad and drawing pens he was never without.
“Hey, y’all, thank you for coming out tonight, my name is Ramsey Burns and I’ve got a Master’s degree in Jokeology, so you’re in for a real treat tonight.”
“From what school?” someone in the crowd heckled.
“The school of Imma come down there and make you laugh whether you want to or not,” Ramsey replied. “Don’t test me, man. I’ve got a million different ways of making you crack up and if all else fails, I’ll do my best to trip on one of these chords up here and bust my ass to get you chuckling.”
The did earn him a few guffaws from the crowd as he made a show of carefully picking his way over the one cord I could see.
“Seriously, though,” Ramsey said as he pointed at the mic. “It’s 2025, why the hell hasn’t this place gone wireless? We’ve got surround sound speakers, top shelf whiskey and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. You mean to tell me no one could fork over an extra fifty bucks for a cordless mic? This is a joke, right? I’m gonna step wrong and that thing is gonna snake around my leg and drag me up to the rafters so you fuckers can use me as a pinata or some shit. I bleed red, man, ain’t no candy gonna come out of me if you start whacking me with some plastic bat.”
“I got metal!” someone yelled, while someone else announced that they had a wooden one. One guy even offered to go out to his car and get a tire iron, while beside me, Sully tensed, his gaze roving over the room. I could see Christine doing the same thing on the other side of Johnny, while others started laughing, including the MC.
“You people are sick,” Ramsey remarked, but even he was laughing, which allowed our guard to relax.
Okay, so maybe this was one of those interactive places where audience participation was expected and even encouraged, good to know, not that I’d try my hand at chiming in. There was no way to make my wrecked voice heard over the other noises in the room.
When I glanced over, I saw Jonny grinning down at the page in front of him where two doodled cartoons had already begun taking shape, one of which depicted the comedian dangling from the rafters by one ankle, the cord having been drawn to look like a serpent hissing down at Ramsey while he flipped off the crowd Johnny was rapidly sketching in. Sure enough, one held a wooden bat and another a metal one. He’d drawn a fedora hat with legs wielding a tire iron, and a figure in a wraparound skirt wielding a monstrously huge high-heeled shoe. As I watched, fascinated by the process and the intense look of concentration on his face as he sketched the next item, I saw his tongue poke out as his free hand reached for the drink the waiter set on the table for him. How he located it, took a sip and returned it to almost the same spot he’d gotten it from, all without taking his eyes off the paper, was beyond me.
Holy shit.
Was that?
Blinking, I stared at the pad as Johnny randomly drew colorful paper strips on Ramsey’s clothes, just enough to complete the illusion of Ramsey as a pinata, then giggled as he topped the whole image off by morphing the microphone stand into a flame thrower.
“Oh, that’s sick,” I typed as I stared over his shoulder as he put the finishing touches on the image.
Johnny flashed me a grin before he turned the page, then started chewing on the cap of the pen as he listened to more of Ramsey’s skit about taking his girl out to dinner at a fancy restaurant, where they received tiny plates of food and a tyrannosaurus-sized bill. Johnny’s pen fell from his hand as he started laughing, doubling over so hard his forehead touched the paper as he quaked in his seat.
The dude was funny, and clearly inspiring to Johnny, who quickly snatched the pen up, eyes widening some as he licked his lips, nodded his head several times like he was having a whole conversation with himself, then started drawing again. I watched the image of a bill take shape, wavy lines giving the impression of the menu items, before he penned in obscene figures after every one. The total, reaching almost five hundred dollars, he circled three times with a red pen, before underlining the gratuity that had already been added to the check.
