Chapter 24
RUDY HAS brOUGHT me to Williamsburg in Brooklyn, and it doesn’t take long for me to figure out why.
The streets we’re wandering through look a lot like our neighbourhood: big buildings with tall windows and facades covered in Z-shaped fire escapes.
While there are definitely live music bars in Greenwich Village, they don’t come close to the wide variety of venues in Williamsburg.
They’re absolutely everywhere. The air here is thick with music; the volume cranked to its max to kick off the weekend with a bang.
I give Rudy an inquisitive look with every bar we pass. Each one has a cluster of smiling young people standing around outside. Each one has music emanating from within.
What is it we’re looking for? I ask him, as we walk past the hundredth venue we’ve come across.
He lifts a corner of his mouth, then grabs my hand as he ushers me through the crush of people. As I drop my gaze to our linked hands, I make no attempt to pull back. I honestly kind of like it.
Nightlife in Brooklyn does seem a bit different from Manhattan.
People seem younger on average, and there are definitely fewer tourists brandishing selfie sticks to capture themselves posing in front of major landmarks.
I like the vibe here: it’s more relaxed, more intimate.
It almost reminds me of the neighbourhood where I partied during my university days in Groningen—but obviously on a much larger scale.
I finally get some clarity on our destination when we stop in front of a sign with a light-up electric guitar and neon letters that spell out BAR OF ROCK. There’s a big chalkboard out front. Ready to rumble? Battle of the Bands, 10 p.m. to 1 a.m.
Tonight’s the big annual battle, Rudy explains, dragging me toward the entrance. It’s the best place to discover new talent.
Why aren’t you guys playing?
He grins. We won this thing last year. Seems only fair to give someone else a fighting chance, don’t you think?
The place is bumping with incredible music and we pause for a moment by the door. I’m so excited that I have to restrain myself from skipping inside. This has to work out. It just has to.
I’ve barely placed a toe through the door when I walk straight into a mountain of a guy. I look up, directly into the intimidating glare of a man who could beat King Kong at an arm-wrestling competition.
ID, he grunts.
It takes me a couple of seconds to recover from the newsflash that men even exist in this shape and size. As I fumble through my pockets, I remember that I left my passport at the apartment. And that my Dutch driver’s licence doesn’t count as legal ID here.
I, uh . . . I flail.
As Rudy clues into what’s happening, he sighs with a chuckle before stepping in.
The sight of him immediately wipes the steely expression from King Kong Killer’s face. Rudy! he shouts, smacking Rudy’s shoulder with a hand the size of a truck tire. I’m not sure how he’s still upright after that. Big Guy definitely slapped the discs right out of Rudy’s spine with that blow.
How the hell are you, man? Did you get that star on the Walk of Fame yet?
Roger! Rudy’s face screws up in pain as he tries to shake the bouncer’s claw-like grip off his shoulder. I’m good! Still working on getting that star.
Who’s your little girlfriend here? She looks a bit like that Harry Potter chick. What’s her name? Emmy Watson?
This is Emma, Rudy chuckles. He doesn’t correct Roger about the girlfriend thing.
Nice one, man. Roger gives him another shoulder thump and I notice him shrink by about an inch.
Thanks, he replies with a playful grin as he wraps an arm around my shoulders. Okay if my girlfriend and I come in? We can’t wait to check out some new talent.
Roger’s quick to step aside. Sure thing. Have fun. He motions toward a dark hallway.
Girlfriend? I ask, sounding surprised.
He doesn’t answer, just squeezes my arm gently, guiding me to the coat check.
As we make our way down the dimly lit hallway, the music starts to come into focus. I don’t recognize the song that’s playing right now, but I know I like it. It sounds a bit like Queen. Not that anyone could ever come close to Freddie Mercury, but this band is definitely giving it their all.
What song is this? I wonder eagerly. I have to add this to my Spotify likes.
No clue, Rudy replies. Every single one of these songs was written by the bands themselves. No covers tonight.
That added detail makes me prance right into the room with delight. The space is filled with booths and little round tables all facing the stage.
