Brant shrugs, leans into the counter and lifts his eyes to me. “My friends are all so damn complicated.”
“And you’re so simple?” I tease him, lifting the bottle to my lips. He watches my mouth pointedly as I kick back the drink, letting its bitter taste wash over my tongue. I love having Brant’s complete and utter attention.
I’d bet six beers he’s already growing stiff in his pants by watching my lips and tongue make easy work of the mouth of this bottle.
“Nah,” I murmur after finishing my sip. “Not that simple.”
“I’ve never been so jealous of a bottle before.”
“Thanks for the beer.”
He nods resolutely. “My pleasure. I thought you said in the parking lot that you wanted liquor.”
“I’m of a mind to make smarter decisions tonight,” I inform him.
His brow wrinkles. “Uh, does that mean no bathroom blowjobs?”
I snort. “Definitely none of those.”
“A bar-side handy’s out of the question?”
“Completely.”
He makes a mock show of disappointment, hissing through his teeth before kicking his own Dos Equis back. “I can be a good boy,” he decides after his swig. “Hey, I saw this flyer outside of my class about an End Of Year Showcase or something …”
The lights in the whole bar dim, and then a roar of excitement thunders over the room and steals away whatever Brant was about to say regarding the showcase. I don’t know if he saw the flyer and intends to submit any of his photos or not, but he’d better be prepared for some serious scrutiny. The heads of the Art department don’t mess around when it comes to their precious End Of Year Showcase. I had my work turned down the first two times I submitted. Both times I was denied with a callous, harsh note of what I dare call “constructive criticism” and a gently-worded reason for why my piece was not selected. It would be some kind of hilarious, life-upturning irony if any of Brant’s submissions were to get in his first try.
Then I hear my own thoughts and suddenly wonder if I’m being unfair. He has depth, I remind myself. You’ve seen it. You even encouraged it. Hell, there’s probably more to Brant than I’ll ever realize.
And maybe that’s a good thing; it helps keep my interest in him.
“It’s about to start,” he whispers into my ear.
Just that whisper sends a hundred tiny bolts of electricity lightly dancing down my neck. I shiver pleasurably at the memory of the kiss we shared on top of that building the other night, and the kiss we shared in that tiny room at the art gallery …
And the one now.
I bring my lips to his quickly, catching him off-guard. Then I let go just as fast, smirking victoriously to myself as Brant stares after me in a surprised stupor. I love being in control.
The room hushes when a girl takes the stage. She’s curvy and sweet like a porcelain doll on the top shelf. She has long straight hair which she tosses the moment she’s in view of everyone, as if it was rehearsed. Maybe it was. She smiles and the whole world explodes into glitter and bright yellow sunshine.
I haven’t even heard her sing and I already can’t stand her.
“Hey there,” she murmurs into the microphone, acting all shy. “We have quite a turnout tonight! For those who don’t know me, I’m Desdemona Lebeau, but you can call me Dessie.”
She’s like Renée Brigand in cute, singer songwriter form. Gag me.
“I have a new song for you. The boys and I have been working really hard on it. Now let me try to sing it and let’s hope I don’t fuck it all up,” she adds with a quirk of her eyebrows, earning her an endearing wave of laughs throughout the room—and a rolling of eyes from me. “This song,” she says softly, “is called Can’t See Your Face.”
She brings her lips to the microphone. Then the band starts to play and, after a dramatic intake of breath, Dessie sings.
I hate you
when you’re away
Because I
can’t see your face
That face I
have come to love
That face I
can’t get enough of.
She’s signing all her words to the crowd with her hands. Are there deaf people among us, or is this just part of her performance? I kick back my bottle, listening as her song crescendos into the first chorus.
Everything I have, someone else gave me
But this thing between you and I, it’s mine
And if you look closely, you’ll see what I see in you
in time.
And even if every note of this song is silent
The music rings perfectly true