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Six songs and I was out of there.
Six songs that they would probably ignore.
As we walked deeper into the club, I looked around. To my right was a bar with a wall of gleaming liquor bottles behind it. To my left was a row of shiny booths where men in biker vests smoked and drank and flirted with their female companions.
Between the two were three large pool tables, but only one of them was occupied.
Across the room, a huge blond man was arm wrestling another giant who had long, sun-bleached hair, their massive biceps bulging and their faces turning red as they battled it out. They were growling and grunting with the strain, and around them girls in very tight clothing and a lot of exposed flesh cheered them on.
Vader led me over to a small stage set up at the back of the clubhouse. It was the perfect size for a five or six-person band, but tonight there was just a lone stool in the center of it with a mic stand and amp. My guitar was a regular acoustic guitar, so he set me up with one I could plug into an amp.
“Believe me, you’ll need it with this lot,” he said, nodding toward the crowd who were paying no attention whatsoever to me.
“Thanks,” I replied, suddenly overcome with nerves.
It was a risk accepting a job like this. Paid gigs usually meant cameras. And cameras meant danger. I couldn’t afford for someone to post my picture on social media. But I would be leaving here soon, so if he found out I was in Destiny, I would already be long gone before he got here.
Besides, these guys didn’t look like they spent a lot of time on Facebook.
“Hey, relax. From what Chance told me, you’re going to knock them dead,” Vader said, giving me a wink. I couldn’t help but smile at his friendliness.
Signaling across the room for someone behind the bar to turn off the music, he turned to the mic, switched it on and said, “Alright, you motherfuckers. Give it up for Cassidy.”
There were a few blank stares and curious glances but no one really paid any attention. Then I opened my mouth and everything changed. That was when everyone, including the hot looking biker with a deep scar running through his eyebrow, turned to watch me sing.
If there was one thing I was confident about, it was my voice. One day, when I was about twelve years old, I opened my mouth and this powerful, perfectly pitched voice with a broad range came powering out of it, and I hadn’t stopped singing since.
During the dark days, it was the only thing that got me through the torment.
Which was ironic. Because I found my singing voice when my other voice was silenced.
Singing had been my savior in other ways too. I had moved from town to town with the money I earned from singing on the streets, and the occasional gig I got at some dive bar somewhere. I was once offered a really good gig at an exclusive yacht club in Seabrook, Texas, but I had to turn it down because I couldn’t perform where the rich and fortunate congregated. I couldn’t risk him finding me. But if I stayed in the shadows and played in the seedy bars and places like this, I was safe.
And I could afford to eat.
I focused on the words I was singing. Chance had mentioned he liked the Ava Max song he heard me sing, so I made sure I included it in my set—along with the Bahari song “California” that had inspired his nickname for me.
I also did an acoustic version of Jewel’s “Only One Too.”
I was a little nervous about my song choices. Considering the crowd I was singing to, I thought I would lose them. After all, these guys were all about rock ’n’ roll and I was more acoustic pop.
But I was wrong.
Just like I was wrong about those damn vests.
I couldn’t have had a better audience if I tried.
Especially when I threw in Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.” That got me some serious audience love.
But nothing could compare to my version of Heart’s “Barracuda.” That seemed to set them off like a nuclear bomb.
Six songs turned into eight.
Then ten.
People were dancing and having a good time. Big bikers and their women. They were encouraging with their clapping and their singing and their friendly interaction with me.
By the end of it, I was accepting requests. And at one point, a guy who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Metallica concert, with his long strawberry blond hair and handlebar mustache, joined me on stage to sing Dolly Parton’s “Nine To Five.”
The crowd ate it up.
This was from people I thought would eat me alive.
In the end, I had to stop singing because my voice was growing hoarse, and I needed a drink. My cheeks were also hurting from laughing and smiling so much.
