3
ELEANOR
We stop suddenly in front of a club. I scan my surroundings. Looks a hell of a lot different than the picture, but then again, it’s been almost thirty years. I shouldn’t be so surprised.
There’s a line pouring out the front door, waiting to get in. And the marquee reads “Fried Polyester.” Naming a band is an interesting art form, that’s for sure.
“Sorry, do you mind holding a couple of these so I can . . .” Luke inclines his stubbled chin toward the picture.
“Sure, of course.” I take a few of the bags to free up one of his hands so he can take a closer look at the picture. His fingertips brush my hand in the process, and I try to pretend it doesn’t feel amazing . Not sure if that’s because it’s been a long while since I’ve had any physical touch from a man or if it’s because of Luke himself.
I have to admit, I’m shocked he’s giving me the time of day like this. Must be that good old Texas charm. In Chicago, guys in suits wouldn’t have even looked at me. And frankly, the only reason I would have looked at a guy like him back home was if he was standing in my way at a cross walk, not paying any mind to where his body was in space. The finely pressed suits and slicked-back hair were a certain type back home.
However, Luke isn’t like that. He’s a different breed altogether. He cares about his appearance without trying to look like a buttoned-up banker. He’d stick out like a sore thumb back home in his tailored tweed suit. Though there’s product in his golden-brown hair, it still looks like a breeze could brush it out of place. And his smile, while charming, isn’t ridiculously white.
I watch as he takes in the photo. His height could cast a shadow on me. Must be nearly a foot taller.
His eyes work across the image, and I can tell it’s not just a picture to him either. He scrutinizes, peruses, and maybe even wonders.
“You want to figure out who this is?” he asks, eyes rising to meet mine.
His baby blues are devastating. I nearly lose my spot in my own brain. “Um. Yeah. You know, I’m a historian in a way. And I’m just curious what the story is. It’s not for work, this is my own personal quest.”
Luke’s intense gaze turns genial again. He smiles and hands back the photo. “That’s admirable of you.”
I try to ignore the knife to the gut. Admirable. Like it’s cute .
“I’d like to help you.”
Wait. “What?” That’s not condescending like I thought he was trying to be.
“I’ve been in this scene a long time. I know a lot of people, could get you the right contacts and—” Luke does a doubletake and slides his phone out of his pocket. “Listen, I’ve gotta get these gummies to the band.”
I nod. “Right, well, let me give you my number and we can—”
“Davy!” Luke calls out to the man at the door and points at me. “I want her put on the photographer list.”
I shake my head in shock. What is happening? “The photographer list?”
“Yeah, you stay, take some pictures and we’ll talk afterward,” Luke says as if it makes the most sense in the world. “Unless you’ve got plans or a date or something.”
“A date? No, I don’t—”
“Perfect. Here, I’ll take these.” He scoops the gummies out of my arms. “And I’ll see you after the show, okay?”
Luke starts to step away. I follow on his heels. “Wait, I’m not an event photographer. It’s just something I do for fun, it’s not like . . . something I do .”
It used to be the thing I wanted to do most in the world. The trade I learned in college. Like I said, I’m lucky to have a job in my industry. Photojournalism, though, isn’t the easiest field to break into. So, I settled for behind the scenes. I’m happy with that. Photography is just a hobby now.
“What do you mean it’s not something you do?” Luke asks, the smile on his face effervescent. “You’ve got the camera. You take pictures, right?”
“Well, there’s a lot of different kinds of photography,” I say. Wedding photography is different from music photography is different from nature photography. But I’m getting ahead of myself. “It’s a generous offer, but really, I wouldn’t know the first thing about concert photography.”
Luke doesn’t respond right away, he just nods. “Okay, well . . .”
I start to pull out my phone to type in his number.
“Davy, put her on the VIP list,” Luke says to the doorman.
“What?!” I squeak.
“Name’s Eleanor,” Luke goes on.
Davy starts scribbling on his clipboard. “Eleanor what?”
Luke nods at me. “Eleanor what?”
I stare at him. I was looking forward to a small jaunt down 6th Street after my first week at the museum and then a quiet night in with a bottle of wine and a good book. I hate to be the stereotype of a girl with glasses who works in a museum, but if the shoe fits.
“You can’t fight with me now,” Luke says in a low, gravelly tone, his eyes locked on mine.
My body goes numb.
Holy. Cow.
“Hayes,” I say. Instead of no.
Because even I can’t refuse an adventure when it falls into my lap.
“Eleanor Hayes,” Luke says. Should be for Davy the doorman’s benefit. But it’s all for me. My full name from his amazing lips. “Make sure she’s not paying for anything, alright? She’s my guest.”
Davy nods curtly before pulling out a walkie talkie to deliver the information to lord knows who.
Before I can attempt to fight, Luke disappears into the club, bags of gummies piled in his arms.
I stare at the spot that he left empty in front of me.
I don’t know if Luke knows this town, but it certainly seems like he runs it.
“Ahem,” Davy clears his throat. He’s pulled the red velvet barrier away. “Eleanor Hayes? VIP?”
I glance at the long line of Fried Polyester fans glowering at me.
