“Anyone see the target?” asked Jasmine. She was working her way through the 24 boxed set, in between episodes of CSI. Her dream role was a part in a police drama.
I searched the crowd. “No,” I said, worried. What if he didn’t show up? I looked at my watch—I needed him on board and in Harman’s office in less than twelve hours. Could he be in his dressing room? Did they even have dressing rooms, in a place like this?
“I’ll do a sweep,” Jasmine told us. “You three work the bar.” And she was gone into the crowd, male heads turning to follow her.
Clarissa sighed and led us off to the bar to get beers. I made the mistake of standing between them and that left me feeling short and graceless. They had confidence and style and legs that went on forever, and I had…what, exactly? Music. And that was in danger of being ripped away from me.
At that moment, the band finished their last track and the room erupted into applause. As they launched into their Facebook, Twitter and buy-our-music plug, I suddenly saw him waiting by the side of the stage.
He was in the same tight jeans he wore at Fenbrook, but he’d stripped down to a black vest. A cherry red electric guitar was slung around his neck, its varnish gleaming.
The band cleared the stage and he stepped on. There was polite applause, and then that Belfast twang I was getting to know came through the PA. “Thank you, thank you. I’m Connor Locke. This is called Ruth.”
And then, for the first time ever, I heard him play.
When I first learned to drive a car, I was incredibly nervous. I had to think about every movement, run through checklists in my head to make sure I was braking when I should, checking the mirrors when I should. Years later, the movements had become automatic, but they were still precise and controlled. Turn head left. Look in mirror. Indicate. Pull out. My playing was the same—every movement had to be exactly right.
Connor’s playing wasn’t like that at all. It was…lazy. Not bad-lazy. Relaxed-lazy. Lazy like driving with one hand on the wheel and the other around a girl. Effortless.
Something stabbed through me, something totally unexpected. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was jealousy. That’s ridiculous! It’s a completely different style of music, on a completely different instrument.
And yet…did I ever look that relaxed and carefree while playing?
The music surprised me, too. I’d been expecting thrashy guitar solos, but this was slow and almost sad. As he got to the end of the intro, he leaned forward and started to sing.
I was right at the back of the crowd, near the bar. I took a step forward, to see around a tall guy.
Long way from home, plane ticket and a guitar
Twenty dollars, four leaf clover and the courage of youth
Met you rum-drunk and said I was a rock star
You kissed me, made me coffee and said your name was Ruth.
Ruth. The tattoo on his arm said “Ruth.” His voice was incredible, his Irish lilt turning the words into little silk-wrapped shots of hard silver that soared and curved and then hit you in the heart.
The music was all deep, rolling chords, smooth as butter, and then his hand suddenly whipped down the strings and the guitar wailed as he launched into the chorus. He had his eyes closed now, which meant I got to look at his face properly without worrying about him looking back at me.
His hair was messy, as usual, like he’d run a hand through it and declared it ready. It looked soft and glossy, like it’d feel amazing against the sensitive sides of your fingers if you stroked through it.
I hadn’t noticed before how long his lashes were. They softened what would otherwise be a hard face, with his strong jaw and angular cheekbones. With his eyes closed—just for a second—he looked vulnerable.
I was bad for you, you were bad for me
Twisted love, needed my daily fix of you
Everyone said it but we couldn’t see
Held your hand, you cried but you knew it was true
I realized with a shock that I was at the front of the crowd. How had that happened? I’d only meant to move past one person, to get a better look! I’d just kept pushing through without being aware of it, as if drawn to—
That’s stupid, I reasoned. Of course I wasn’t.
And then Connor opened his eyes and saw me. I looked around in a panic, resisting the urge to run and hide. The top I was wearing suddenly felt flimsy and insubstantial. Every square millimeter of my exposed skin was alive and tingling. And then I met his gaze.
The first thing I saw was surprise. He actually blinked, as if not quite believing it was me. Then, as he continued to sing, he threw me a questioning look. There was none of the swagger and arrogance I’d seen at Fenbrook. This was simple and direct: What do you want? But there was a little of that Irish sparkle in his eyes, too. Did he like the fact I was there? No, that was crazy. More likely it amused him.