“So what did you think of Clancy’s?” Maverick asked once we were all seated and had rehydrated.
“It was great. I liked the vibe it had,” Weston said.
“Yeah, the crowd was great,” Baylor added with a wolfish grin.
“Who’d you take home?” I asked.
Baylor launched into a description of a stunning brunette in a sapphire blue dress. I barely paid him any attention, or any of the other guys chiming in, until Maverick said something to capture my attention.
“This Saturday.”
“What about Saturday?” I asked.
“Were you not paying attention?”
I shrugged. “Do I ever?”
“Touché. I was saying Shapiro put us down to play there again this Saturday.”
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “I’d heard Clancy’s is particular about their performers, so that’s a good sign, right?”
“You heard right. The bartender, Mina, was telling me about George—the owner—and how it was a big deal that he gave us the greenlight since he doesn’t like to stray from his normal bands.”
“Of course you got the bartender’s name,” Baylor piped up.
Maverick shrugged. “She was nice.”
“Is that all? Or were you trying to take her home?” Weston asked.
“That’s all. She was fun to talk to.” His response was stilted and had an as if tone.
“She turned you down, didn’t she?” I joked, since that wasn’t Maverick’s way of doing things at all. In the time I’d played with the guys, I’d never noticed him taking anyone home or heard him talk about his dating life much—not like Baylor, who tended to overshare.
“I didn’t bother trying. Especially after she mentioned her girlfriend.”
While the other guys sent jabs his way and chided him about Mina, my mind wandered back to Foster, and a little thrill shot through me at the idea of seeing him again. But it was only Wednesday, so that meant I had three days to wait, or to get my shit together. Because the fact of the matter was, he was only the bartender for the place I played a gig at, nothing more. Even if we had that spark of something, it could’ve easily been static electricity. And getting worked up and allowing that one moment to take control of my brain wasn’t going to cut it. I had plenty of men in my contacts to bed and my gigs at different bars to keep me busy. I didn’t have time to think about the bartender.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, buddy, I thought with a snort. Because Foster was all I’d thought about since going home the night I met him. Memories of his soft brown eyes, pouty lips, and the way they parted when our skin touched filled my brain every chance they could. And I yearned to know what his gasp sounded like out loud.
“Where else are we playing this week?” I asked, trying to shake off any thoughts of whether to quiet Foster would be more vocal during other things—like fucking.
Maverick pulled out his phone and after hitting a few buttons all our phones vibrated simultaneously, signaling we had a new message. I pulled my phone from my pocket to look at the schedule he’d sent us and nodded. We had one on Thursday and Friday at our typical places, The Piano Bar and Lady’s Place, as well as Clancy’s on Saturday.
“Looks good. I’m glad we’re growing a name for ourselves and getting more regular gigs.” I grunted and put my phone away, ignoring the text message from my sister in the process.
“Definitely. If not for The Piano Bar agreeing to take us on during our infancy, no one would have heard us play,” Baylor said.
“Well, it helps we’re good at what we do,” Weston added with a snicker.
“And our secret weapon.”
“What’s that?” I asked, feigning ignorance since I knew where Maverick was headed.
“Please, everyone stops what they’re doing to watch you during your solos,” he told me with an eyeroll.
I waved him off. “It’s only because I play the sax.”
“Not a chance. It’s because you play sex,” Baylor said.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that from them, or anyone else. But I brushed it off and changed the subject to talk about what time we needed to arrive at the bars—even if I already knew. Thankfully, they went with it, rather than spending more time ribbing me for playing the sax in what they considered a suggestive way.
I couldn’t help it, though. My body took on a life of its own whenever I played, and I just moved with the music. I hadn’t started out wanting to play the sax. Music was just something I was always around. My mother played it constantly in the house while we were growing up, and my father also fiddled around with a guitar. Since I felt like it was ingrained in my soul, I’d joined the band in middle school as one of my elective courses, but I’d wanted to play the guitar just like my dad.
But while I loved listening to the sounds it made and watching the rock stars as they poured their heart and soul into solos, it did nothing for me. It was just an instrument I was playing. So after thinking long and hard about it, I came to the conclusion that maybe playing in a band wasn’t for me, after all. I decided to stay after school one day to talk to my teacher about dropping out to join woodshop, since in that class I could play with power tools and make my mom something to display in the house.
But as I approached, the resolve I’d built to quit and join a different class melted as I heard music drifting from the door. It wasn’t anything I’d ever heard before, but it caught my attention and held on tightly as it pulled me closer and closer. Even though I was probably intruding, I couldn’t help but pull open the door and was shocked by what I saw.
My eyes widened and my pulse raced as I saw my music teacher, Mr. Hughes, positioned next to a music stand, but he wasn’t reading the sheet music. Instead, his eyes were closed as he played, and I could just see how the melody was coming from is soul and flowing through his fingers. I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt him as he played the song, a soulful piece I’d never heard before, and my fingers twitched with an urge to play it myself.
“I want to play like that,” I blurted as soon as he pulled the instrument from his mouth and paused to take a breath.
“Stellan, how long have you been standing there?” Mr. Hughes asked as his eyes narrowed.
“Long enough to know I want to play like…like that,” I said as I stepped farther into the room and gestured toward him, barely noticing the door slamming shut behind me.
Rather than lecture me about the reasons I needed to stick with the guitar and that it was wrong of me to eavesdrop, he continued to stare at me before looking down at my fingers that were still dancing to the melody that was playing in my head.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to play like that?”
Rather than just blurt out that it seemed cool, I paused and thought about my answer. “Because I could tell you weren’t just playing the instrument. You were playing the music in your heart and using the instrument as a tool to let others hear it.”
“That’s deep for a twelve-year-old,” he mused, but it wasn’t in a way to make me feel bad. “Okay, I can see you’re serious about trying. There’s a spare in the back room. Why don’t we give it a shot and see how you do?”