Chapter 2
two
The Uber driver stops in front of the bar.
The exterior is outdated, like this corner of the world hasn’t aged past the seventies, with just the right amount of dinge to be interesting.
I wish I had my Nikon with me. My cell already in hand, I thumb up the menu for the camera, adjust the settings, and click off a shot while I wait for Lola to climb out of the backseat.
She’s already buzzed because her pre-game was strong, so chatting with the driver crossed the line into flirting several miles ago.
They’re trading numbers now, good for them.
When Lola emerges, she tucks her cell into her bra and holds her hand out palm up, silently asking for my phone. I hand it over without thinking because she does this every time she notices me taking a photo.
She glances at the screen and smiles. “I don’t know how you make random shit look so cool.”
The photo is focused on the front door, the line of people trailing down the sidewalk toward it blurry in the periphery. “Because random shit is already cool.”
Handing the phone back, she bumps her hip against mine gently. “You need to post that one.”
While we tuck into the tail end of the line, and deciding it looks better edited black and white, I do.
Tickets scanned, IDs checked and resulting I’m-old-enough-to-get-shitfaced wristband in place, half-hearted wave of the metal detecting wand by the grumpy security dude, and we’re in. Lola takes the lead, as always, with my hand firmly in hers, and we make a beeline for the bar.
Here’s the thing about Lola: she’s magnetic.
People are guilelessly attracted to her.
Which is endlessly helpful when you’re one among dozens haphazardly lined up at a bustling bar.
On cue, a harried bartender points at Lola and says, “What can I get ya?” So predictable, but like all rare magic, it never gets old.
“Two Fireball shots and two vodka cranberries. Tito’s if you have it.”
The bartender efficiently gets to work. Order granted, money exchanged, and I’m double-fisting drinks in under twenty seconds.
Magic, I’m telling you.
Looking at my opposing drinks, I say, “Ah, lovely. Because who doesn’t want to end the night puking in a filthy public toilet?”
Lola ignores my sarcasm, raises her shot glass, and declares, “To new beginnings. And men who aren’t assholes.”
Clinking, I agree, “Cheers to that. And thanks ahead of time for holding my hair back.”
Tipping back, the sweet burn of cinnamon-flavored gasoline on the back of my tongue transforms into internal combustion in my belly.
There’s a twinkle in Lola’s eyes that’s enchanting. It’s likely the alcohol, in her system and in mine, but when she says, “The universe doesn’t shit on you without having something glorious in her back pocket with your name on it,” even the pessimist in me wants to believe her.
The opening band is background noise. They’re not my thing, not something I would seek out on Spotify, but their thirty-minute set eases me into the evening, hips swaying, chin bobbing, vodka cranberry sipped so slowly it’s watery from melted ice by the time I reach its end.
Worries, not forgotten, but not at the forefront, prompt muscles to relax.
Even my shoulders drop into a natural posture they haven’t seen in months.
The alcohol and atmosphere are better than my bi-monthly, overly aggressive massage.
My liver and eardrums may beg to differ, but my tightly wound constitution is doing cartwheels.
Their set is followed by another Fireball shot delivered to my left hand and another cocktail to my right.
I raise my shot glass. “To good music and good company.”
Lola’s glassy eyes and glassy smile agree. “To good music and the best fucking company!” she yells because drunkenness demands exclamation points and kisses me on the cheek.
“Hell yeah!” The guy behind her chimes in his approval, raising his beer bottle.
Glasses and bottles are all clinked in an act of camaraderie among strangers that only happens when I’m with Lola.
“Cheers!” is a declaration of unity.
My hand in Lola’s, I’m once again being led wherever she needs to be.
“Sorry,” I repeat as she weaves us through the smallish crowd like two rogue bumper cars.
When we finally come to a stop, there’s only one row of people between us and the stage. A tipsy, twenty-something woman wearing enough black eyeliner for all three of us makes her dislike of our gate-crashing known with a dirty look.
I ignore it.
Lola, because she’s Lola, does not. She looks her dead in the eye, points at me, and lies her tits off.
“My sister and the guitarist are…you know.” She drunkenly winks to indicate intimacy.
“They wanted to make sure she was up front where they could see her during the show. You know musicians, inspiration and all that.”
