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Eschewing all common sense, he decided to attend—if only to keep their puzzling relationship from careening off its track. Dayton was eating out of her hand when it should have been the other way around and his acceptance of Kenna’s invitation painted him an unbecoming shade of desperate, one which he intended to neutralize with his usual steely resolve and one too many vodka limes.
As he stole the last spot at the bar, he recalled her nervous little act in his office. Kenna performed about as well as someone who had taken a couple of acting classes under a second-rate instructor, someone who had starred in a singular commercial and had the gall to label it an acting career.
Yet there he was, proof of her salesmanship. Though, Dayton had only turned up because she seemed keen on skirting this professional line he had drawn between them.
Damn, if he didn’t want her to cross it.
He had to constantly remind himself that Kenna wasn’t a regular hit. He was responsible for 90% of her grade, a gatekeeper to her shot at grad school.
He was approaching Charlee Pender territory.
But every time he peered into Kenna’s eyes, his judgment turned cloudier. Gossip at Ponderosa spread like an air pollutant; once it made it into the airwaves, its potential for contamination was infinite. Dayton’s presence in The Rusted Monkey felt like kindling for whispered accusations.
Many students socialized within the bar, along with other members of the community. A cold rush of relief flowed through him upon not recognizing any university faculty.
The performance area occupied the space where the trivia table usually stood. Its current tenant was a gaunt man who had been cursed with an unfortunate balding pattern. He clung to the microphone for support as he delivered an angsty poem in a near whisper. His father didn’t love him, woe is me, every word drowning in existentialism while co-mingling with some skewed sense of self-importance.
Headache inducing.
Sasha slid a vodka lime his way without a passing glance, rushing to the other end of the bar to tend to the higher than average volume of patrons. Dayton consumed the drink within 45 seconds. He needed all the liquid courage he could get, for his eventual drunken state would make his actions later that night more believable.
“Jesus, Merino. One of those days?” Sasha asked as she poured a line of tequila shots.
“Hardly.”
A sprinkling of half-hearted applause coaxed the failing to be edgy poet out of the backlit corner.
The emcee’s voice broke through the sound system, “Our next guest is Portland-based author Shawn Flowers. He’ll be reading the first chapter of his latest publication,Wailing in the Wind.”
Shawn, poorly dressed in a sweater vest and orthopedic sneakers, took the microphone and replaced it on the stand.
Jane Austen level prose wouldn’t have warranted his attention once he spotted Kenna off to the left of the stage, standing in the narrow hallway by the bathrooms. Shawn’s reading dialed down to near silence as Dayton studied his forest queen, undisturbed. Unaware.
Perfection ruled her tightly wound curls, hinting at synthetic creation. She tossed a bundle of them over her shoulder with a flick of her wrist. It was wondrous how Kenna’s most minute movements captivated him. He often wondered if it was a result of his two years of celibacy or if a uniqueness lurked within her, a special magic she possessed that the previous women lacked.
Dayton knew better than to give in to fantasies. He could see through the pheromones and see the bitter truth.
Their tryst would end no differently.
The author was met with greater applause upon the completion of his reading when he exited the makeshift corner stage. Dayton nursed the remnants of his second drink as Kenna approached the microphone, acoustic guitar in hand. Between his earnest vodka consumption and her lethal combination of a dress and tights, it would be a miracle if he made it out of the bar alive.
He would’ve had no complaints had that been his final glimpse of the world.
She whispered something to the emcee and he returned with a folding chair. Lowering the mic to accommodate her seated position, she situated the instrument atop her lap and made adjustments to the tuning pegs.
“Give it up for Kenna O’Callaghan.”
Several guys around the room called and whistled her name like drunken wolves howling at a full moon. Dayton drew in slow, steady breaths but felt as though his eyes were protruding out of his skull as he glared at the young men.
He pushed his empty glass toward the inside of the bar, signaling for Sasha to mix another round.
Kenna strummed a single chord with her thumb as if to find her rhythm before breaking into the first verse. Mouth close to the microphone, she delivered lyrics in a melancholic yet high-pitched voice that had the dark hairs littering his forearms standing on end. The song was familiar to him, but it was so stripped down it was near unrecognizable.
Dayton was so captivated by his mentee, he didn’t notice when a third vodka lime materialized on the counter. Kenna’s thumb caressed the strings a final time, at which point she offered a shy smile as she walked off stage to the tune of the night’s loudest applause.
Crossbody guitar case strapped to her torso, she sauntered toward him with swaying hips and he was seeing double, no, triple. Kenna times three approached the bar.
“You made it.” A sultry edge corrupted her usual sweet voice.
