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“Welcome to our Open Mic night,” Stacey Jones continues, “I hope all of you are ready to hear from some of our new writers. I know I am.” She steps away from the stool and paces back and forth briefly. I watch her every move, hoping that at some point during the night I will have the chance to speak with her, ask her advice about how to make it as she’s made it. “We’ve selected a wide variety of talent that I hope all of you enjoy. These writers have come from all over Colorado, some even from California.”
There’s a shout from a table. I suppose they represent the California portion of the show.
Stacey Jones chuckles and waves a hand to them. “First up, we have Lucas Brent.”
Fuck, fuck fuck. Why do I have to go first?
I shove my chair back, earning a very loud bang from the back of it hitting the wall behind me. I grimace, finding several people turning around, looking me up and down curiously. Rachel smiles up at me, giving me a reassuring nod as I stumble out of my corner and up towards the stage. Stacey smiles at me as I approach the stage, handing the microphone before whispering, “Good luck.”
What does she mean by good luck? Is that like break a leg? Just something you say when you’re about to perform? It does nothing to assuage my anxiety and I stare out into the crowd, their scrutinizing eyes boring holes into me. This is different from Steve’s Open Mic nights. For one, most of the people who go are college students. None of them have a degree, nor do they have anything published. When I am performing there, I feel like we are all on the same page. Not to mention, there’s not three famous writers watching me when I am doing Open Mic night at Steve’s bar.
“H-hello,” I say with an awkward smile, pulling out my crumpled piece of paper like an idiot. I can’t remember at all what I’ve written. Two seconds ago, I was reciting it line for line, and now my mind is blank. “I’m Lucas Brent and I will be reading a piece I’ve titled: When You Know.” I clear my throat, unfolding the paper slowly. My hands are shaking so much I’m worried it’s going to slip from my fingers. The last thing I need is to go gallivanting off the stage after it. I swallow the lump in my throat, my eyes going over the words once more. Reading is difficult, especially in this light, especially when everyone is watching me, ready to critique whatever comes out of my mouth next.
“When you know,” I begin shakily. “Her hair glimmers in the evening light, like an angel having just come down, and you know there isn’t much time until she’s gone…” I don’t dare take my gaze off the paper, focusing all my attentions on the words written there. The moment I look up, I know I will forget my place. I’m probably reading too quickly, but I don’t care. This whole thing feels a lot more like torture than it does a blessing. I trip over my words several times, having to repeat them twice. I grimace at the way my voice sounds, as if my tongue doesn’t belong to me. My voice belongs to another. It’s deep and shaking, not at all like my usual confident self.
When I finish, I lower the paper, finding several eyes still staring up at me. Rachel smiles, clapping her hands lightly. Stacey Jones is smiling at me, but her brows are tented as if she’s concerned. Her colleagues are frowning. Did I do something wrong? The audience claps politely, but there’s nothing exciting about it, nothing that lets me know that I did a good job, that I entertained them effectively.
“Th-thank you,” I say with a curt bow, shoving my paper into my pocket while I step down, holding myself together so I don’t go racing out of the bar. I can see Mr. Bartender over there pursing his lips. I guess he thought I sucked, too. Great.
“You were wonderful,” Rachel whispers while placing a hand on top of mine.
I drop my body into the seat across from her and slide my hand away from hers, ready to leave the moment the last poet is finished speaking. This was all a mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking. Steve clearly thought wrong about me. I don’t even know what Lori sees in my writing skills. The moment we get back to Aurora, I will deposit the cash and write the book. I should have done that right from the beginning. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.
Chapter 14
RACHEL
Lucaswasamazing,brillianteven. Sure, he stuttered a bit and tripped over some words, but he had a knack with words. I’ve read his stuff before, but nothing was compared to this. He’s getting better, which makes me wonder what book he got published. I know mostly of his poetry and his short stories. I didn’t think he was working on a book, yet. Unfortunately, he’s being secretive about it. He won’t even tell me what it’s about, which makes the mystery around it even more intriguing.
The other poets are pretty good, as well. They’re all a bit older than Lucas, have a few notches under their belt. Some of them have an aura around them, like they were born for the stage. Lucas still has some things to learn about public speaking, but for being the new kid, I thought he did great.
Lucas, obviously, thinks differently. He’s been quiet since he returned to his seat, paying unusually close attention to those on stage. He even refuses to hold my hand. I suppose he’s feeling like a failure. Lucas does have that tendency to overly critique. I suppose he gets that from his parents, given they have always criticized him for his choices. He should use this as a learning opportunity rather than getting upset.
“And that is how I got my lucky rabbit’s foot,” the man on stage finishes with a mischievous smile and a wink. He slides off the stool and hands the microphone back to the older woman who started off the show.
“Well, that is the end to our Open Mic night. I hope all of you have a lovely evening and thanks, once again, to the writers for traveling all this way. You have truly made the night magical.”
Lucas scoffs, the sound so quiet only I can hear. We’ll have to have a little discussion on how not to have high expectations. This is his first time at such a prestigious event. He should go easy on himself. His poem wasn’t bad at all. It was his delivery, which everyone needs to work on, including myself. I’m terrible at discussing my work in front of others. Public speaking is terrifying.
I grab my empty beer, my gaze wandering to the bar, already filling with patrons. Lucas already has his coat on, scowling at the crowd around him as if he’s wanting to run right through them and out the door. I snatch his hand before he can enact such a plan and pull him towards me.
“Should we get another beer?”
He frowns at me, looking like a little boy about to throw the biggest tantrum. “Can we just go back to the hotel?”
“You don’t want to talk to anyone?”
I’m not surprised when he shakes his head. I’m tempted to remind him it’s good to make social connections with this group, seeing how they are his peers, but he seems to be suffering so much, I decide to keep my opinions to myself. Sometimes the best way to support your boyfriend is to let him have his tantrums. He’ll sober up eventually and realize everything was fine. He probably needs a hug and a nice massage.
“Okay, let’s get going then. You lead the way.”
Lucas turns around, but before we can even take a step towards the exit, the woman from before, who I assume is in charge of this event, steps in front of us, blocking our way out. Lucas’s mouth hangs upon. He looks completely awestruck. The woman I sidled by two of her colleagues, both around her age, seemingly in their forties.
“You’re Lucas Brent,” she says, a gentle smile on her lips. Her colleagues hover behind her, talking softly amongst themselves while casting glances in Lucas’s direction.
“Y-yeah.” Lucas takes her outstretched hand, shaking it quickly.
“Stacey Jones.”
