Chapter Nineteen My Beverly #2
“Sure,” I answer.
I have zero intentions of seeing him again.
He walks off, and all three men twist to me.
“What a wanker,” “Ass,” “Christ Almighty,” they all murmur together.
“Beverly dated him?” Royce asks.
I shrug. “It’s my understanding he wasn’t always this bad.”
Poe clicks his tongue. “Even a fraction of that is enough for me.”
“Yeah, well…”
I don’t care to continue talking about him, honestly.
I have mental real estate to spare, but I’d rather save that room for the beauty walking back across the floor.
Beverly’s eyes inevitably find Beau and his blonde.
My crossed arms clench tight. I hate that she even had to see him.
I want to stand up and steal her away, but she can handle it on her own. She’s an adult.
She straightens her posture and keeps walking.
Attagirl.
Beverly finally reaches our table again—an absolute vision in green. The boys are still in various states of irritation after Beau slithered away from the table. She laughs. “I’m not interrupting something important, am I?”
Poe exhales before crooning, “Please, darling, you could never.”
He extends his hands out for her, gesturing Beverly over to him like a queen might to her subject. Following along, she raises her chin and saunters over. The playfulness of it is enough to make the anger in my chest from Beau dissipate second by second.
Poe takes both her hands in his and narrows his eyes. “So you’re the famous Bernie Bird.”
“In the feathers,” she says with a grin.
Poe squints. “Oh, I like you.”
She laughs. “You’re not so bad either.”
“We’ve seen the show, you know.”
“My kids loved it,” Dom grunts out.
Her face lights up. “Oh yeah?”
Royce jumps in, “At a record meeting the other day, the producer’s kid was watching it.”
Poe strokes a finger over the back of her hand. “I think you’re about to do something big, darling. You might even make our man over there look like a real, breathing human.”
She barks out a laugh. “Well, I try.”
Poe leans in, much too close for my liking. “You could honestly try less.”
Poe tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. I know it’s just Poe being Poe, but I groan.
“All right, enough of you,” I grumble.
“Someone is jealous,” Poe teases.
The glare I shoot his way must be more menacing than I expect because the table, like a damn group of teenage boys, goes “Ooh” collectively.
I roll my eyes as Beverly makes her way back to me and sits primly in her chair.
“Jealous?” she whispers.
“You wish,” I answer.
I pinch her knee, and she giggles.
Giggles.
I like that sound.
We sit through the show for the next hour, laughing at the cheesy host’s monologue and clapping for all the winners. But when Beau’s name is called for Best Rock Performance, I want nothing more than to protest.
As we sit for his speech, Beverly’s spine is straight as a board.
She has to maintain her composure for a while because his speech lasts for-fucking-ever.
The music starts, then stops, then starts again, and he barrels on.
But what’s more infuriating is the small observation Dom murmurs to us after: “He didn’t thank a single person. ”
Beverly hums in acknowledgment, but her fists clench in her lap. I wonder if he ever thanked her for his last win.
I grab one of her hands, looping our fingers together. I squeeze. She squeezes back.
A couple of minutes later, someone taps on my shoulder and instructs me to make my way backstage. It’s time for me to perform.
I lean over and whisper to Beverly, “I have to go get ready.”
I glance at the rest of the table, and all three men give affirming nods. The unspoken gesture of We’ve got her.
I say goodbye again, and just before I walk away, Beverly squeezes my fist.
Once I’m backstage and clutching the neck of my guitar in the wings, I find I’m gripping it to the beat of her hand squeeze. I think of Beverly. I think of her smile. I imagine her laugh.
I walk onto the dark stage toward the glow-in-the-dark tape indicating my mark.
Generally, I’m with the guys, but they wanted an acoustic version of the movie’s nominated song.
I settle onto the lone stool with my guitar and mic while my name is announced.
And when the bright lights come up, I immediately search the crowd for her.
In the middle of the room, Beverly sits.
She’s giving me the biggest thumbs-up. My bandmates follow suit.
And as my fingers strum the first chord, I feel that weightlessness in my chest. A type of mysticism that comes with creation and performance.
A magic that comes with being noticed by Beverly Lark.
In that moment, despite playing something different, my mind starts imagining other lyrics instead.
New lyrics.
Lyrics about a beautiful green-eyed woman with a soft smile and a softer heart.
I’m gonna write this damn album.
I’m gonna win every award, even Best Rock Performance, right under Beau’s pompous nose.
And I’m gonna thank Beverly for it all.
I’m gonna praise her for the entire minute they allow for speeches, and I’ll continue singing about her virtues even when the music tries to cut my speech.
I’m gonna prove to Beverly that she’s worth every moment of my time and that Beau never deserved a single second of hers.