I’ve never been a VIP.
Could be fun.
* * *
The VIP section is no joke. Instead of being tangled with the masses in the club proper downstairs, we get to watch it all from a balcony. No one is pushing anyone to make room, rubbing our sweat on each other, no threat of beer spilling down the back of my shirt. Not to mention, the floor isn’t sticky. It’s slick, dark wood, which compliments all the red velvet seating. It’s more like a lounge than a concert venue.
I notice a yellow-labeled beer in many audience members’ hands that I’ve never seen before. It must be a local thing.
Up here, the mood is calm and relaxed. Even the bartenders seem at ease. Rather than dealing with a line of patrons eager to get their drinks before the set starts, they are circulating the floor to take orders and deliver drinks.
I’ve posted up at a high top in the corner, my camera tucked deep in my bag so as not to incur side eyes from event security. For events like this, you need to be an approved photographer. Sure, I wouldn’t mind taking a few snaps here and there during the show but being a concert photographer is a totally different thing. You have to be at the edge of the stage with your ears packed with plugs to make sure you don’t lose your hearing. Not to mention, it can get dangerous if things get out of hand.
It’s a shame, though. I have a great view of all the techs tuning the instruments, with apathetic expressions on their faces and draped in hot pink and dark blue lighting.
The bartender with purple hair tied on the top of her head comes over to me. “One Yellow Rose of Texas for you.”
I take the drink. When it came to picking out a cocktail, I felt it was only right to choose the signature drink of The Yellow Rose. “Thank you so much.”
“’Course honey. Need anything else?”
I smile. Not gonna lie—being called honey by a stranger is different, but it’s kind of sweet. “Well, I actually have a question. Do you know anything about the band?”
“Fried Polyester?”
I hold back a laugh. Sounds even funnier out loud. “Yeah, I—a friend invited me tonight, I’m just along for the ride.” Calling Luke a friend might be a stretch, but there’s no better way to describe someone I nearly maimed with my camera earlier.
“Oh, they’re goooood,” she says with a slow nod and a big smile.
“Yeah? What kind of music do they play?”
“Cowpunk.”
I blink. I know there are lots of . . . interestingly named music genres. Zydeco. Shoegaze. Acid Jazz. “Cowpunk?”
“Yeah! It’s like country and punk mixed together. You’ll like it.”
I wilt at the sound of “country.” I’m in Texas, after all; I should have known that’s what I’m in for. But like many Midwesterners, “I’ll listen to anything but country” is a mantra. That being said, I’ve never really given country music a fair shot.
“Oh, don’t make that face. You haven’t even heard it yet,” she says, eyes glimmering. “Just strap in and enjoy. I’ll come check on you during the set and see how you like it.”
The bartender waltzes off to her next table. I appreciate everyone’s positivity around here. Maybe she’s right. I ought to give it more of a chance. Country isn’t a bad word. Right?
I sip my Yellow Rose of Texas. Lots of tequila. I have to be careful with these if I want to drive home later.
I watch the stage as a few guys lumber around tinkering with the instruments. I’ve never understood why the musicians don’t do the final tune-ups of their instruments. Wouldn’t you want to make sure everything is perfect? It seems like it’s just a tactic to get the crowd riled. Which it does. The crush of people downstairs starts cheering.
I continue to sip my drink, watching as the scene plays out on stage. The techs are acting like they don’t even hear the crowd. Tuning up the bass guitar, whacking the drums . . . someone even runs a spoon along a washboard.
God, what the hell am I in for?
At the back of the stage, Luke appears. He’s totally out of place compared to the raggedy jean-wearing techs. His arms are crossed over his chest as he speaks in a low voice to one of the techs, gesturing toward the microphone set up at the front.
Damn, I’m a sucker for watching men in their element. And given the poise and focus Luke exudes, he is in his element.
He starts to turn and then gives a final look at the stage. His blue eyes cut right through the low club lighting. And a smile ticks onto his lip before he disappears behind the dark curtains.
Instinctually, I pull the picture out of my bag once more and put it on the table. I stare at it, willing it to tell me more about the captivating singer. I wonder if this woman ever performed on this stage. I wonder if there was a crowd waiting on pins and needles for her just like this one. I hope she’s happy wherever she is.
For a second, I’m struck with the silliness of this situation. I know nothing about Luke. I don’t even know his last name. I don’t know what his personality is when he hasn’t just met someone. Why am I waiting around to let him help me when he’s just a stranger? I’m a city girl, I know better than this.
Before I can let my thoughts push me into an anxious spiral, the house lights dim, the stage lights go up, and a group of guys lumber onto the stage. Trucker hats, flannel, blue jeans. Yep, exactly what I pictured.
When they’re all set at their instruments, they begin.
It’s nothing like I expected or could have imagined. Fiddle mixed with heavy bass and guitar, lyrics about bad childhoods and the world ending, familiar drumbeats subverted to a ‘70s sound.
Yeah, the bartender was right. This is good.
And I think if I’m going to hack it in Austin, even just for three months, I’m going to need to reserve my judgments. Because so far, this place is pretty cool.