Chapter 22 Sebastian
Sebastian couldn’t stop thinking about how it was simultaneously a blessing and a big-time shame that his mother couldn’t
see him right then. Sure, she’d be humiliated, and yes, by the time his father caught wind of the scene, he’d be disowned.
But if she could get a load of all the tips he was pulling in, her concerns about his financial sustainability would go the
way of yesterday’s leftover goose liver paté.
He caught Cole’s eye as his friend served more baskets of fries and plates of buffalo wings to the hysterical ladies and winked
at him in the cheesiest, lounge lizardy-est way he knew how. Cole laughed and then cupped his hands around his mouth and made
a big show of hooting and hollering with the patrons as he returned to the kitchen.
“Well, ladies, I’m going to need to take a break.” Boos of displeasure filled the air. “Only long enough to refill your drinks.
Don’t worry.” The cheers and catcalls resumed. “But I think we’ve got time for one more song before I go.”
It had been two years since he’d convinced Cole to recommission the relic they’d found in Old Man Kimball’s basement.
It was a seventies-era Cassette/8-Track Singing Machine 3000 that, until Sebastian played Dr. Frankenstein with it, ran on ten D batteries and a prayer.
All the lyrics were still on paper, but Sebastian had laminated the originals and cataloged the entire library.
The library that consisted of only seventies and eighties country classics and far too many accompaniment renditions of “Delta Dawn.”
Most nights, no one touched it unless tourists wanted to explore the novelty of it or Fenton Norris had a few too many beers.
But on this night, Sebastian Sudworth was the karaoke king.
“What do you think? Should I do one more?”
“No!” Cole yelled from the kitchen.
“You know what his problem is?” Sebastian grabbed his stool from the back corner of the stage he had talked Cole into letting
him construct after the first-ever Cassidy’s Bar & Grill / Adelaide Springs Parent Teacher Association Karaoke Extravaganza
pulled in the highest-ever single-night revenue since Cole took over from his grandfather. “He doesn’t feel the music like
we do. Does he, ladies?” They shook their heads in emphatic agreement. Sebastian sat down and propped the heels of his Vans
on the footrest. “No, that’s right. He may make a mean spinach artichoke dip—”
As predictable as clockwork, two of the ladies ran to the bar and shouted into the kitchen that they’d like an order of spinach
artichoke dip.
“—but his soul isn’t one with the music like ours are. He doesn’t understand the pull and the sway and the hustle.”
At this point, even Sebastian didn’t have a clue what he was saying. But it didn’t matter. He’d found his rhythm and a roomful
of small-town, middle-aged soccer moms were gleefully dancing to it with him.
“Sing ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’!” three of them shouted in unison in the sort of orchestrated way that made it obvious they had conspired together to make sure they were heard.
The 8-track was already in his hand—this was his greatest hit, after all—and he flipped it in the air with a flourish before
pushing the cartridge into the slot with his index finger. Everyone began cheering so loudly he had to lean in closer to the
speaker to make sure he could hear his musical cues. Not that it would matter. They couldn’t hear any more than he could.
But he wanted to earn those tips.
It was about the time he got to the second chorus, just as he was tossing the microphone from one hand to the other with the
aplomb of Elvis performing in Vegas in 1969, that in his peripheral vision he saw two more patrons enter. That wasn’t unusual.
The PTA ladies came and went throughout the night, depending on how wild they were feeling, and of course they were open for
dinner as usual. He turned to greet the new audience members with a welcoming smile, but the smile—and, briefly, the showmanship—faded
when he spotted Brynn Cornell staring at him with eyes the size of Graceland, lashes blinking at a furious rate, and her mouth
twitching in amusement.
Well, great.
Any other night. Any other night he would stop the music, step aside, and return to his spot behind the bar. He’d offer her
a drink and charge her double the price. (She was used to Manhattan prices. She wouldn’t even flinch.) Then he’d stay busy
and never give her the opportunity to make any of the snide remarks she would undoubtedly want to make. But this was PTA Night.
And PTA Night wasn’t just about food, drinks, and fun. Oh no. PTA Night was an experience, and he wouldn’t allow these ladies
to be robbed of that.
Sebastian doubled down and hopped from his stool, eyebrow cocked in Brynn’s direction.
He walked to the edge of the stage—which was only about two feet off the ground—and stepped down to walk among his adoring fans.
