Red Hot Blues (4 page)

I think it’d kill me.

This is my life now. I’m happy with it. I’m a
little lonely, I know that, but I’m happy.

And I’m safe.

I have my girl Layna, I have my bike, I have
my library, I have my Honey Whiskey, and, most of all, I have my
voice.

I juggle these things and try and bring them
up to being a whole.

I know there’s an element missing. I know it.
But I won’t go there. Hurts too much. So, for now, I’m making the
best of what I have. And I think I’m doing pretty well, I think
I’ve survived it pretty good.

Many women go through their lives single.
It’s OK. And I’m OK with it.

What I’m not OK with, is being dumped the way
I was. It just wasn’t right.

It wasn’t. It was inhumane, it was cowardly.
If it had happened today, maybe I would have stood up for myself.
Maybe I would have slapped him once. At least once, and then walked
off.

But I’m not confident enough to do that.

So I slap with my voice.

And my favorite songs to slap with are
Adele’s
Rolling in the Deep
or
Set Fire to the Rain
or
Rumour Has It
.

Adele writes angry songs.

I like Adele.

And then I met Ace Travers.

And all my ideas about boys changed.

They. All.
Changed
.

Tuesday night, Open Jam night. I’d noticed
him. Of course I’d noticed him. I might be self-conscious and
unconfident and scared of having my heart shattered into millions
of smattering pieces, but I notice boys. One of my and Layna’s
favorite pastimes is sitting at the Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon
or going down to Robert’s Western World on Broadway on a Friday
night and whistling up a storm of sexiness at the beefcakes walking
past.

Nashville has a lot of beefcakes. You gotta
give em that.

The Boogie Blues Bar is laid out as follows:
Tables right up front, before the stage, otherwise known as “The
Pit.” Tables behind that, a little higher up, about level with the
stage. And then tables on the second floor—the gallery—looking down
on the stage.

I like sitting down at the pit, right under
the stage, because I can get a good look at the acts.

Tonight was packed. It always is on Open Jam
night. I know most of the acts and the guys that come in to jam.
There’s always the occasional passer-by, someone hauling a guitar
or a sax, making his way through town and stopping by to do a quick
gig. There’s no money involved, it’s all done for the love of
it.

I noticed this guy sitting three tables down,
holding a git on his lap—red Gibson, good quality—legs crossed and
looking up at the stage. Max T was tuning his guitar. Vince Summers
was flipping through some pages. This guy with a Gibson was staring
up at them, tapping his foot, his other leg crossed over his
knee.

He was hot. So I smiled. A girl can smile,
can’t she? He was looking away from me at the time. He looked a
little preoccupied actually.

I was secretly grinning to myself, sipping on
a Mardi Gras Hurricane (Layna arranges all my drinks at
half-price), waiting for the show to get going. Max T and Vince
were the “official” gig for the night. After that, all the Open
Jammers would go on. Everyone gets mixed and matched by Max and you
end up playing with all sorts of characters each week.

Max T did his show. More people arrived. I
had another drink and hit a great buzz. The Blues and Nothing But
The Blues was played. And I was feeling mellow. The Blues Bar never
gets old.

Then Max called out the musicians that would
make up the first Open Jam band. They played. Pretty good stuff.
There was a sixteen year-old kid who grooved an Elvis tune so good
that I stood up and shook his hand afterwards. I was impressed.

While I was doing it, I noticed the hot guy
from earlier—black hair, like mine—looking up at me. And was he
smiling?

I dress up whenever I go out. I put on
mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, the works. I don’t overdo it, but I
like to look stylish. I think a singer should carry herself
confidently. I’m not doing it for the guys, because I know my body
doesn’t do it for guys, but I don’t want to be a stereotypical fat
chick who wears sweatpants that make her ass look big and who looks
like she just got out of bed. Style is everything. Aretha had it,
so I try and emulate it. My hair is real short. It’s like a
pixie-bob-cut style, with long wisps that go down in front of my
ears and then curl up. It’s supposed to make my round face look
longer, and I’m all for anything that makes my round anything look
longer.

