"Your fingers are talented, but no match for my tongue.
Open the vestibule … I'll have you screaming out your lungs.
Stop with the monologue
And let's start a dialogue.
I'm hungry to taste your nectar.
Spread your legs, shut your eyes
Let me quench my thirst between your thighs.
My favorite part
My favorite part of you."
Oh wow. Was he singing about … ? No … yes. Holy mackerel-that's hot.
I squirmed in my seat. His words had the same impact on all the girls lined up against the stage area. They whistled and hooted as if they were competing in an enthusiasm contest.
"It's time for a break," he announced when the song was over. A good thing too, since the room might self-combust.
A chorus of claps, whistles and sighs followed him as he walked toward the bar. Then the owners of those sounds literally followed him, taking up every vacant seat at the bar.
"What's going on?" I asked a girl next to me. I understood gushing but this seemed ridiculous.
"Evan in intermission is almost as good as the show," she replied.
Evan hadn't seen me yet. How could he? I was suddenly wedged between thirty girls. He threw a bottle in the air and caught it before filling three shot glasses and sliding them down the bar.
"How many bottles have you broken doing that?" I asked.
He turned to me, his look of surprise quickly replaced by a large grin. "Too many to count. It's good to see you, Billie."
I'd been hoping he'd remember me, but our talk was so brief, I hadn't counted on it. "It's good to be here, Evan."
"What are you drinking?"
"Vodka."
"No mixer? No chaser?"
I shrugged. "Why dilute it?"
He chuckled. "You're talking my language." He reached for a bottle under the counter.
"The Grey Goose, please."
He let out a low whistle before reaching for the frosted bottle. "Top shelf … Nice."
"Why settle?"
"Indeed." He set the drink in front of me and poured one for himself. "Did you come to see me?"
"Sort of."
"Are you going to tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood?"
"Would you believe I got on the wrong bus?"
"Sometimes you can get on the wrong bus and still manage to get off at the right stop."
"That's very philosophical."
"I have my moments." He clinked his shot glass against mine. "Here's to chance meetings."
"And great music," I said, lifting my glass.
"So you stopped by for the music?" he asked.
"And the company. And to return this." I tossed the penny to him. He caught it in mid-air. "I'm sorry, I must have put it in my pocket that day."
"You came all this way to return it?"
"Plus, I really needed a stiff drink … or ten."
"Why is that?"
"You ever have one of those days when you thought your life was going in a certain direction and the rug gets pulled from under you?"
"I've had my share."
I swallowed hard, realizing the stupidity of my statement. "I … ah-"
He cut me off. "Billie, don't be afraid to say things in front of me. I don't tell people about my past because they tend to edit themselves around me."
"Why did you tell me then?"
"You asked the question, and I thought you wouldn't be one of those people. Don't disappoint me. Tell me what happened." He frowned, taking in my face. "Have you been crying?"
I swiped my face, even though that didn't do anything to make the puffiness in my eyes disappear.
A girl called from the end of the counter, "Evan, can you pour me a drink or a shot, or better yet, a body shot?" It wasn't the first of these calls since he'd been talking to me, but she was by far the most obnoxious.
"I don't want to take up anymore of your time. It looks like you're very busy."
He looked down the length of the bar as if he hadn't noticed all the girls lined up there. There were three other bartenders getting drinks but the fangirls were all competing for his attention.
"I'm off the clock, darling. I don't bartend tonight. I was just getting myself a drink." He turned back to me.
"I bet you could have your pick of any girl here," I said.
He leaned closer to me, his mouth hovering right above my ear. "Why settle?"
A shiver coursed through me. He took our glasses in one hand and the bottle. "Follow me."
The bar felt intimate but it was actually quite large. He led me to a carved bench with a few cushions against a wall. I traced the intricate pattern of the wood that formed the sweeping branches of a tree.
"This is beautiful."
"Thanks. I made it."
"You did?" The craftsmanship spoke clearly of his skill, proving that his artistic talents weren't limited to music.
"We needed more seating, but a sofa isn't practical. People spill too many drinks around here."
"That makes sense."
He pushed up the sleeve of his shirt. On the back of his forearm, inked in neat tiny black script, were words. God, I loved words. I soaked them up like the sweetest champagne, and the taste stayed with me long after the bottles ran empty. These particular words, strung together with such fierce beauty, meant a great deal to me.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
"Dylan Thomas," I whispered.
He followed my gaze toward his tattoo. "My favorite poem."
"Mine too." I swallowed, trying to wrap my head around the fact that Evan and I shared an appreciation for this romantic poem. My fingers trembled to stroke those words.
I tipped back another drink, drowning the fantasy, slashing it before it took shape. Girl up, Billie.
"What happened, Price? Obviously, you had a bad day."
"Thank you, Daniel Powter."
He chuckled. "You always try to avoid questions with a joke?"
Yes, I did, because the space between us was both claustrophobic and magnetic at the same time. "I lost my job today."
"I thought you were writing a book."
"I am. That's my dream, but it doesn't exactly pay the bills. I had a day job too. Or at least I did, writing for this magazine."
"Did you like it?"
"No." The lack of hesitation in my voice surprised me.
"Were you thinking about quitting?"
"No."
"Well, then the way I see it, this worked out for the best. Sometimes we all need a little kick in the ass. Maybe this was yours."
"I didn't think about it like that."
"People have a tendency not to fight for their own happiness."
"That's true."
"Did I do good? Are you all cheered up now?"
"That wasn't the only bad thing that happened today."
"What else?"
Maybe it was the three shots of vodka or the fact that I wanted to challenge him … or maybe it was just that the wig was burning up my scalp. I took it off, running my fingers through my hair. A few of the patrons next to us gasped. "I got my hair cut."
His lips twitched, almost curving into a smile.
"Don't humor me and tell me it looks good. I know it doesn't."
"That's not what I was going to say."
"Then what?"
He shrugged, his mouth curving in a crooked smile. "Something along the lines of … it's a good thing hair grows back."
I giggled, refilling my glass. "I thought you'd be more shocked."
"Honey, I'm from the south. You think I've never seen a mullet before?" He leaned closer to me. "The haircut's awful, but you … Well, there is nothing not right about you, Billie."
What could you say to that? "You're an amazing musician and"-I ran my hands over the bench-"carpenter, but I think you'd do better as a professional cheerer-upper."
"Is that an actual job?"
"If it's not, it should be." We were silent for a while. Enough time I was able to silently recite all six stanzas of Dylan Thomas' inspirational poem. "Why do you think you're a bad guy, Evan?"
"I don't."
"That's what you said the other day."
"No, it's not. I said I wasn't a good guy."
"What's the difference?"
His jaw tightened. "I'm the kind of guy that leaves. The one you can't count on. Do you understand?"
"Are you telling me you're responsible for a string of broken hearts?"
"Something like that. You said I could get any girl in here. The truth is, I already have."
"I see." The two words came out strained.
"And it's strange because I'm honest about it, and you'd think I'd never get fucked because of it, but just the opposite happens."