Page 108 of Second Chance

44

Oktoberfest or Lovefest

[Mati]

“Holy crap,” Billy whoops, pulling the tap to fill another mug with the house specialty. Oktoberfest is in full swing, and after the noon football game, highlighting players from the class of 1991 with a special tribute to Chris Rathstone—the Rath—the celebration has moved to the Fest. Billy’s serving beer faster than his hands can move with the help of his ever-faithful staff. We’ve been trading off turns as barkeep, so Billy can work the crowd, patting backs to greet people and thanking them for attending. To my surprise, Roxie Anderson mingles in the crowd, her eyes wandering to my brother who occasionally searches for her it seems.

Well, what is this? I wonder, but I don’t have time to question things because I’ve got more beer to pour.

The evening draws to night and the entertainment should begin soon. Billy’s been evasive about the replacement band he found.

“Don’t you worry about it,” he told me as we went through the final checklist. Billy had been onto me, knowing my mind wasn’t one-hundred percent into the festivities. I let him assume it was Denton, which wasn’t far from the truth. He’d been messaging me through the remainder of the week, switching to text messages instead of social media. He never asked if he could call me, and I chalked it up to modern conversation. No one wants to talk on the phone anymore.

My other reason for the lack of focus is the result of the second interview. A nerve-racking third round will occur. The committee wants to watch me coach—live. After dozens of tapes, cut and spliced to highlight my best efforts, the decision group wants to see me interact with my girls. Unfortunately, they hadn’t made the game the night before which projected us into the final round. The committee planned to attend the state finals the first weekend of November. No pressure.

My thoughts dissipate when the first stroke of a guitar hits the darkened stage. The outline of bodies can be seen but no one recognizably definitive.

“Ready?” I hear projected over the crowd in a rough Southern drawl and for some reason my skin prickles with anticipation. If this is how the lead singer sounds with only one word, panties are going to melt tonight. Billy jumps up on the dark stage and heartily pats someone on the shoulder. He leans into the man, and holds a moment, speaking to his ear. I wish I could see who he’s speaking with but I’m too short and too far back, standing behind our makeshift bar for the evening.

“Hello fellow beer drinkers,” Billy addresses the waiting audience, and the crowd goes crazy as lights flip on to highlight the stage. “I want to thank everyone again for being here. We…wow…there are just so many more of you than we expected. We’re humbled and honored, and we hope you enjoy the treat we have for you tonight. Our first booking was a local country band, who couldn’t make it.” The crowd begins to boo and hiss, but Billy waves his arm, suggesting the crowd simmer down. “It’s their loss and our gain, though. They have no idea what they were missing, and to be honest, I’d rather listen to these guys play. You’re in for a real treat as we welcome…Chrome Teardrops.”

“Hey,” someone yells at me, and Hector nudges my arm. I look down to see I’m letting the tap run, the mug I’m holding overflows with beer which covers my hand and drips to the floor. I hadn’t noticed. My eyes can’t move from the stage. A hand covers mine on the tap and pushes it back to stop the stream. Another hand takes the too-full mug from me. I still can’t move. Beer sticks to my fingers.

“That’s…how…what…” I mutter to no one as the band starts into a classic rock ballad, originally sung by a female. Kit Carrigan. Her brother does the song just as much justice if not more in his smoky, rough Southern drawl. It’s rock with a twang of country.

“That’s…” I try again, pointing a shaky beer-coated finger at the stage and looking to my left. Billy’s rounding the bar.

“Don’t freak out.”

“That’s…Tommy Carrigan,” I practically scream. Tommy Carrigan, silver fox extraordinaire with his slicked back, chin length hair of silver and ink streams. His jaw has the right layer of scruff, equally salt and peppered, and his body… Let’s just say, forty never looked so good on a man in a black T-shirt. Singer, guitarist, and songwriter for the band affiliated with his sister—the band which includes his cousin. My mouth falls open as I see Denton step up to the mic and fall into harmony with his cousin as if they haven’t missed a day in the decade the band has been dissolved.

My mouth waters. My eyes fill.

Denton Chance is back.

“Go,” Billy says, placing a hand on my shoulder blade and pressing me forward. “He came back for you.”

“He did not,” I snark, my voice whining with the statement.

“He did so,” Billy mocks in reply, typical of our voices when we were children. My head turns for the stage, and I freeze.

“I can’t…I can’t go up there.” While I’m excited to see Denton standing in the flesh before the crowd, in his hometown, performing in a way he never has before, my heart won’t allow me to take one more step closer to him. He left me. Again.

And he never mentioned he was coming back.

My arms cross, defiant and stern.

“If you don’t march your ass up to that stage, I’m hiking you over my shoulder and carrying you to him,” Billy barks, giving my shoulder another shove, only this time it isn’t as gentle as the first one. “He’s showing you a grand gesture or something ridiculous like that.”

“I’m not going,” I say, but my eyes can’t leave the stage. He looks good. So good. He’s in his element up there, strumming away, and smiling for the ladies who have pushed their way to the stage. Without seeing her, I’m certain Kristy Moseley has made her way to the front of the line, taking credit for being his once-wife.

He cut his hair, and the shorter look gleams under the lights, a hint of silver mixed with the almond shade. He’s let his beard grow more than normal. He claims he doesn’t like the scruff despite the modern popularity, but it fills in nicely, emphasizing his age, but also heightening his appeal. He’s sexy as fuck, as the saying goes, and just the thought makes me clench my thighs. That mouth has been between them. That jaw scraped over them. He licks his lips before stepping up to harmonize again, and I’m melting. I know that tongue…

“Get. Up. There.” Billy growls.

“I’m not making a scene. He’s singing. He’s the entertainment. I’ll speak to him when—”

I’m cut off when the song stops and immediately my name projects through the lingering final chords.