Beneath The Skin(126)

When the guitarist makes his leave, Victoria leans into me. “Confession: I want to have his babies.”

I giggle, though I’m not sure if it’s because of what she just said or because the room’s spinning and that somehow tickles. “There’s nothing sexier in this world than a singer,” I blurt back into her ear.

“Oh! I want to hear your audition piece!”

I stare at her through foggy eyes. “You already did, silly! Thirteen times in a row, remember?”

“I mean your song, dummy!”

“Ooh, right, yeah.” I laugh. Flecks of saliva dust the table in front of me and I slap a hand over my lips, inspiring Eric to laugh at me. “Shush! I haven’t drinked anything since—Uh, haven’t drunk anything—Uh, what’s the word? Drank? Drink, drank, drunk?”

“You should drink more often,” Victoria shouts into my ear. “You’re so much more fun.”

“Are you calling me boring?”

“No! You’re just … less boring when you’re drunk!”

“You are calling me boring!”

“No!”

“You think I’m boring? Hey, Other Eric!” I shout, squinting across the table at him. “Am I boring? Hey, Chloe! Am I boring??”

They shout back answers I can’t hear. I slap my hand on the table, causing the drinks to jump.

“Alright, then,” I say, assuming their answers. “I’ll prove to you how very not boring I am. I’ll prove you all wrong right now.”

I push myself up from the table and stumble to the stage. Victoria’s laughter trails me along with a few words I obviously can’t make out. When I’m on the stage, the pianist greets my eyes with worry. “No, no,” I tell him with a dizzy wave of my hand. “Don’t worry. I’m an actress. I have training in these sorts of things.”

I have no idea what I mean by that, but I say it.

“Excuse me!” I call into the microphone, then give it five solid taps that cut through the cacophony of collegiate banter and screaming and laughter.

To my utter surprise, dozens of pairs of eyes turn to meet mine on the stage. I see every pair even through the haze of smoke and light. The noise cuts in half.

Holy hell, I actually did get their attention.

“My friends think I’m boring,” I explain to the room, inspiring even more silence and attention from them. “And I’d love to prove my friends wrong. So while our sexy guitarist is taking ten, I’d like to sing you all a lovely little song.”

Three guys cheer from the back of the room. Some girl shouts, “Let’s hear it!” followed by a chorus of roars. My friends at the table near this tiny stage wear looks of astonishment, their eyes sparkling with pride and alcohol.

“It’s a song I wrote about myself,” I tell the room. “A song about how we close ourselves up. A song I hoped would inspire me to break free from my own … from my own proverbial palace. A song …”

Suddenly lost in the emotion of said song, I stop explaining and let the music speak for itself. Gripping the microphone, I bring my lips to its black, puffy head, then close my eyes.

And I sing.

The room, which was only a moment ago packed with the deafening noise of so many voices, is now filled with only one: mine. My voice reaches through the room. My eyes search, a strange desire to touch every person in this room gripping me by the throat.

Something magical happens. I feel something in me let go. I’m weightless as I sing to them. If I didn’t have such a grip on the microphone, I just might float away. I let the words of “A Palace of Stone” stream out of me.

And then, somewhere between the second and third verse, I see him in the crowd.

Oh my god. He’s been there the whole time, I realize.

Beautiful as ever, intense, and wearing a tight white shirt that makes that bad-boy tattoo up his neck pop … Clayton sits on a barstool palming a beer bottle, and his eyes are alight with fierceness, with yearning, with something I cannot even name.

Or is it the alcohol that makes me see these lovely things? Is it the alcohol singing and not me?

Clayton doesn’t seem to care, and his eyes do not avert in the least. I have him in the palm of my hand. He watches … He watches and listens.

This would be the second time he’s heard this song. This is the second time I’ve captivated him. What else could that expression of his mean?

I’m hypnotizing him.

Yes. Finally, the tables have turned. I’m the one he’s obsessed with now, in this one moment, as long as I can make the song last. I am his siren, luring him with my music.

And then I hear the tinkling of piano notes. I turn to find that the pianist has joined in, following my lead with the melody I sing. The guitarist, who’s back from his break, has been watching from the side of the stage, his eyes sparkling with wonder. He picks up his guitar and joins his friend, supporting me with their tunes, totally improvising as they go.