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He shook his head, downed the water in a gulp. “If she bolts at least I’ll know it was too much for her.”
“Fair call. Want a refill on that?” He did. He took it on stage with him. They opened with Rod Stewart and ran through some Johnny Cash and Roy Orbison. He looked out at the blur of movement and wondered if Georgia was there, listening. Taylor took a song break and he sang John Mellencamp’s Life Goes On before they finished the first set with Mustang Sally.
As he was coming off stage, a hand on his. Light and small. Not Taylor. “I didn’t think you were coming?” He almost said staying, but then she’d know he’d been spying.
“Thought about it.”
“Thought you were all right about us.”
“I’m trying.”
That sounded like truth, but he was rocked by the physical description of her from people he trusted innately. A voice could only tell you so much. “But.”
“Can we talk?”
Not easily, not yet, too many people around. “After the next set.” He’d get her out of here. If she was going to dump him, he didn’t need an audience.
“Sure. I could listen to you sing all night.”
Maybe he wasn’t about to get dumped. “Come meet everyone.”
He expected hesitation. He got his hand squeezed and she pressed in and kissed his cheek. “Remember I’m not good with people.”
“These aren’t people. They’re family.”
She sat with them, enough of a novelty that Angus abandoned the bar to the new girl. They chargrilled her like a T-bone. A bunch of questions about her accent, living in London, her job. Jamie wanted to know what her first impression of The Voice was. She made them laugh when she said cocky, and again when asked if that’d changed and she said no.
Damon could hear nervousness in her quick breaths, the slight warble in her voice, but she held her own and it made him smile. If she dumped him now, he’d be out more than the cost of a dress and shoes, he’d be out of luck. Her mystery, her shy complexity did something to him; he wasn’t sure what it was, but he wanted more of it.
On stage before beginning the second set, Angus took his arm. “I like her.”
“I like her too.”
“Can see that.” Angus pinched the back of his neck with a damp hand. “Were we too rough on her?”
They were proprietary, but then he’d given them that power a long time ago. “I guess we’ll see.”
He opened with Stevie Wonder’s Superstitious. He was pleasantly buzzed to have one person in the audience he wanted to connect with the best way he knew how—with his voice over words designed to dig into a person’s secret feelings, set to music that spoke to instinctive rhythms.
When Angus announced they’d play the last four songs by request, he was about fifteen minutes from planting his voice in Georgia’s ear and blowing away any objections she had.
The first request for Wu Tang Clan got shouted down by the house. Which meant Elvis’ Blue Suede Shoes got up, followed by Mack the Knife, then Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way, which he had to make up half the lyrics for, and then the fun started. Some dude wanted Iggy Azalea and Jennifer Hudson’s Trouble. It had a lyrical chorus but quick rap verses. It was about a tattooed man.
“Buy the guy a drink, Angus. I don’t rap,” he said.
That got a roar, catcalls, jeers.
“‘Cause you can’t.” Jamie, the bugger.
“You do it.” Jamie could, so Angus would still be saved the round.
“You’re The Voice, man. I thought you could do anything.” Jamie must’ve been egging the room on because they started chanting, slow clapping.
“This is a set-up.”
“Sorry folks, he can sing, he can jive, he can’t rap. Poor, old Damon, can’t do the tongue twister lyrics.”
He turned his head towards Jamie. “Hey.” He could do them, he just didn’t like to rap. It felt too much like one of those thirty-second radio commercials where the legal terms and conditions had to be spoken at breakneck speed without a breath. He’d done too many of those early in his career to think it was fun.
