Beneath The Skin(62)
That I’m meant for you, and you’re meant for me
too.
Take them off
all your clothes
So I can see
what lies beneath
Then take off
all your skin
Let me know you.
Let me in.
The music takes over as Dessie sways gently, slow-dancing with her microphone as she closes her eyes, the band filling the space with a melody that mimics the one she just sang. I turn my eyes slightly, catching Brant at my side as he watches her with wonder.
And I wonder if I’ll ever let him in. I wonder if I’ll ever let him know me … the real me, the dark me, the silent shadows I won’t even dare let my only friend Minnie near.
Yes, I hate you
when you turn away
Because I can’t …
can’t see your face
That face that I
will soon set free
That face that looks
right back at me.
Right back at me.
Then it’s over. Somehow the whole room seems to know precisely when the song means to end because they’re applauding and hooting even before the band plays the final chord.
Onstage, Dessie smiles sheepishly and gives a cute wave to the crowd, then thanks them several times, but even her thanks amplified by the microphone is lost to the masses of cheers and hooting that fill the whole place. She steps off the stage and the band picks up with some nameless tune as the bar returns to its usual banter.
“Let’s go meet the talent!” exclaims Brant, taking me by the hand.
Oh, yippy.
We cut through the crowd and make it to a tall table near the foot of the stage where Dmitri, Eric, and a number of others are gathered, standing around the table shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s an excellent thing that I’m not the claustrophobic type because if I was, I’d be desperately searching for an inch of oxygen that isn’t being shared by ten other people, what with the sheer number of bodies in this place.
“What a great job, Dessie, for real,” Eric is telling her. “For a song about love, I wasn’t expecting your first lyrics to be ‘I hate you’, though.”
“I liked the lyrics,” adds a girl with thick-rimmed glasses—much like Dmitri’s—and dark hair that tumbles jaggedly to her shoulders. Her voice is a perfect, lifeless monotone.
“The music was a bit repetitive,” throws in a redheaded guy at her side with a thin-lipped tiny mouth.
“Don’t criticize, Tomas,” complains the girl.
“But I liked the chord progression,” he says quickly, offering Dessie a shrug. “Sorry. I always go for honesty first.”
Dessie smiles. “I’ll take honesty. It’s the only thing that makes an artist—”
From nowhere, a muscular hunk with a face granted by the gods appears at Dessie’s side, takes her in his arms, and plants a kiss on her lips, cutting her off mid-sentence. She laughs into his kiss, then slaps his arm playfully.
And this diva’s got the hot-as-fuck boyfriend? Really?
“You were beautiful up there,” he says to her, his rich, dark eyes pouring into hers with lust.
He sounds kind of funny. I can’t put my finger on it, but his words slur slightly—and not in the had-one-tequila-shot-too-many way.
“Great job, Des!” calls out Brant from my side, lifting his bottle, then he leans into me and says, “That’s my boy, Clayton. Ex-roommate, told you about him?”
I remember now, so I give Brant a nod as I watch Dessie make another annoying, demonstrative show of pushing herself into Clayton and kissing him. It’s either impressive or nauseating that, even with the noise of the place, I can still seem to hear their mouths smacking.
When they pull apart, Clayton says, “Your lyrics were beautiful, babe.”
It’s like he has a lisp. I’m still squinting at him trying to figure it out when Dmitri taps him on the shoulder, drawing his attention. Then Dmitri starts signing to him and offering his congratulations to Dessie. With his hands.
Oh. I’m an asshole. Clayton’s deaf.
“You didn’t tell me,” I murmur in Brant’s ear, watching Dmitri’s hands move with deftness.
“Tell you what? Oh! About Clayton?”
“I feel like an asshole.”
“Why?”
“I was …” I sigh. Some judgmental thoughts, I guess, are better left unsaid. “Never mind.”
“Hey, Sam. I have another song I’m working on,” Dessie starts telling the girl with the glasses and the generally dead eyes. “I’m having trouble with the music. You wanna get together tomorrow maybe and, like … experiment with it? Figure out why the chords aren’t working?”