Page 7 of For Puck’s Sake (Seattle Vipers #2)
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“ F ive minutes, Brea,” Dean says as he approaches me from beside the stage. The dimple in his right cheek pops as he smiles with his hand outstretched, my requested steaming cup of green tea and honey waiting for me.
Reaching for the to-go cup, I offer him an appreciative smile. “Thanks, D.” Instinctively, I blow into the lid before putting it to my lips and taking a sip. There are only a few things I ask for before I perform. My rider is short in comparison to a lot of the big names in the business. I require my favorite stool, my bespoke vintage mic and mic stand, Bessie, of course, and tea. Green tea and honey to be specific. I am not a diva, I don’t ask for much, even though I know I can. I don’t see a need. Especially here in my hometown. Sure, in bigger venues I would have a band to back me and a more intricate set up, but this is an intimate setting. I want every night here to be exactly that, low key, just me and my guitar.
“Can I get you anything else? Your friend Red wants to know if you need water on hand as well,” he asks as he rolls up the sleeves of his black button-down shirt, exposing the musical notes tattooed down his forearms. Tilting my head to the side, I take him in. Dressed in his typical backstage uniform of all black, Dean is model-worthy. His smooth brown skin is flawless, with big brown eyes full of mischief and charm, and, of course, the signature panty melting dimples. Too bad I don’t see him in that light anymore. But for someone else though . . . maybe I could introduce him to one of the girls.
“I can grab water from the bar later,” I reply, inclining my head toward the direction of the bar. At the moment we’re standing behind the same red velour curtain I stood behind all those years ago when I first made an appearance here. I can’t see the people sitting at the tables and booths beyond the stage or the bar bustling with locals demanding their drinks of choice, but I can hear them.
Dean runs his hand over his bottom lip, lost in thought. I don’t miss the look of longing on his face. I know he wants to say more to me, but he refrains. Yes, Haynes, keep it professional. The last thing I want to do is talk about us, when there is no us. Again, I internally berate myself for making things between us so complicated. Dean is a musician in his own right, he plays the piano, and has a voice as smooth as honey. It’s how we first met, playing in some of the same venues in Seattle. But instead of pushing for his own record deal, he opted to be my road manager, performing a duet or two with me on occasion.
Dean clears his throat, pulling me from my thoughts and nods his head in understanding. I guess he realizes this is not the time or the place to talk about whatever is on his mind. I’m sure I have an idea considering what he did this morning at the radio station.
“Have a good show, Brea. My keyboard isn’t set up, so I assume you won’t need me tonight,” he says backing away from me slowly as I shake my head no. The song we usually duet together is not on my set list tonight. Plus, I need to create as much space between us as possible. I don’t want to share the stage with him so soon. Singing together used to be easy, but now, the lyrics to the songs we sing sit too heavy on my tongue, and well, they’re too personal.
“Nope. I’m good. I’m going to do something different tonight,” I reply as he gives me an awkward thumbs up, turns and walks away. Okay, well, I expected tonight to be a little off with him. Eventually, things will go back to normal between us. I hope.
With that settled, at least for now, I take one last sip of my tea and place it down on the little side table. Rolling my shoulders, I smooth my hand over my strapless white handkerchief blouse, the flowing hem hangs loose over my black skinny jeans. I check the buckles of my knee-high boots and test the heel for good measure. I’m usually a little more bohemian on stage but opted to look edgier tonight. This is Lark Bay. I’m sure everyone heard the interview this morning or news spread as soon as I stepped out of my jeep a week ago. The word is out, and I know without a doubt almost everyone in town is waiting behind that curtain to see me. Perhaps even my parents, to the detriment of my peace of mind. But I will cross that rocky bridge if and when it presents itself.
“Ready?” Red asks as she brushes past me and steps out on stage before I can reply. She glances at me for confirmation as I stand behind the stationary curtain shielding me from the audience. I reach down and scoop Bessie up in my arms. It’s all the communication needed between us as she approaches the mic, and the noise of the crowd dies down.
The semi-circle stage is bathed in a soft ambient light from the two spotlights aimed down on my stool and the mic Red now stands behind. She tucks her bar towel into the back pocket of her jeans and begins to speak.