“Look, I don’t know what school of math they went to, but when I get a plate the size of Texas with three sad little Oreo-sized scallops on it, I do not expect to be charged thirty-five dollars, let alone a twenty-percent tip. Fuckers need to start paying their staff more and stop expecting the customer to do it. And what is this shit of adding the tip into my bill before you hand it to me? That’s not the way it works, motherfucker. I didn’t come in there with four women dripping off each arm, looking to get a table for ten during the evening rush. I’m in there with my girl and I’m not tipping no twenty percent when I had to get up and take our glasses to the bar just to get some fuckin’ water. Waiter means you wait on me, not wait for me to go get the shit myself before you show up at the table. You know I made them take that shit off. And then they wanted to send out a manager to be like, sir, is there a problem? Motherfucker, if you have to come out here and ask if there is a problem then you already good and god damn know there’s a problem. Show me a policy that says you can fill in some random amount on a patron’s bill. Show me where that shit is printed on the menu. Oh, you can’t. Ohh, you don’t have a policy. You just be making shit up along the way or do you let your waiters do it, ‘cause that’s like asking a billionaire to fill in what they think they should be paying for taxes.”
Johnny was trying his best to keep up with Ramsay’s rambling tirade as someone in the crowd yelled, you know that’s right. I laughed right along with them, sipped my beer and nearly spit the amber liquid on the table as Johnny added a t-rex head and short, stubby arms to the bill as it reached out toward the newest version of Ramsey he was rapidly sketching. When he put a cartoon version of the comedian’s head on a body drawn to resembling a round dinner plate with three dots at the center, I completely lost my shit.
“Oh, you gotta draw the register as a slot machine,” I typed. “Only instead of apples, oranges and grapes, make it the numbers that add up to the tip on the bill.”
He grinned when the device read my words to him and even bounced a little, cracked his neck, and reached for his Tequila Sunrise, draining half the glass before his fingers started flying over the page again.
“Have you ever put any of your doodles on the band’s website?” I typed, marketing ideas for the band already forming in my head as I tapped the digital keyboard.
“There’s a whole page devoted to them,” Johnny said as he drew. “I update as often as possible. A couple of times a year we’ll have the fans vote on which ones they’d like to see on t-shirts and they always sell out.”
“Ever thought about putting them on other things, too?”
He nodded, engrossed in the details of the slot machine register’s face, so I left it at that and pulled my own notebook from my pocket, scribbling ideas for them, right down to the possibility of doodled guitar picks for Rebel to toss out into the crowd after he finished playing with them. Of course, that immediately kicked my brain into overdrive, and I added guitar pick necklaces as potential merchandise, along with doodled drumsticks and a note to find out where we could have the etchings done. Once I had everything in order, I’d type it out along with any samples I could get mocked up and present it to the band for their approval. I loved the idea of having the fans vote on which cartoons would make the best t-shirt designs. Having some on our merch table alongside the ones bearing the band’s logo and album covers would be an amazing addition, or at least, I thought it would. In the end, it would be the band’s decision which ideas they wanted to use and which they weren’t interested in.
I didn’t know if this was what they meant by working smarter instead of harder, but it certainly was inspiring to sit here and work out some of the things that had already been on my mind to look into. Time melted as we laughed, rocking against one another occasionally. One comedian left Johnny laughing so hard he flopped against me, shaking and holding his side.
“That’s just wrong, man,” Johnny called out, getting into the spirit of the show.
“Man, if that’s wrong, I don’t wanna be right,” the comedian replied, which only revved up Johnny’s laughter again.
My side began to hurt, I chuckled so much, barely able to draw in a ragged breath before the next punchline. Screw trying to finish my beer, at least not until there was another intermission. I’d either choke on the damn thing, or a spit beer all over the table.
“How’d you know I needed a laugh tonight?” Johnny asked as he finally settled down, his head on my shoulder, his lips so close to my ear that the feel of his breath left goosebumps prickling down my arms.
“Is there ever a night when laughter isn’t needed?” I typed with the hand he didn’t have pinned.
This time, his chuckle was more controlled as he snaked an arm across my abs, sketchbook momentarily forgotten.
“Nope,” Johnny replied as I stroked my fingers along the side of his neck. “Nope, there isn’t, not a one.”