They were respectful—but just barely—as they grabbed the waist of his jeans and pulled on his T-shirt.
He looped the twenty-five-foot microphone cord around his arm and made his way toward Laila, who had jumped right into work.
Good thing, too, since Sebastian and Cole had been covering her since five o’clock, when she was supposed to be there.
Okay, Cole was covering her. Sebastian was, well. .. doing this.
And doing it darn well, if he did say so himself.
Laila kept her head down, picking up empty dishes, but peered up at him and shook her head in a way that clearly said, “Stay
away from me. I’m busy, and I will not be part of this ridiculous thing you’re doing.” Yeah. Good luck with that, Laila Olivet.
The grin spread across her face and color rose in her cheeks as he put his scruffy cheek against her smooth one and held the
microphone in front of them, just in time for her to join him on the final chorus—which of course she did. Laila could always
be counted on to keep the good times rolling.
The song ended, and he returned his microphone to its stand and headed back behind the bar after promising to take requests
later—as long as those requests were songs by Glen Campbell or John Denver, since those were pretty much the only ones they
had. Or, of course, he always had “Delta Dawn” at the ready.
Brynn didn’t join him at the bar as he had expected her to but instead sat at a two-top on the far side of the stage.
“What’s that about?” Sebastian asked as Laila sidled up to the bar with drink orders.
She turned her head to follow his eyes. “We had the best day, Seb. It was...” She closed her eyes and clutched her tray
to her chest as she breathed in through her teeth. “It was so good. Such a long time coming. She was honest and real and humble
and—”
“Seems to be a lot of that going around.”
“What do you mean?”
He finished shaking the martini and poured it into a glass. “I don’t know if you heard about—”
“The tree?” She nodded. “Of course I did.”
“Honest, real, humble.” He paused and considered the words. He also couldn’t help but spend a moment considering the way Brynn
had held on to his arms at the end there, after the danger was behind them, as if he were still her only hope for rescue.
“Yeah. That’s kind of what I saw too. But be careful, Laila. She’s still working an angle.”
“You’re just determined to see the worst in her, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m really not.” Or maybe he was. But even he would have to admit it was getting increasingly difficult, no matter how
determined he may have been. “It’s just that for all the good I’ve seen today, I’ve also seen her turn on the ‘Brynn Cornell,
live from the Sunup couch’ persona when it will help her get ahead. All I’m saying is it probably wouldn’t be that difficult for her to manipulate
the emotions of someone who is really wanting to see the best in her.”
Laila set down her tray and put her hands on her hips. “Sometimes when you look for the best in people, you actually find
it.”
He knew he would never win this argument with her. All he was going to do was make her angry with him, and that was the last
thing he wanted. “Forget I said anything.” He loaded up her tray and smiled at her. “I wish I was as trusting as you. I do.
I mean that.”
Her icy demeanor—at least icy by Laila’s standards—melted in a flash, and the smile returned to her face. “I know you and
Cole think I’m naive—”
“I don’t think you’re naive. I don’t.”
“I know her, Seb.”
“You knew her.”
Laila shrugged. “Okay, sure. I knew her. But you didn’t. So maybe, just for a minute, trust that I have a little bit of expertise here that you don’t.” She squeezed
his hand and winked. “I know that’s hard to imagine.”
She sauntered away, expertly balancing her tray and greeting each person along the way. Sebastian’s eyes followed her until
she stopped at one of the wilder of the PTA tables, and all the women there began tittering and blowing kisses in his direction,
as if it had been them he’d been eyeing with affection and admiration. He smiled and waved indulgently and then pulled his
focus to Brynn’s table. She was sipping the water Laila had dropped off for her and perusing the menu, and every now and then
raising her eyes to look around and examine every corner of the room.
“Only one way to find out,” he muttered to himself, then threw the dish towel over his shoulder and hurried over to her. Around
the perimeter, of course. If he tried to walk through the throng, he might never get there. He came up behind her and said,
“Hi.”
She jumped in her seat a bit and looked over her shoulder. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” He circled the table to the empty seat across from her. “May I?”
She gestured to the chair with an open hand. “Sorry. I’m just... Well, I haven’t seen Cole yet.”
“No Orly tonight?”
She shook her head and laughed softly. “I’m not doing a very good job, am I? I mean, if the goal is to get a lot of great
footage of me reuniting with people... I sort of suck at this.”