The woman squints and looks from her to me, and back to her. “For real?”
Is she actually buying this?
“For real.” My sister nods with confidence and lies with ease.
The woman’s disapproval quickly flips to approval. “Lucky bitch. That boy is a snack.” She draws out the last word for several seconds.
“Right?” My sister agrees before turning to face the stage and linking her elbow with mine.
“What the hell was that?” I whisper into her ear.
“She looked like she was ready to go to blows, and I can’t throw down in these heels. I had to come up with something on the fly.”
House lights dim before I can reply, and a crackle goes through the crowd. The buzzing connection that runs through each of us, sparking to life. God, I needed this.
“If I’m sleeping with him, he better be the hot one,” I say, as the crowd cheers, and the band enters through a veil of overdone fog.
A few weak stage lights strobe out of sync, which, paired with the lingering smoke, is comically bad.
And that’s when Lola and I get a glimpse of the men walking on stage.
One steps up to the microphone, adjusting the stand to match his extreme height.
The other takes a seat on the stool directly in front of us and rests an acoustic guitar on his thigh, looking down at it and fiddling with the tuning.
We both turn our heads slightly, like we don’t want to take our eyes off them, and side-eye each other. “He’s definitely the hot one,” I say.
Her grin widens. “They’re both fucking gorgeous. Goddamn, this night just keeps getting better.”
Holy mother-of-all-that’s-unattainable. He’s dressed in all black and tall, and I mean tall.
Dark hair that’s trimmed close around the perimeter but with the kind of length on top that my fingers could graze through and get a good, tight grip on.
Toned arms, covered in tattoos that drift up his neck, defined forearms, and his hands.
Shit. His hands. Strained tendons, long fingers, pronounced veins, and a combination of grace and strength that’s my kryptonite.
Then his chin lifts, so I can get a shameless ogle at him.
I expect broody, and I’m not disappointed.
But it’s not pissed off or arrogant broody, it’s keep your distance broody.
There’s a stillness about him that’s focused.
Like he was born to hold that guitar, and my attention.
Jesus, he’s perfect. And then, if my poor ovaries weren’t already revved up, the singer leans over and says something to him, and he does the unexpected.
He smiles. Full lips punctuated by dimples that transform him.
Fuck. Me. You know the little flame that flickers to life just north of your lady bits when you see/hear/feel something that turns you on?
Mine’s skipped flicker and gone straight to inferno.
What is happening? I’m thirty-four and this guy can’t be a day over twenty-four, but damn if my brain isn’t wholeheartedly embracing the age is just a number theory.
Everyone needs healthy fantasy. And this man checks every damn box.
I take a sip from my drink, and it snaps me out of my reverie and reminds me that I’m surrounded by sound, and when I tune in, it’s good.
Tamer than what I normally listen to, but it’s really good.
The singer’s voice is low and raspy, but he can also carry a tune, which is something that doesn’t always translate to a live performance.
Especially at a small bar with a sub-par sound system.
My eyes bounce to him. He’s big. The kind of big that Lola is attracted to: a chest as broad as Dave Bautista’s and muscle-bulked arms to match.
His face is handsome, but nothing like the chiseled features of the guitarist. She likes big and rugged.
I’m a sucker for a tall, dark menace with a pretty face.
I return to my fixation and pull my phone from my pocket so I can take a few photos and record a minute or two of video.
The way this guy’s body moves demands to be remembered accurately, though I’m sure there’s footage online that’s better than what I’m capturing.
Lola squeezes my arm to get my attention and yells, “They’re good, right?” She looks positively giddy.
I nod. And I smile. And then I nod and smile some more because I’m drunk and horny and inexplicably happy. It’s freeing, this connection to the music. Every strum of his guitar, luring me in like a siren’s call. Is this what bliss feels like?
She laughs. “I love it when you let go!”
Letting go isn’t something I do. I can’t remember the last time I had a night like this. Lola always says I work too much. Maybe she’s right.
The show goes on, a mix of originals and covers they manage to make sound like their own.
The haze of alcohol, the injection of sound directly into my veins, the guitarist so perfect I’m convinced he was genetically created in a lab, and the current of energy running through the crowd make time irrelevant.