Stacy is dressed in her usual prim cardigan that screams teacher-in-training, while I’m in a floaty miniskirt and a white gossamer blouse with open shoulders and billowy sleeves that connect at my wrists. It’s what I’d worn to my pervy photoshoot earlier and it’s one of my favorite outfits. Though part of me wanted to toss it in my apartment’s fireplace, I’d chosen instead to rock it at this bar that Charlotte suggested in the hopes that the memory of earlier would fade.
We finally reach the bar and the bartender leans over the counter, one dark eyebrow arching as he inspects our outfits.
“Two shots, hardest stuff you got,” I shout, glaring at him and daring his eyes to wander down the front of my nearly translucent shirt. Though I like attention, I don’t like to be ogled. There’s a stark difference between appreciation and aggression. “The cheaper the better,” I add, internally noting the lack of funds in my bank account.
“You sure?” the bartender asks, visibly taken aback by my request. “We’ve got some real cheap stuff back here. It’ll grow hair on your chest, lady.”
I lean over the bar toward him, my elbows brushing the slightly sticky surface. “Do I look like I’m not sure?”
A slow grin spreads over the bartender’s face. With a nod, he holds up one of his hands in surrender while he grabs his cocktail shaker with his other.
“Don’t bother to chill them,” I bark, feeling bossy.
“Um, or do?” Stacy pipes up, quieting when I turn my death glare toward her. “Never mind . . .” she mumbles with a faint pout on her full lips.
She hooks her arm around mine again, pulling me toward her so that I can hear her voice over the music playing through speakers. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, I’m just thirsty.”
I turn away from Stacy, not wanting her to push me for more. The stage is empty though the red curtain occasionally flutters back and forth as people walk behind it. I’d heard live music playing as we approached on the sidewalk. I guess we’d missed it by a hair. Hopefully the band will be back on the stage soon. Charlotte had promised some good music and I needed an excuse to dance away my drama, as she put it. Plus, a stiff drink and some loud music was always my preferred method of destressing.
“Morgan?” Stacy asks, giving me a gentle squeeze. “What’s got you all worked up?”
When I don’t answer right away, she begins self-consciously tugging at her tan cardigan. I can tell by her face that she wishes she’d gone home to change before coming out in her teaching gear.
She doesn’t notice the eyes of the other guys wandering over toward her, drinking in the sight of her like they’re drinking in their cocktails. We stick out, making everybody else interested. Funnily enough, instead of enjoying the idea of being marveled at, I find that I’m annoyed instead. Though I’d been hoping a night out would be just what I needed to blow off some steam and relax, I find myself getting more worked up instead. I want to tell each and every man looking our way to shove off. The last thing I want is another guy’s attention after that perv of a fake photographer tried to feel me up earlier.
Normally, I tell Stacy everything, but at this moment I’m just not ready to deal with my life. I feel like a failure, like I’m never going to be a successful model, like my life will be endless car shows and fake studio shoots.
Though I know Stacy probably won’t leave it alone, I still offer her a vague answer. “I had a bad day,” I settle on saying artlessly.
“I guessed as much,” Stacy answers, unimpressed.
Frowning at me, she thanks the bartender as he passes us the shots. He’s overpoured them, giving us doubles instead of the singles I’d requested. I’m not quite ready to speak to another man kindly yet, but I do my best to soften the edge of my expression so that I look at least partially grateful for the extra booze.
He winks as though he did me a favor, accepting a few bills that Stacy thrusts into his hand before he turns toward other waiting people at the bar.
“Now,” Stacy orders, lifting her shot up toward me, “we’re going to drink this and then you’re going to tell me what made today so bad.”
Even under the dim lights, I can see that the liquid in our shot glasses is tinted a yellow that makes my tongue prickle, like it does before I eat sour candy. I can tell this shot is going to hurt, but I’m so damn ready for it. A hangover is a welcome improvement over how I feel right now.
“I’m just so over men!” I grumble before I can help it, still holding my shot midair. “I’m never dating again. I’m done. I’ll be single forever just so I don’t have to deal with guys anymore. They’re all the same, undignified and womanizing.”
Stacy just giggles when I finish my rant, clearly unconvinced. She doesn’t speak, choosing instead to smile at me.
“No, you don’t get it, Stacy. I mean it this time!”
“I’m sure you do,” she finally offers sympathetically. “To no more men.”
“Cheers,” I say lifting my glass toward my lips as Stacy follows suit.
Behind me, music begins to play from the stage as the band finally returns. I listen to those first few thuds of the drums before guitar chords fly toward me like invisible arrows. Each one hits its mark, making my spine straighten and my lungs freeze.
Slowly, I start turning toward the remarkable music just as a deep and gruff voice swells through the air. Even though I’ve never believed I was all that into rock music, the skin of my bare shoulders explodes with goose bumps like I’ve just tumbled feet first into a winter stream. The burn of the cheap shot stings my lips, but I barely feel it. I’m too entranced by the soulful voice piercing my heart.
A lone beam of light illuminates him, the shot glass slipping from between my fingers. I don’t hear it clatter against the floor. I am entirely, completely, irresistibly, drawn toward the man singing on the stage. I feel as though I can’t even control my body, like the dance is winding its way out of my soul.
He sways to the beat, a red guitar in his large hands. The spotlight glows upon his toned body, his head tilted back just slightly so that he can sing from the very bottom of his heart.
I’ve never heard anyone with a voice like that.
“I wonder if he’s Sally,” I whisper numbly, making Stacy stare at me in utter bewilderment.
“What?” she asks, but her voice melts away behind me, fading into the background.
All I can hear is his beautiful voice.
His gaze sweeps over the writhing bodies of the crowd as he rocks back and forth, expertly strumming the red guitar in his hands. I can’t help but to wonder what else those hands are capable of. Then, like I’m a magnet and he’s a steel bar, he finds me. Our eyes suddenly lock in the most intense way. My breath is frozen in my lungs, my blood boiling in my veins, my heart pounding to his music.
I keep expecting him to look away, but he never does.
My feet pull me toward the stage. His voice slowly quiets, earning confused looks from the other two men on the stage. He continues to stare at me, his jaw dropping just slightly. I can no longer hear the beat of the drums. I can no longer see anything but his dark eyes. Those black irises are deep and endless pools with something hidden within them. Something I must discover.