Sins & Needles(22)

I don’t know what it is about seeing a musician in their element, but somehow their element (which must be fire, if it has to be any of them) turns them into an animal. It simmers their being into something sexual, sensual, almost primal. Camden was no exception.

From the moment Kettle Black took the stage at Coppertank, all eyes were on Camden. It wasn’t that he had the flashy mystique of Snooty Neo, the singer, or the pushy “I call the shots” persona of mustache man-boy, the bassist. Instead he had this quiet command of his own universe. He wasn’t the most skilled guitarist I’d ever seen, and he certainly wasn’t too involved with the show. But when he was playing, you could see he was 100 percent in the moment. It was just him and his guitar, just him and the music and nothing else. It made you wonder what kind of secrets this man had because he seemed to only divulge them to the instrument in his hands.

Speaking of hands, just watching his long, delicate fingers work up and down the neck with ease was making me pant a little. I couldn’t help it. His arm muscles flexed with power and art, damp stains of sweat forming down his chest, making his shirt cling to him even more. And yet for his septum ring at the end of his nose, the tats and his steely eyes and his hard body, I knew there was the face of a young boy on his leg, a symbol of his hidden softer side. There were glasses on his face because he was smart. He was like a caring, hulking, nerd. And I wanted him.

When the show was over and they had played an encore of The Cramps “Human Fly” and “Fever” to a rowdy and ridiculous crowd, Camden joined me down at the front of the stage.

He thrust a cold beer in my hand and grinned at me. “Stole them from backstage.”

I tried to tell him what I thought of the show but I just turned into a raving fan instead. “Seriously,” I stated, “you’re awesome. You’re almost better than Poison Ivy.”

He looked bashful and wiped the sweat off his brow with the edge of his t-shirt, perfectly displaying his taut abs, lightly sheened and golden in the low bar light.

“Pretty ironic that the guitarist in The Cramps was a woman,” he noted.

I was momentarily distracted by his stomach. “Um, well you’re definitely no woman.”

“That’s not what you used to say. You know, behind my back.”

My eyes flew up to him. My gut tightened. He was smiling good-naturedly and drinking his beer. I couldn’t tell if that was a dig at me or if everything was completely cool.

My mouth flapped soundlessly as I grappled for words but he punched me lightly on the shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, Ellie.”

He laughed but I could only give him a closed smile in response. That comment made me extremely uneasy for some reason. I hoped he really was messing with me. But of course, wasn’t I messing with him? I had almost forgotten about the scapegoat and was startled as my eyes caught him as I looked around the bar.

He was staring at us a few yards away, taking methodical sips of his drink while giving us the stink-eye. Camden followed my gaze and lightly touched my wrist.

“Who is that guy?” he asked, his voice low even though the bar was too loud for the guy to hear him.

I looked away, not wanting to stir the pot too much. “I have no idea. I noticed him by the bar earlier, staring at you.”

He raised his brow. “Staring at me? I think the guy is staring at you. I can’t blame him. You’re the prettiest girl here.”

I gave him a wryly appreciative smile. “Thanks. But seriously, that guy is sketchy as all hell. Wonder what he wants?”

“Should I go ask him?” he asked, moving a step forward. I reached out and grabbed his arm to stop him. That wouldn’t be good.

“No,” I said and quickly composed myself. “You know how weird some men can be in places like this. I’m sure he’s just harmless. Maybe he thinks he knows you from somewhere. Or maybe he’s a customer. You can’t remember them all.”

Camden rubbed at his chin. “Maybe. Though you’d think I’d remember those googly eyes. Well anyway, is it cool if we leave after these beers? It’s getting late and the drive home is killer.”

I told him sure, secretly thrilled to be getting out of there now that my plan was put in motion. I was also a wee bit apprehensive about how our date would end. Would I go to his place? Would he come to mine? Would we drive out to Joshua Tree, which seemed like a different world when it was night, sit on the top of his jeep, and share a few beers (what, like I hadn’t been fantasizing about that)?

We said our goodbyes to the rest of the band and a few people Camden knew, garnered one last watchful glare from scapegoat, and then we were off, roaring down the road back toward Palm Valley.