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.
Maybe it’s the music that inspires me, as a wicked, naughty little demon takes control of my body.
Plucking the microphone off the stand, I saunter down from the stage, still singing, and slowly cut my way through the crowd—to him. Every lyric I have is now given straight to Clayton.
It’s a matter of half a verse before I’m standing right in front of him, singing my music.
His face stiffens.
Is that fear I just inspired in his dark, threatening eyes?
I sing my words to them, my fingers slowly, gently, lovingly, tenderly stroking the microphone up and down.
I’m an actress who shows no fear. With my free hand, I bring a finger to his neck, tracing where that dark ink comes up from the muscular, hidden unknown beneath his shirt. Firm and frozen, he coldly watches me. The bravest in my whole biosphere. I brace myself against his table, my hips grazing along his side as I sing up to his wary face.
Clayton’s eyes narrow, as if I’m wounding him with my music. Yes, let me wound you with it, so that you might feel an ounce of the agony I’ve felt all week ever since I first laid eyes on you.
As the musicians bring me into the final verse, I pause and bring a hand to that beer in his hand. It slips from his grip easily and I bring it to my lips, my eyes locked on his. I take a swig of it, then set it back on the table. My eyes wrinkle slightly in response; I hadn’t expected the beer to be so bitter. His eyes turn glassy and a hint of amusement twists his lips.
It’s work to perch atop this throne … Oh god. That smirk of his is so sexy, I could ditch the song and plunge into him right now. This throne made of credit cards and silicone …
I’m standing so close to Clayton now, I feel heat coming off of him. I’ve never felt so exposed, so free … Don’t dare give your heart, or you’ll fall right apart.
I lick my lips as the guitarist strums and the pianist glides his long fingers. Right here in my palace of stone …
He parts his lips, his face tightening, pained.
My lips kiss the tip of the microphone as I push the last lyrics out. Yes, right here … in my palace of stone.
The music concludes in a contemplative, resolving chord.
Silence swallows the room.
Clayton’s eyes.
Me and a heavy microphone in my hand, growing heavier and heavier by the second.
I’m met suddenly with the reality of what I just did. In front of everyone. The alcohol’s no longer a mask. I just sang the most personal song I’ve ever written to a room full of strangers.
Clayton breathes.
I can’t.
What did I just do?
Then there’s a shout of joy from the back, startling me, and then the rest of the room erupts into applause and cheering. I think I’m imagining it for a second, stunned by the reaction. Are they mocking me, or did I really do a decent job?
When I look at Clayton again, I see a question in his eyes. Suddenly, nothing else matters. I got his attention, I tell myself. He knows who I am. He’s curious. I caught him. And in the midst of all my doubt, I feel like I’ve won some game I didn’t know I was playing. The game of cat and mouse. The crush game.
“And that’s how you do it,” I say to him, grinning.