Dessie touches my arm, getting my attention, then asks what I snorted about. I shake my head, smiling. “Nothing. Want something to drink?” She shakes her head and smiles back. I study the side of her face for a while as she watches the others chat away. I love how her eyes light up, her face turning as she listens to the conversations that break out over the table. I’m not a part of any of them, yet vicariously through her, I feel somehow connected to it all. Chloe says something and Dessie laughs. Eric reaches out and runs a finger down Dmitri’s tattoo, seeming to ask about it. Brant leans over the table to shout what I can only assume is something lewd and suggestive to Chloe, who doesn’t seem amused by the humor, rolling her eyes. Dessie, however, laughs so hard that she falls into me, her hands clinging to my shoulder as she laughs.
God, I want her to stay right there on my shoulder and make a fucking home. I love when she clings to me. Before this night is over, I vow to myself, I’m gonna get her to claw those sexy fingers of hers down my back.
Over the next half hour, more people start to pack into the Throng, and I feel pretty fortunate that we all got a table when we did. What the fuck with Tuesday nights? It’s never this busy unless it’s a weekend.
Dessie seems to notice the same thing, because she nudges me and says, “It got really loud!”
I smirk and take the opportunity for a joke. “Totally loud,” I agree. “Can you ask them to keep it down? Having trouble hearing my friends here.”
She laughs too hard at that, then slaps me on the arm and says something.
I focus on her lips. “What?”
She says, “I’m happy I came.”
Squeezed into the table like she is, her breasts rise and fall with every breath. I don’t know if that’s due to her bra, or her top, or being squeezed between me and Brant, or fucking magic or what, but I’m enjoying the view as I peer down at her in all her glory.
I lean in and say, “Can’t wait ‘til you’re up there.”
She studies my eyes too long, her own glowing in the dim light that hangs above our table. If I’m not mistaking that look, I’m feeling a pull toward her lips. She’s inviting me to kiss her, just with that daring, mischievous look in her eyes.
Then she looks up at the stage. I look too, only to discover everyone applauding suddenly.
The very next moment, Dessie’s left my side. I watch as the guitarist relinquishes his stool to her, sliding to the side of the pianist as Dessie steps onto the stage. Everyone at my table is clapping, so I do the same, following their lead until I see their hands stop moving. Then the only thing in the room that’s got my attention is Dessie.
And she’s looking right at me from the stage. Her body glows under the harsh stage light. I have to say, from my experience in technical theatre, it takes a special kind of person to make ugly light look pretty.
And fuck, she does that job without trying.
Dessie’s hand runs up the microphone. She brings her lips to it, then introduces herself to the room.
But I can’t catch any of the words. Frustrated, I pull out my phone, determined to find that horrible speech-to-text app I’d downloaded. Then, coming to my rescue, Dmitri starts moving his hands for me, and I could kiss him for his keen intuition.
Hey, I’m Dessie, my awesome roommate interprets for me. Some of you know me from last time. Or last night. Or whatever, I’m not good at these things. Ha! These crazy musicians, Dirk and—what’s your name?—Lorenzo, wanted me back here to sing one of my little tunes. Want to hear it? I have something … but it’s a little angsty. I … Dmitri stops, looking up at Dessie to gather what’s happening, because she’s laughing. When she starts speaking again, he resumes: Alright, then! I’ll sing it. I hope you like it. I have no idea what the musicians are going to do, but they’re good at improvising. This one’s called, “The Liar”.
Dessie closes her eyes to bring herself to that place where all the music and beauty comes from. All that tension I saw the moment she came in, it’s like it was never there. Totally relaxed, loose as the breeze, she holds the microphone and kisses it to her pink lips.
And through Dmitri, I watch the words flow:
These nails that I wear,
the curls in my hair,
my talent and my flair,
it’s all fake. I’m a liar.
And the makeup on your face,
wearing leather or wearing lace,
or that cologne you embrace,
each just another lie, I say,
just another thing in the way.
You’re a liar, too.
That’s not how you really look.
Just another billion dollar lie
sold to you by a billion dollar book.