“Lark Bay,” as soon as the name of our town leaves her lips, the audience goes wild. The sound of whistles and shouts of approval fill me with quiet anticipation of what’s to come. Red waves her hands up and down to quiet everyone once more, and like a choir director leading her choir they follow her lead. “I don’t think I really need to introduce one of our own. It’s been a while since she’s been home, but we welcome her back with open arms just the same. Tonight begins the first stop on her national tour, and I can’t tell you how proud and honored I am to host her here for the next couple of weeks. Help me bring her to the stage, Lark Bay,” Red begins to clap, and the cheers turn to hoots and hollers from the audience as they clap with her. “Come on, bestie, come put on a show. Brea Brookes everyone.” Red says, then pulls her bar towel from her back pocket and tosses it over her shoulder. She steps off the stage and weaves through the crowd without a backward glance and heads back to the bar, turning the stage over to me.
I walk out to more applause, taking in the room filled to capacity. Even the balcony is standing room only. I smile at the turnout. I expected it, yes, but it’s moments like this that I will never take for granted. The thrill and exhilaration of an audience, the excitement I feel to sit and play. Pure joy . The room begins to go quiet as I perch on the edge of my stool. Holding Bessie in one hand, I reach out with my other and pull my mic closer.
“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Brea Brookes,” I introduce myself.
Someone from the balcony shouts, “Welcome home, Brea!”
I glance up, shielding my eyes against the glare of the light just in time to see my friend Tasha from The Flying Saucer Diner leaning over the railing with a beer in hand. She waves manically, beer sloshing over her hand and I, fuck it, I wave back. She is good and properly drunk. I love it. There’s nothing like coming home. I was wary at first, but no matter what my reservations were, this is home and I’m going to enjoy my time here.
I immediately start to tap my heel on the stage floor, the sound creates a hollow beat echoing through the now quiet bar. Now that I’ve got the audience’s attention, I begin to snap along to the rhythm. “I’m going to need you all to help me with this one,” I say to the crowd as I raise my hand in the air and continue snapping my fingers. “Snap with me.”
I love playing follow the leader, giving the audience a task is one of my favorite things to do. It’s how I know they’re with me. In a venue like this, it adds to the intimacy of the experience. I let the wave of snaps wash over me and begin to rock my body in time with the beat. I let the sound linger for just a little longer, until I stop snapping. The crowd continues as I settle into the stool and begin to play. I throw my head back, happiness fills me as I strum the chords, then I get lost in the lyrics.
Woke up with a smile today,
The weight’s gone, I’m on my way.
Sunshine pouring through my window,
Feel its warmth, let it flow.
No more worries, no more fears.
Just the sound of my happy tears.
The snapping continues as I ease into the chorus, my heart soars as I hear my lyrics sung back to me. It never gets old. I’m a maestro and the crowd my symphony. Multiple voices blend together to the accompaniment of my guitar. It almost gives off an acapella vibe as I go back to stomping my heel and snapping my fingers abruptly. I silence Bessie for the next part of the song. The crowd reacts as I thought they would. They all continue to sing right along with me.
It’s the freedom of happiness,
Living my dream, nothing less.
No more guilt, no more shame,
I’m flying high, dancing in the rain.
It’s the freedom of happiness,
Living life, oh so sweet,
I got the whole wide world beneath my feet.
The snaps turn into claps as I stand and start strumming my guitar again, picking up exactly where I left off. I engage the crowd, giving a few members of the audience my sole attention as I sing to them directly. I spot my old music teacher from elementary school, Ms. Garrison, sitting at one of the tables. She beams up at me with pride in her eyes, giving me the ‘I taught her that’ look as she bobs to the beat. Dean taps his thigh to the beat as he leans against the side wall closest to the bar. Red serves drinks to a packed bar, but I don’t miss her singing along with me. I rock to the music, adrenaline pumping through me as the song flows from my lips with ease. This is one of my upbeat numbers. I didn’t want to start the night on a somber note and with the jovial, celebratory response from the crowd, I hit the mark. Every choice I’ve made, good or regretful, has brought me here. In front of the people who rooted for me and even those who thought I ruined my chances of success when I walked away from a formal musical institution of prominence. For the first time in a long time, like the title of this song, I feel the freedom in my own happiness. I don’t let the burdens of my heavy heart weigh me down. I let it all go, right here on this stage.
Let the music take control,
Feel the joy within my soul.
Every day a new surprise,
Only love reflected in my eyes.
I’m riding the high of the lyrics as I finish the bridge of the song. I’m so lost in the words; I’ve closed my eyes. My head rocks back and forth as I give my best Stevie Wonder impression, I feel the sound as it pulses through me. I can hear the crowd, the snaps, the claps, the shouts of encouragement. It builds and builds to a crescendo, until I drop back down from the heavens of musical bliss and ease into the instrumental ending of the song.