Rudy is clearly popular here—he keeps running into people he knows. One of them is a blonde woman with legs that reach up to my nose. Draping her arms around his neck, she whispers something into his ear, then lets out a flirty giggle. Yep. He’s waaay too popular here if you ask me.
He brushes her off pretty quickly, though, before pulling me over to an empty booth off to the side.
It has burgundy red cushions on the dark wooden benches and there’s a little candle on the table to add a cozy touch.
There’s nothing shimmery or fancy about this place.
People come here to indulge in their passion for music.
Wait right here, Rudy says, before running off to the bar. On his way back to our table, he’s carrying two beers, and once again he’s accosted by perfectly manicured hands and dudes slapping his shoulder as he weaves through the crowd. His poor shoulder must be black and blue by now.
I wish I could have seen the show that won him first place last year. It must have been incredible.
Did anyone record the performance you did here? I scream into his ear once he’s back at the table. Putting my drink down in front of me, he takes a seat.
We’re close together now and I notice the warmth of his leg spread through my thigh.
It’s probably on YouTube somewhere, he replies, taking a swig from his green bottle. With an eyebrow raised, he offers me a teasing smile. Why? It’s not enough that you get to see me every night?
I shove my shoulder into his, making him flinch. He brings a hand up to rub the sore spot for a second.
Oh God, I’m sorry.
Shaking his head, he chuckles, then points his bottle at the stage. What do you think? he asks.
Together, we gaze at the lead singer on stage.
Her eyes are closed as I watch waves of emotion roll over her face.
It’s like she can feel the music. She carries a tortured high note for what seems like forever and I don’t understand where she’s finding the breath to hold it.
It’s completely flawless and giving me chills.
They’re amazing, I whisper. Without thinking, I lay my head onto Rudy’s injured shoulder. He doesn’t move an inch.
He lightly traces his fingers on my leg as we listen to this performer sing her heart out. She even adds in a few dance moves for good measure.
The band is Buzzkilled, Rudy shares. And I just happen to have a phone number for one of the band members.
I light up, completely thrilled. Do you think they’d be willing to play at the Christmas party?
As far as I know, none of their partners ever swapped spit with Santa Claus, so your odds are good.
Ho, ho, ho! That’s jolly good news.
Good one, he says, giving me a weak smile.
Thanks.
The vocalist closes on one last magical note, sending the audience into wild applause and I fire off a finger whistle before the next band comes on. And that’s how the rest of the night goes. None of the bands are as good as Rudy is, but I also might be a bit biased at this point.
He keeps his hand on my thigh for the rest of the night as I continue to rest my head on his shoulder.
The way we’re sitting might suggest we’re both feeling relaxed, but it’s all an illusion.
My body’s on high alert as Rudy’s thumb twirls gentle circles over my dark tights.
I feel my skin tingle in every spot he’s almost-but-not-quite touching.
The combination of alcohol and his touch has me feeling a little turned on, though I’m pretty scared to admit it.
When the stage lights fade out at the end of the show, the place goes pitch black for a brief moment.
It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
But then the lights flash back on, revealing the evening’s MC on stage again.
His red hair is mussed and he’s wearing ripped jeans and a basic black tee with WE WILL ROCK YOU printed on the chest.
You were awesome tonight! he shouts at the bands waiting in the wings. They all burst into loud cheers. Thank you for gracing us with your talent!
Another round of ooh-ooh-ooh resounds from the side of the stage, followed by an owww, was that really necessary?
Buncha monkeys back there, the MC jokes. He raises a hand when the crowd breaks into laughter, quieting everyone down again. I heard a little something through the grapevine, he says, a mysterious smile on his face. Turns out last year’s winner is here with us tonight . . .
There’s a whistle from the crowd. Yeeeah, New Dawn! someone calls out.
Well, I don’t think the whole gang is here, the host says, managing expectations as he scans the room. But . . . Rudy . . . What do you say, man? One song before the jury announces this year’s winner?
I feel Rudy tense up beside me and I look up at his face as a spotlight roams through the crowd like a helicopter looking for an escaped felon.
He looks at me inquisitively. Is that okay? I don’t want to leave you sitting here all alone if you’re not gonna be okay.
