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He steps down off the stage, looking completely beaten and dejected, right before a petite brunette walks up the other side, carrying a guitar in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. She starts setting herself up beside a wooden stool that’s been placed in the middle of the stage.
She introduces herself, but I don’t catch her name because Cassie picks that exact moment to drop an entire tray full of glasses on the floor, and now Leon himself is breathing down her neck, losing his shit at her while she tries desperately to clean up the enormous mess she’s just made.
Quinn jumps out of his seat and hurries across the room to give her a hand.
My eyes swing back to the girl in the corner of the room, and I notice she’s taken a seat on the stool. She’s softly strumming an acoustic guitar that’s balanced on her legs.
Her pink skirt is long and flowy, draped over the side of her leg, giving me a glimpse of her toned calves and gently curved thighs that are covered in sheer purple stockings. She’s wearing a silky white blouse that dips down low in the front, showing off an ample amount of cleavage, just enough for me to notice.
Sparkly silver earrings dangle around her neck, and her wrists are littered with heaps of tiny silver bangles, and I swear she reminds me of fucking Tinker Bell when she moves because she jingles and glistens that much in the overhead lights.
The tables up front are completely empty, and the dance floor is deserted, but that doesn’t seem to put her off. She takes a quick sip of water before she starts, and I’m instantly mesmerized by the sight of her pouty little mouth wrapped around the rim of the bottle.
Fuck. The things I’d like to do with that mouth of hers right now.
A blow job would definitely help take the edge off my frayed nerves, but I don’t think that would go down too well. I can hardly just wait until she’s done with her set and then proposition her for a little stress relief in the dark alley out back. I mean, sure, I could try. But if she turned me down, I don’t think my self-esteem could take it right now.
She taps the microphone with her finger, lowering the stand so it’s level with her mouth. “Thanks for having me tonight,” she says. “I promise I’ll only take up half an hour of your time.” Her voice is deep, kind of sultry, and doesn’t sound like it belongs to such a small-framed woman. It’s husky almost, sensual in a way that fascinates me, and I crane my neck to get a better look at her.
She pauses, waiting for some kind of response.
It never comes.
“Well, alright then,” she says quietly, looking back down at her guitar. “Let’s get this over and done with. The first song I’m going to sing tonight means a whole lot to me on a very personal level. I wrote this song about the night I lost my virginity –”
She pauses, waiting, and then smirks when some middle-aged guy over by the bar wolf-whistles in response and mumbles some lewd comment about getting into her pants.
“Yeah, right, as if I’d do that. I was just checking to see if anyone was actually listening.” She waves her hand vaguely in the direction of the guy at the bar. “So, thank you for paying attention. But truth be told, I like my men a whole lot less married. Nice wedding ring, douchebag.”
She grumbles something under her breath again, and then the lights slowly dim–a muted glow that swallows her up in the shadows as she begins to play.
And holy shit. She can play.
She strums the guitar, and the sound is whimsical and soft. It’s sort of folksy, sort of bluesy. It’s melodic, hypnotizing almost, and she sways a little as she closes her eyes, a perfect sync of emotions and untapped, raw talent.
Her timing is impeccable. She’s right in the center of the beat, and the longer I listen to her play, the more I feel myself slipping into the beauty and rhythm of the music.
She starts singing the first few words and I’m struck by how good she is. Her voice is just as amazing as her guitar playing. She sings like a fucking angel.
I sit forward so my elbows are resting on the edge of the table, concentrating on the words, focusing my attention on nothing else in the entire bar other than the waif-like figure sitting up on that stage with the purple stockings and the amazing tits, and deep green eyes that could swallow you up whole if you let them. And I would totally let them.
She’s gorgeous.
I shake my head and look away. I don’t need gorgeous right now. I’ve had my fair share of gorgeous over the years, and right now, I don’t need the distraction. Gorgeous means trouble, and I don’t have time for trouble. It seems I can manage to get into trouble just fine by myself.
Fuck you very much.
But the girl keeps singing, and the sound is so hauntingly beautiful that my eyes drift back in her direction again and that’s where they stay, whether I like it or not.
The chorus begins, and that’s when it hits me.
The song.
I finally recognize the song.
It’s a pop song that’s being played all over the radio at the moment. It’s a song by one of those reality TV girl groups that have been manufactured out of thin air. I don’t remember the name of the group, but this version of the song sounds completely different from the way they sing it.
And it doesn’t just sound different.
