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I wait patiently for my music to cue up. The first few bars of an old Fleetwood Mac ballad begin. I love Fleetwood Mac in general and Stevie Nicks in particular. I open my mouth, and I’m lost.
It’s always like this. I can’t explain the joy that washes over me—no, through me—when I sing or play. Standing in front of these people makes me feel like there is nothing else, nothing but the breath in my lungs and the music in my bones. It’s heaven.
After the first song, I have everyone’s attention. I listen to the applause, louder now than before. “There you all are,” I tease. “Let’s try something more upbeat, then.” I reach for the tablet that controls my set list. With a tap, I cue up my next song. My voice isn’t the typical pop-music fare, so I favor more classic rock and country, some alternative. Next is Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”
Before long, people are swaying, and some have made it to the dance floor. Stupid old contacts mean I can’t see their faces, but I can definitely hear them belting out the lyrics along with me. I laugh, the cheerful off-key singing in front of me lifting my own spirits. God, there is nothing better than this. When I’m up here, leading a crowd, it’s like we are all in it together. We are sad in the slow love songs, and we bounce around with the joyful ones. Here, on this stage, I can feel the things that are universal among us. When we all leave this place, we’re different. Different races and creeds, different classes. We have different jobs and come from different backgrounds. But in the middle of a song, we all feel it together.
I wind us through song after song. The place gets hot. Sweat runs down the sides of my head and moistens the small of my back. It trickles between my breasts. It’s more crowded than any of the other nights I’ve sung at the Pig, and that’s great. Bigger crowds mean more money, and money is my ticket out of this godforsaken town.
My first set lasts an hour, and the place is buzzing with energy. Still, the birthday party group is by far the rowdiest bunch here. In the middle of my second set, the patrons around them get fed up.
I’m singing Kelsea Ballerini’s latest hit, and the birthday boy—or who I assume is the birthday boy, based on his level of wobbly intoxication—must have bumped into the table behind him. I squint, making out a pitcher of beer spilled everywhere. I can definitely see two of the men at the table stand up. That’s when the shoving starts.
Then one of them throws the first punch.
Things are going to get out of hand. As the half dozen guys with the birthday party try to hold the birthday boy back, I reach for the tablet and pause my music. With all the strength in my voice, I bellow into the microphone, “Did someone say to play ‘Free Bird’?”
I wave my hands, doing what I can to regain everyone’s attention. If the universal sing-along Lynryd Skynyrd song can’t stop a fight, nothing can. “Everyone on your feet,” I yell, laughing.
If I can get everyone up, then no one will mind the shoving. Or so I hope.
“There’s a birthday party in the house. Why don’t those guys come on up here and help me do this?”A couple of patrons grumble in front of me, but as the first strains of the melody waft through the speakers, the crowd parts. There are some additional shoves between the drunken man of the hour and whomever he pissed off, but his friends are big and burly, and they muscle him along, dragging him to the stage stairs.
Across the bar, I can see Josh’s silhouette behind the bar, his arms folded over his chest, disapproval radiating off of him. Not happy I’m calling the guys onstage, probably. I ignore him, keeping the smile plastered on my face. It’s hard, though, because as they shuffle closer to me, I recognize the entire group to be the top line of the Chesterboro University ice hockey team. They are gods on campus, and even I know who they are—especially the one bringing up the rear, the team captain, Cord Spellman. He is the god of all the gods.
“Damn” doesn’t cover this situation.
It’s too late, though. I’ve already invited them up, and I need to ride it out, no matter what happens.
I run a hand over my wig, though, making sure it’s still in place. The long caramel strands cover my own pale waves. Thanks to the contacts, I don’t have my glasses on either. With the stage makeup I’m wearing, I barely recognize myself in the mirror. No way these guys who didn’t see me before would notice me now.
“Damn” might not do the situation justice, but it definitely describes this crew. As in damn, these guys are hot. They radiate male virility like only athletes at the top of their game can. But it isn’t only that. The track team is in shape. So are the swimmers. But the hockey players…they’re blatantly masculine with a whole lot of extra swagger.
I let that settle in my stomach as they ramble up onstage, making what already feels like a small space feel even more crowded. They shove and jostle one another. The only one not joining in is Cord, who leans against the side wall, all wide shoulders and hot body. But he isn’t wearing his usual confident, easy smile. I don’t have time to figure out what bug he has up his ass, though, because I’m too busy pretending not to notice him and trying to defuse the hostility his group has already wreaked in my audience.
I lean into the microphone and start the song.
CORD
Fucking Dorsey. This whole night has gone to shit because of him.
Mikey said he wanted a low-key twenty-first. Most of our remaining games are tough, and playoffs are just over a month away. Now isn’t the time to get crazy. All of us should be refraining, but a guy only turns twenty-one once, so we’re out. It’s Friday, and we have a rare weekend off. Lots of time to recover. But the plan was to keep it mellow, go out for some beers, get some food.
Mikey definitely didn’t say anything about shots and nothing about ending up in some rural dive bar outside of town.
We started out fine at Fat Eddie’s, our local spot. We ate enough wings to set our mouths on fire. I nursed a beer. If they let loose, I keep an eye on them. I’m team captain, after all.
But then Rachel, my cheating ex, and a few of her sorority sisters showed up. I spent the whole time avoiding her not-too-subtle advances and watching out for my boys. Then Dorsey brought up some singer. He sighed, looking like the stupid heart-eye emoji, and called her soulful.
Dumbass. He’s a hockey player, not a poet.
He only mentioned her after he plied Mikey with a couple of shots. The next thing I knew, we were waiting for an Uber to take us out to nowhere to listen to her.
I’ve never been to this place, the Pig’s Tail. What kind of name is that, anyway?
When we got inside, I steered us into a corner near the bar, out of the flow of traffic. We’re bulky in regular places, and in crowded spaces, we definitely get in the way, especially after a few drinks.
Dorsey bought most of the drinks earlier, so the rest of the guys jumped in, doing shots with Mikey. Then they all did some shots together. It devolved from there. Now, I basically have a herd of drunken gorillas on my hands.
