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I settled at the bar and removed my jacket, unbuttoning a couple of shirt buttons. A bass thump coming from recorded music made it to my ribcage as I ordered a drink.
I peered over at the stage, where I spotted Mirabel talking to a couple of guys. One looked like the sound guy, and the older one, in a purple suit, was virtually on top of her. He was flirting with her. I could tell by the way he smiled and the way she tilted her head and smirked. Putting aside the garish suit, he was tall and good-looking, boasting Nordic features.
He leaned in and whispered something, and she gave him one of her “Are you for real?” looks. I could only assume he’d propositioned her. I’d received that same look one drunken night after asking if she’d forgotten to wear a bra.
Alexander Skarsgard’s double finally left the stage, and the spotlight came on.
Mirabel looked striking in a shimmery blue dress that showed off her curves. Her thick, waist-length hair cascaded over her full breasts and framed her milky complexion to perfection, as though arranged that way for a photograph. She always looked beautiful. It didn’t matter where I saw her. Whether on the street without makeup, on stage, or standing at the cliffs with the wind blowing through her fiery hair, Mirabel always took my breath away.
Her fingers ran with ease over her guitar strings. I envied her skill. I’d learned piano as a child but was always too distracted to practice.
Her voice carried echoes of the crashing sea at night—at times filled with rage, sadness, and despair, then also smoky and sensual like a balmy summery night somewhere exotic. Just like her spellbinding performance at the Mariner, I was taken on a journey. Captivated by her art, I lost track of time and had to remind myself that I was in a bar and not some magical forest, frolicking with a sexy nymph.
Rapturous applause soon roused me from my dream. She’d been performing for forty minutes, but it only seemed like a few moments. After taking a bow, she stepped off the stage, and with a graceful glide and subtle sway of hips, she moved with the natural confidence of a siren. She seemed oblivious to all the attention she generated, mainly from males, who looked like I felt—awestruck.
Her gaze landed on mine, and her brows knitted as though I were the last person she’d expected to see. I rose from the barstool and kissed her on the cheek, breathing in her honey-and-wildflower scent.
Her eyes travelled over my body, more with a look of “what the fuck are you wearing?” than of the flirty kind. She didn’t really do flirty anyway.
At last, she asked, “What brings you here?”
“I came to hear you play. And I’m glad I did. That was crazy good.”
Her suspicious frown, an expression she often wore around me, faded into an appreciative smile. “Thanks. I’m glad you enjoyed it. No tears this time, though?”
I sniffed. “No. I’ve manned up. No more crying in public.”
She smiled sympathetically. “You’re all dressed up.”
“I didn’t have time to go scouring for vintage 70s like that guy coming onto you on stage earlier.”
“That’s Orson. He runs the venue.”
“He looks close.”Like he wants to gorge himself on your tits.
She scrutinised me as though trying to extract meaning from my words.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Just as I asked, Orson turned up and put his arm around her.
His eyes had that “I want to suck your nipples” shine. I knew it well because that’s how mine would have looked if I weren’t performing the Mr Cool-guy act.
He appeared a little drunk too. Stepping away from him, Mirabel didn’t seem very interested.
“Let me get you a drink,” he persisted.
“I’m all right for now,” she said.
“Oh, come on”—his arm curled around her waist, drawing her against his tall, skinny frame—“I was looking forward to us hanging out.” His eyebrow arched.
Mm… a euphemism for fucking, you mean?
“I’m not up for a big night,” she said.
“Come on.” This time, he took her arm.
She shrugged out of it. “No, Orson.”
I stepped between them, removing his hand. “You heard her. She doesn’t want a drink.”