On that night I had on a simple dress that
hung straight down over my breasts, and the breasts were pushed up.
A small benefit of having a few extra pounds is that your breasts
carry some of them. They look great in a push-up bra, just not so
great when they’re out of one.

I sat back down and waited for the next act.
And then the black-haired dude introduced himself to me. Just like
that. It happens at the Blues Bar. The Blues crowd is a very
effusive crowd, always saying things like “How you doin?” and then
smiling and putting their hand out to you.

And there he was, leaning down across two
extra tables, with his hand out in greeting, saying, “What’s
happenin? I’m Ace.”

His smile was juicy deadly. Perfect teeth, a
glint of badness in his deep brown eyes, eyes redolent with
confidence. I had a moment of giddiness as I stared at him. I’m a
girl. I can have those moments, OK? I was perving, sure. And I’m
allowed to.

That he had his palm open instead of a closed
fist showed me he wasn’t from here.

I put my hand out and gave him a good hard
shake. That’s what dudes dig, I figured. And this wasn’t flirting
or anything, the dude was just saying hello. And I was just saying
hello back. “Ginger,” I said.

Then he moved up next to me. He was so close
to me that I could smell his cologne. My palms gushed. I wiped them
on my dress.

There was really no reason to be reacting
this way. Sure, he was hot. And? I’ve spoken to plenty of hot dudes
at the Blues Bar—most of them drunk, sure—and then we’ve gone our
separate ways. But suddenly I was feeling...different.

At the time I couldn’t place it. It was only
later, much later, after Ace was already gone, that I finally did:
Ace introduced himself to me
before
I sang. No hot dude has
ever done that to me at the Blues Bar.
Ever
. The only thing
sexy about me is my voice.

So what could this guy really want?

“You ever played here before?” he asked.

“Actually, I sing. And, yeah, I sing here all
the time.”

He wiped his hands on his jeans. I did my
best not to gawk at them, or at his clearly muscular legs. I tried
my best to not do a lot of things. I tried my best to just
focus
on the damn stage
! It all failed.

“You sing?” He was genuinely interested.
Genuinely smiling.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe we can do a song together
tonight.”

OK, he was clearly hitting on me now, and
that made me uncomfortable. “Well, Max sets all the people up
according to skill level. How long you been playing?”

“All my life. You?”

“Uhm, all my life?”

He laughed. And I laughed as well. “Sorry,”
Ace said, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I mean, I’m not
hitting on you or anything”—
oh, great, you’re not?
—“but it
looked like you know your way around here. So I just figured I’d
say hello.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “‘Way around here’?
What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you just seem to know everyone here.
They all say hello to you, smile at you. So, I just figured you’re
a regular—and that you know music. And that we could maybe play a
song together.”

I was getting suspicious. It sure sounded
like he was hitting on me. Play a song together? “Max also knows
about music,” I said defensively.

Ace looked up at Max. Max looked a little
upset. “Let’s just say you’re, uhm, a little more
‘approachable.’”

Good point.

“Well,” I said, “OK, point taken, but—”

I didn’t finish, because the next band
started playing.

Ace and I clapped our hands and bobbed our
heads and both shouted excitedly when the lead guitarist hit a
smooth lick that seemed to ricochet off a speeding Lamborghini
because of its coolness. When they were done, Ace asked me, “You
were saying?”

I was?

I’d been transported. It suddenly seemed so
normal to be sitting with a taller guy next to me, enjoying blues,
half-expecting him to put his hand on my leg—

Whoa! Gin! Get a grip!

“Uhm, what was I saying?”

He laughed again, shrugged.

“I forgot,” I admitted.

A warmness engulfed me. You know that
feeling—it’s not moist, it’s not dry, it’s comfortable. Comfortable
warmth.

It’s a dangerous feeling.

I saw something peeking out of his gray tee
by his arm, a tat of some sort. But nothing on his forearms. His
skin looked pretty “virginal” by Nashville standards.

