AllFreeNovel
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When Dorsey’s singer takes the stage, she doesn’t look like much. Tall, slight, long hair. She’s wearing jeans, some kind of bohemian flowing shirt, and stilettos. And she hobbles on the heels as if she isn’t used to walking in them.
I sip my beer. This doesn’t look hopeful.
Then she opens her mouth and launches into Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” in a way that raises the hair on my arms. It’s an old song, one my parents loved when I was a kid. Hell, they might still love it. Just separately now, since they’ve been divorced for almost a decade.
The lyrics are haunting on their own, but this woman…it’s as if the words come from deep inside her slim body, as if she lived them or wrote them herself. She makes them her own, either way. Something about the nostalgia of the song and the way she sings it… I can’t look away. I don’t want to.
She finishes, and there’s a moment of silence before the place bursts into applause. I didn’t realize how quiet it had gotten until it’s loud again. I glance around, and everyone in the bar looks like they are half in love with this wispy girl.
And I get it. I really do.
She laughs, and it’s its own kind of music. I want to hear more of that. Instead, she dives into “Don’t Stop Believin’,” and everyone in the room is on board. She sways and dances along as she sings, as if the music has taken her, is moving her. Her mouth tilts into an enigmatic smile, and the energy courses through the room as her voice fills it. The place vibrates with it because of her.
She winds her way through her first set. A mix of classic rock, heavy on Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles, female singers with big voices, and current country hits. When she’s upbeat, the room bounces along. The dance floor is packed. When she sings things slow, it’s as if our hearts break along with it. Some slow dance, and others just stand, listening to her. A woman in front covers her mouth, tears in her eyes.
I’ve been to a lot of concerts, but they’re always at huge venues. Big-name musicians. But this space is intimate. It’s like she’s singing especially for me.
They play the jukebox between her sets, but the crowd gets antsy. We know she’s coming back, and we’re impatient for her return. When she does, her joy is so intense that I can feel it—I really can. She dives right into “Baby Can I Hold You” by Tracy Chapman, a song I haven’t heard since the first girl I dated in high school played it for me. I only listened then because I wanted to get laid. But when this girl sings it? Totally different.
Next up is Miranda Lambert.
The guys keep drinking, and they holler their appreciation for her, completely enthralled.
Then Mikey loses his balance. He’s hooting his approval and bumps into the table in front of us. Their pitcher of beer tilts, spilling everywhere. The two men at the table stumble to their feet, all beards and black leather.
Damn it. “Sorry, guys.” I say, sliding into the mix, offering them a classic Spellman grin, the one that says that everything is fine and generally defuses conflict. “Let me buy you all another pitcher.”
One of them buries his fist in Mikey’s face.
Guess he doesn’t want a free round.
As the other guy attempts to push in, though, I step between them and dodge that guy’s fist. Some things from hockey carry into real life, like not doubling up in a fight. And Mikey is seriously fucked up right now, so no one is going to take shots at him on my watch.
Just when shit looks like it’s going to get out of hand and I worry I’ll be dragging my defensemen off a couple of busted-up townies, the singer calls our whole party up with the promise of “Free Bird.” Whatever magic she holds works, because suddenly, they’re all swaying together, arms joined, drowning out the singer’s angelic voice with their intoxicated warbling.
It’s a damn shame, to be honest. She’s stopped singing, her eyes closed, holding the microphone out to the guys.
Now, only five or six feet from her, I can’t look away. Something about her feels vaguely familiar. It’s the curve of her face, the angle of her chin and jaw. But her mouth… her lips are full, completely kissable.
Everything tightens in me.What the fuck? So I’m some dive bar singer’s groupie now?
If she wants, my gut says.
As the song fades into the instrumental at the end, the guys all break into air guitar. The singer—Hannah, if the sign can be believed—steps to the side to let them at it. Only then, when the attention isn’t on her, does her face change.
Tension tightens her features. I have no idea why, but I don’t like it. Whatever is bothering her, well, it bothers me. I shift closer, trying to smooth things over. “Thanks. It’s my friend’s birthday.”
She doesn’t make eye contact when she nods, and her mouth is pressed into a line. Her response surprises me. I mean, not to brag, but I’m not usually ignorable. First, I’m huge. I’m six-three and a wall of solid muscle. Three years ago, I went in the first round of the draft, just like my dad before me. I’m also pretty likable, blessed with a charm that has been able to get me out of most trouble.
I’m not bad to look at, either, or so I’ve been told.
Even when I was dating Rachel and everyone on campus knew it, girls would come on to me. Now that I’m single, it’s worse and more complicated because Rachel hasn’t accepted that we’re over either. Since we broke up last summer, between her increasing attention and the others trying to fill her role, this year has been a mess.
But Hannah doesn’t seem to notice me at all. I don’t like being invisible to her.
She leans in, holding the microphone away from her, keeping her face down. Her voice cuts through the air. “You need to get them out of here before things get bad.”
What?Dragging my gaze away from her, I catch sight of my guys. They’re hugging, laughing. They’re all in varying states of intoxication. Glassy-eyed, sappy smiles, slapping one another on the back. I roll my eyes, glad they’re enjoying themselves.