He’s over there! shouts a man, before I get a chance to reply. He’s pointing at Rudy who’s now being forced to get up by a very insistent spotlight.
The crowd goes wild, leaving Rudy no other choice but to head up to the stage. He looks over his shoulder one last time, his lips mouthing a silent apology.
Yeah! Here he comes! The host slaps him on the shoulder—the same shoulder pummelled earlier tonight by the bouncer with the King Kong Killer DNA.
Get the man a guitar! a voice yells out from the audience and someone rushes on stage to hand Rudy an instrument.
If it were me up there, I’d freeze up immediately, then run for the emergency exit so fast they’d find skid marks on the shiny stage. But not Rudy. Rudy is completely in his element.
Thank you so much! he shouts into the microphone. That kind of warm welcome is the stuff of dreams. He flicks his guitar pick into the air before catching it again. Effortless.
He looks . . . sexy up there on stage. His vibe, his confidence . . . It’s all so good. Running a hand through his hair, he gazes out into the audience, his expression pensive. I watch as his teeth scrape along the fullness of his bottom lip.
All I need now is a song . . . His eyes travel over the crowd of people before locking onto mine.
A slight frown appears on his brow, then shifts into an expression I can’t quite read.
An expression that stirs unfamiliar feelings deep inside.
He seems to hesitate for just a moment before making up his mind.
Okay. Here’s one I wrote recently. I haven’t played it in front of a crowd before, so I figure this would be a good time to try it out.
Yeeeah, Rudy! someone calls out, in reply to a question he never even asked.
His entire face lights up as he rewards the over-eager fan with a wide grin.
Looping the guitar strap over his neck, he raises the mic stand before adjusting a few keys to tweak his tuning.
And then, with a sweep of the guitar pick across the strings, he begins to strum out a gentle, intoxicating melody.
When he takes a step forward, he’s looking right at me and I catch a glimpse of insecurity washing over his face. It comes and goes so quickly that I’m not even convinced I saw what I think I saw. Rudy doesn’t do insecurity. Not off stage and definitely not on stage.
But then he starts to sing and the sound of his voice makes every tiny hair on my body stand on end.
Seven miles above the Atlantic,
A place I’d never thought to look,
I found something I wasn’t searching for,
A stranger who left me shook.
Seven feet from my front door,
A stranger made me want so much more
She unpacked her suitcase, filled with hopes and dreams,
That she carried up the staircase
For a moment, I thought I was in control,
From then on, I lost it though
All the reasons why I shouldn’t
All the reasons why I can’t
Seem meaningless while I fa-a-all
Seven feet above my front door,
A stolen kiss left me wanting so much more,
Maybe I shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t even think it,
Yet here I am, scattering my feelings on the floor.
For a moment, I thought I was in control,
From that moment on, I lost it though
All the reasons why I shouldn’t
All the reasons why I can’t
Seem meaningless because I’m still falling
So please fly with me, yes fly with me
Rudy conjures one final note from his guitar and the room briefly descends into silence before exploding into thunderous applause. When he opens his eyes, he’s gazing straight at me.
My heart pounds into my ribs with erratic force as I stare at him, eyes wide.
Inside my head, there’s only silence. It’s unnerving.
And then the volume very slowly turns all the way up again.
When all the clapping and whistling finally connects to my ear drums .
. . I start to panic. Was that song for me?
I mean, there did seem to be some overlap, but surely he wouldn’t . . .
Daaamn, Rudy! You’ve done it again, the MC cheers into the microphone. Amazing stuff, man. What’s that one called?
Rudy steps back, rakes a hand through his hair, and wets his lips. He’s quiet for a beat—just a brief hesitation before returning to the mic.
Bluebird, he replies.
Well, shit.
My breath kicks into a rapid pace. I don’t know what to think or how to feel. I’m beyond confused. Didn’t we both agree that we were better off as friends?
Beyond my hurried breathing, the smoke from the fog machine is starting to burn my lungs and I’m desperate for fresh air.
I witness the exact moment when Rudy clues into my panic.
The look of disappointment on his gorgeous face is too much to bear.
Dropping my gaze to the ground, I run for the exit without looking back.