And his arms were firm, muscular. Not
Schwarzenegger size, but strong and sinewy.

And then I was transported again. I was
suddenly imagining his tee off, my lips on his nipples, tracing
lines over the probably gargantuan tattoo on his chest (if there
even was one), feeling the weight of my breasts fall on his lips
while his tongue flicked out and his hands grabbed the flesh
on—

Yikes!

I looked away, took a freaking deep breath!
And laughed internally at myself. Yeah, I’m just another girl, with
All-American Girl Hormones that sometimes have a mind of their own.
And that’s OK. A girl can dream.

But I did feel more comfortable around him
after the music.

And that’s when I made my first mistake:

I let my guard down.

And I started talking to him. I started
getting to
know
him. And before long, I liked him. I liked
him a lot.

And it began to hurt all over again.

The ache comes and goes. And I can’t even
tell you it’s all because of Brett. I’ve told you I don’t regret
that night with him. And I don’t. I think it was romantic—outside,
under the open sky. I think Brett is an asshole and didn’t have the
push-through to stand up to his friends or something like that the
next day.

But I definitely don’t regret that night.

I loved him, as much as a girl can love at
that age. For me, back then, it
was
love. And I won’t call
it anything else.

Besides, can you imagine me being twenty-one
and still a virgin? Jeez!

Maybe if I’d tried harder I might have gotten
another guy. Gotten “laid” (to be crude.) But I wasn’t “laid” that
night with Brett. I had a magical night that will always be perfect
to me.

The night
itself
will be perfect to
me, not what happened afterwards.

So, knowing that,
is
that what makes
me ache? Or is this an ache we all feel when we’re alone,
regardless of past pain, past experiences? All I know is that it
hits me, the loneliness, the sadness, like a freight train. It’s an
actual hurt, a suffering, deep inside me.

And it happens, ironically, not when I’m
alone, but when I’m with someone. Someone I like. And when I sense
I’m going to lose them.

“You in town for long?” I asked Ace.

He was looking up at the next motley crew
getting its instruments together, doing sound tests. “Leaving after
the show.”

It felt like a punch to my chest. See what I
mean about that fear of losing someone?

“You really don’t wanna do a song together?”
he asked.

“Why is it so important to you?” I was
getting suspicious again.

His lip twitched once on the left, so little
that I almost didn’t see it. He glared me down. I’d even dare to
say that he was...smirking?

His face was magical. Absolutely...magical.
And I know, I know, that’s ridiculous, but I wasn’t in love with
him, OK? I was
entranced
by his pure
manliness
and
his
coolness
. The dude barely batted an eyelid. He spoke
confidently. His chest rose and fell calmly. His tee wrapped his
chest perfectly.

And then there was his smile, two dimples on
either side, and his dark brown eyes.

There was something in those eyes. The way he
looked at me. A depth. An emotion. Something. Something deeper.
Darker? And although this thing I’m telling you about now happened
a week ago today, last Tuesday, I know what I saw. I sensed a
shadow there. An unspoken moment where everything
is
spoken.

That unspoken moment moved me. And I said,
simply, “OK,” not letting him answer my earlier question (it didn’t
look like he was going to anyway), “I’ll sing with you.”

The twitch broke into a glorious grin. To be
cliché: A “panty-dropping” grin. But let me blunt,
so
blunt:
I would absolutely have dropped my panties for him that night if
he’d asked me to. I would. They say you learn from your mistakes.
But no one says you never repeat your mistakes.

As things would turn out, he never asked me
to do that that night, but I would have—just for the record.

This is how it played out:

I went to Max, asked him to show me the
roster. He showed me the yellow notepad paper and I said I wanted
to sing with “the new guy.” Max looked over at Ace behind me,
blinked once, then said, “No problem, honey.” Just like that. No
questions asked.

Ace had been right, apparently I did “know my
way around here.”

I walked back to Ace. I was suddenly nervous.
I’m always a
little
nervous when I sing, but not to the
point where I wonder if I’ll fall off my heels. I was starting to
wonder about that now. And I don’t know why.