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“What the hell was that?” Isla snaps, both hands on her hips and a grin forms on my face.
“I think the appropriate reply would be, thank you, Bordeaux,” I say, a smug smile still playing on my lips as I wait for her reply, already knowing it’ll be something feisty, and I’m kind of looking forward to it.
Her lips part as she narrows her dark eyes at me. “You think you’re real funny, don’t you? Don’t you have a tour to go on or shows to play or interviews to… to talk at, or something?”
I’d be annoyed if she wasn’t so damn intriguing. She stands in front of me, hands still placed firmly on her hips, long hair now swooped up into a messy bun... or whatever those things are called, looking beautiful as fuck, and I cannot stand it. I’ve never wanted someone I can’t have. I’ve never really wanted anyone at all, not in this way. But the more she pushes me away, the more I want her.
“You know, I thought you were handling it pretty well, actually. You really gave it to him good with a few of those one-liners, but then I heard your weird, high-pitched laugh thing and I thought I should step in. Kind of sounded like you were unraveling slowly. I just solved a problem for you.” I shrug. “At least, that’s the way I see it. And yeah, I do have all those things coming up, actually. But you’re lucky. I’ll be here for a bit.”
She turns away from me but then thinks better of it, whipping her head back in my direction. “Why?”
It’s my turn to look at her with confusion on my face. “What do you mean, why?” What could she possibly be confused about? How is why an appropriate reply for what I just said?
Her eyes soften as she relaxes just a little, and as much as I like her feisty side, this one is pretty nice, too. She’s finally not shooting daggers at me, not standing defensively like we’re about to battle. “Why would you do that for me?”
I really didn’t think the gesture was all that heroic. I’m just a guy who saw a hot girl with a potential concussion getting all uncomfortable and I tried to help.
“Because as much as you were handling things, I could still tell you were uncomfortable and it wasn’t exactly fun to watch,” I tell her, and she smiles at me. Like .really, really smiles. Not one of her I’m being a smart-ass grins, but a true smile. Her lips are stained with her signature dark red color and she’s beautiful, and it’s both irritating and invigorating at the same time. I don’t want to feel like this. “Relax, sugar. We’re just going on a fake wedding date. Don’t start drooling.”
And just like that, I ruin the moment. She rolls her eyes at me, and her body tenses back up as she spins on her heels, getting back to work.
“Ex-fiancé,” she calls over her shoulder, and it makes me realize the magnitude of their relationship was a hell of a lot more than I had originally thought.
* * *
“So, you asked her to go to the wedding with you?” Frankie narrows her eyes, the wrinkles around them scrunching up. I’m not sure if I’m about to get in trouble or what her next move is, but she looks oddly suspicious.
“Why is everyone so shocked about this?” I ask, a laugh escaping me. “I’m helping a girl who had an ex—hell, not even just an ex, an ex-fiancé, apparently. The dude walked into the shop and tried to guilt her into coming to his wedding to someone who is very much not her.”
As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I realize it does sound kind of fucked. Why would she even go to this wedding? I probably created an entirely different problem for her when she could have just been like, yeah, sorry, buddy, not going to your wedding. Fuck. I messed that one up.
“Since when did you become anyone’s prince charming? I thought you were doing that whole bad-boy, rocker thing.” Frankie looks at me, waiting for my reply, and I’m pretty sure she’s silently judging me.
“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. Just let me be a nice guy for one day, and then I can go back to being an ass. Just trying to make the girl feel welcome. I don’t know anything about their relationship, but by the way she acted and the things she said, the guy really did a number on her.”
“Whatever you gotta say to make yourself think you’re not fawning over her, kid.” She smiles and walks toward the door. “Don’t forget to lock up, alright? I’ll see you next week.”
* * *
Slipping into Iconic gives me the same rush it used to. I walk light on my feet over the glass flooring that encases thousands of records. People from Bob Marley to Elvis Presley have been here and signed old 59s. They’ve walked through this old space and breathed in this air. It amazes me that legends have sang on the same stage that stands in front of me. That maybe one day, I could be a legend, too.
I first started playing the guitar when my mom left. Frankie gave me a guitar like it would patch up all the wounds Mom left and make me whole again. It didn’t, but it was a damn good investment because that first guitar is what I learned to play ‘Smoke on the Water’ on, the very first tune I ever played. I still remember the feeling of sliding my hand up and down the neck of the guitar, the steel-string metal cool beneath the pads of my fingertips. I had control over something for once in my life.
When I started writing songs, they were mostly about my mom leaving and my dad drinking. There were a lot of poorly sung ballads about not feeling like I was enough for even my parents and hoping a girl would come along and save me.
I smile in the dark at the thought of how far things have come since those days. The only thing I ever want from out of all this is to change someone’s life with my words and with my music. I want to sing the words that I wish I could have better articulated when I was younger. If I can just have one person feel like I’m speaking directly to them when they’re hurting, then that’s more than enough for me.
All these people—the ones who want me to succeed and the ones who don’t— the camera flashes, and the magazine articles… it’ll all be worth it.
I look around Iconic, feeling invisible in the darkened venue. No one’s here. My security is outside the door, despite it being after their quitting time—they never let me go far without them anymore. But still, I’m alone in one of my favorite places and it feels so refreshing.
I leave the lights off, not wanting to draw attention with the building being lit up in the middle of the night and make my way to the black and silver bar top, crimson-red walls surround me, and I feel safe. There aren’t many places I truly feel safe.
Pouring a quick shot of rum and splashing just a hint of Coke into the rocks glass, I sit on one of the barstools and look to where the crowd would be if it was a Friday or Saturday night. Memories flood my mind, and I remember the night my band was first recognized.
Dad had just been arrested for the eleventh time in two years. He had been thrown in Cook County jail so many times, I had to keep tallies on my wall to remember—not that it mattered, really. I thought if he ever decided to clean up, it would be a good reminder of why he wouldn’t want to go backward. I doubted that day would ever come, and I was right because it still hasn’t.
My band, the only people I trust aside from Grandma Frankie and Kennedy, were all on edge that night. We knew big names were in the crowd and getting noticed was the only thing on our minds. It was the only time I was actually nervous on stage.