Then I feel it. In a room full of people with their eyes trained on me. There is an undeniable weight of a penetrating gaze. I don’t need to open my eyes to know who it is. My soul found him the first time we met, and it continues to seek him even with all the distance between us. My brain demands that my heart see reason, because despite my deep-rooted emotions, nothing good can come from his presence. The yearning, the call to go to him is absolute though. I want to keep this moment to myself. Bask in the performance and keep myself ignorant to his proximity. But like the glutton I am, I open my eyes as I play out the end of the song. The crowd roars, cheering and screaming, as I go into the next song. Even my subconscious wants to dig the daggers deeper. My fingers have a mind of their own as I go into my cover version of The Beatle’s ‘Something’. I’m transported back in time, to another performance, where he stood in the exact same spot. Where he tipped his beer back, eyes never leaving mine as I sang for him.
Tonight is no different. No matter how many times I turn my attention elsewhere, my eyes find him. There is a shift in my performance after that. Song after song, I sing and play, giving the crowd everything while Ridley never leaves his spot in the back of the room. Why are you here? I want to scream into the mic. Why now? As if the news of his potential child wasn’t enough to shred me to pieces. He’s here and the way he’s looking at me rips me wide open. He watches me, as if for the first time, with surprise, if the widening of his eyes is any indication, then awe.
Did he not know I was here? Did he just happen to show up to Red’s by chance? No, I find it hard to believe. I take in his appearance, he’s relaxed, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. The crowd is none the wiser about who’s among them. Right now, he blends in effortlessly. Maybe this is by chance. He doesn’t draw attention to himself, when usually the room would have parted like the Red Sea to get a glimpse of him. No, he taps his hand against his thigh, enjoying this moment like everyone else.
Ridley always told me he could never get enough of the sound of my voice and how captivating I am on stage. I never truly believed him until now. He watches me transfixed, obsessively, eyes barely blinking. It’s as if he thinks closing them for too long will make me vanish like a mirage. Or I’m delusional and imagining it all . I am real though, live and in color. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but I can’t drown, I won’t allow myself.
It’s so easy to love him. There was never a time when I fell out of love. But love, though potent in its own right, is never enough to build a steady foundation when it comes to a relationship. I remind myself why things didn’t work out between us. I open old wounds and let the hurt take hold. I relive our relationship, written in the words of most of my songs, my heart mends, shatters, and ultimately falls apart. I let Ridley see it all—my most vulnerable self—and I leave it at his feet. By the time I leave the stage, applause and cheers fade into the background, and I’m left raw and exposed.
I leave a very confused Dean to sort out the stage. But of course, he can’t let me exit with grace. Oh no, it’s too much to ask to go back to Tor’s and lick my wounds.
“I didn’t know you invited him,” Dean says as he grabs my forearm to stop me from walking past him. My head snaps in his direction, lips purse at his audacity. I look to where his hand is holding my arm and back up to his face. I’m not in the mood for his passive aggressive jealous boyfriend act.
“One: Are we going to have a problem?” I lift my brow in challenge. He has the nerve to look angry, but he lessens his hold, but not completely. “Two: I didn’t invite him, but even if I had”—I shrug, pulling myself away from him and stepping back—“it’s none of your business. Do your job Dean, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I grab Bessie, slip my guitar case strap over my shoulder and leave him speechless. Good, because I don’t have the strength to fight him tonight. I keep my head down as I rush past the distracted crowd and exit Red’s without a backward glance.
I mentally berate myself for not saying goodbye to Red, but I’ll see her tomorrow night. The show must go on and all that. I have plenty of performances to make up for my speedy exit. I jump into my jeep and pause. I hit my steering wheel so hard my palm stings from the impact. Checking my hand to make sure I didn’t damage anything I lean my head against the wheel instead. I ran again. I couldn’t face him, and I don’t know how I feel about it. No matter how hard I try, I can’t escape Ridley Masters. I should be able to open my mouth and speak to the man that meant so much to me. Right now, I’m a coward. I want to be upset he didn’t chase me, but I’m grateful he didn’t. Knowing Ridley, he just might. I start my jeep and leave Red’s. My only hope is his presence in Lark Bay tonight is a coincidence and tonight will be the last time I set my eyes on him.
A girl can dream, right? Even as I think it, I know its wishful. It seems the universe wants us to have it out once and for all. In a small town like Lark Bay, there will be no place to hide, and our clash is inevitable.