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“Nah, I reckon he’ll go mushy.”
“Mushy?” I ask in surprise. I’ve never known Rory to listen to or appreciate popular music in any in-depth way, not the way Finlay does, but Rory doesn’t strike me as a lover ofmush.
“Just watch,” Danny says, taking a slug of his pint. “If he’s drunk enough, you might even get Céline Dion out of him.”
I laugh, unable to see this occurring at all. Eventually Rory’s page-turning, unimpressed hand settles on something. On stage, Sharon finishes her set to wolf whistles and rabid applause.
“Here we are, lads,” the barman says, picking up his microphone again. “Our first gentleman of the night. A newcomer to the scene, everyone give it up for Rory!”
I’ve never seen Rory look nervous before — and even here he isn’tnervous. Not in the way normal people are. But there’s something about his utter lack of expression, the careful focus of his eyes on the blue screen, the gentle grip on his microphone that he adjusts microscopically, as though the lighter he can hold it, the more detached he’ll be from the present.
But then the music kicks in — and the guitars are punchy, it’s rocky, it’s entirely unexpected. As Rory stands there, looking the height of cool in his cut black suit with his skinny tie, his shiny black shoes tap to the rhythm of “You Really Got Me” by The Kinks. There’s an addictive, knowing lilt to his lowered, measured voice as he confesses his sins into the microphone, his lips caressing the metal, and it’ssexy. Through the crowd, he pins me with his silver gaze — and all the people between us fade away, like he’s addressing only me, serenading only me, from the opposite end of the room.
You Really Got Me. I really got Rory after all.
He’s cool as fuck. His voice grows bolder and gruffer by the song’s end, to the point I think this is the sexiest he’s ever been. He even spins his forearm, pointing in my direction, his eyes heavy and his expression deliberately languid, as though this whole thing is beneath him, yet it only enhances the coolness of his performance.
When the song ends, the pub fills with cheers — but no one is as loud as me or Danny. We’re standing up, hollering and whooping, clapping our hands above our heads — or in Danny’s case, sticking two fingers between his lips and emitting a series of piercing wolf whistles.
Rory looks pleased with himself, giving a crooked smile as he returns the microphone onto its stand and swaggers over to us. I have the briefest flash of desire to know what Rory would be like in a rock band. He exudes old-school coolness, a composed energy, and would be the perfect suave frontman.
“That wasinsane,” Danny exclaims as Rory returns to our table.
Rory shrugs, but the small little smirk tugging at his lips gives him away as usual. “It was the shortest song.”
“And who was it for?” I ask innocently. “Who’sreally got you?”
Again Rory shrugs, but he picks up his wine glass deep in thought. His gray eyes linger on mine, and in a playful voice he answers, “Chardonnay?”
Danny’s name is called a few songs later, just as he’d been jiving to a Dolly Parton number. He shoots me a look of horror, then turns his wide, lamp-like eyes onto Rory. “You need to help me.”
Rory goggles at him. “What?”
“I’m not doing this on my own,” Danny says in a desperate, strangled voice. “No way!” Scowling at me, he snarks, “Thanks a bunch, Jessa,” but there’s no great heat in his voice and I can’t stop myself from cackling.
“I’m not going up again.”
“Please.”
“Fucking hell, Hamilton.” With a resigned sigh, Rory drains his glass of wine and gets to his feet. He glares down at Danny. “Well, come on. What are you waiting for?”
Danny blinks up at him. “I didn’t think you’d actually sayyes…”
“Well, I have. So shift your arse and get on stage.” Rory’s eyes find mine. As Danny stumbles on ahead, a staggering bag of nerves crossing to the bar, Rory gives me a cocksure grin. “It’s kinda addictive up there,” he admits quietly, “but don’t tell him that. This is a great personal sacrifice.” His eyes darken as they trace my face. “Looking forward to hearing the goods, little saint. ‘Sex Bomb,’ Tom Jones — and dedicate it to me, yeah?”
I laugh. An older guy’s on stage crooning “New York, New York” with the exact intonation of Frank Sinatra. Danny’s hand is shaking as he peruses the book of nightmares. Rory joins him, and after a moment points to a song. A bitter argument appears to ensue at the bar, until Danny’s shoulders sag and he finally relents. Even as he shuffles onto the stage, Danny still looks so miserably unhappy, to the point I’m starting to feel guilty about throwing his name in the basket in the first place.
But then guitars suddenly crash through the air, electric and powerful, and the intro is so iconic that hair begins to prickle up the back of my neck. Whatever anxiety Danny had, it vanishes the instant music bursts from the speakers, as its magic feeds into his soul.
And then I have to rub my eyes, because what I’m seeing is almost beyond belief. The two of them are up on stage… and they’reair-guitaring. The sight is so bizarre that I’m riveted. They take turns singing, changing “The Boys Are Back in Town” into a passionate duet. Danny’s nerves have evaporated, and as the chorus kicks in, he’s jumping up and down on the spot and, laughing, takes Rory with him. Their performance is so fun and boisterous to watch. Danny’s a pretty decent singer too, though no doubt he’d be more skilled if he weren’t bouncing around the stage like a mad kangaroo. Rory and Danny face each other during the instrumental section, air-guitaring with glee, and I feel like I need a camera to capture the insanity of this rare, beautiful moment.
The applause is relentless. Rory physically has to pull Danny off the stage, as he bows and clutches his chest, filled with raw emotion. Once he’s extricated from the crowd, Danny makes a beeline for the basket and seems to write his name on slip after slip of paper until the barman puts his foot down.
“Oh, my God, that was incredible!” Danny yells as he plonks down beside me, his eyes full of stars and his mouth yammering at the speed of light. “You need to do it, Jessa, I swear it’s the best thing — you don’t need to be nervous, all the words are there in front of you, and you can’t really see the crowd, and oh my God, Jessa, get up there andsing!”
I can’t get up there andsing, because Danny has taken the majority of the slots. Before my name is called, he goes up and belts out “Sweet Caroline” (to which the whole pub joins in), “The Way You Look Tonight,” and “Incredible You” by Royal Element. It becomes a running joke as to how many turns Danny can get before the crowd starts booing him, but the applause he receives only grows louder and louder. By the end of the night, even Rory’s somewhat in awe of him, which makes for a novel state of affairs.
Finally, my name is called. I’ve sunk a whole extra glass of wine since I first threw my name into the basket, and there’s a now-or-never fire blazing in my veins, mingling with a gallon or so of pure liquid courage. Danny claps me on the back, still on the highest high, and wishes me good luck. Rory’s smiling at me, his eyes dancing. I approach the heavy book, browsing the list of song titles, a good deal of them unfamiliar to me, until one jumps out at me.
