At that point, no one was thinking about the other stages. The ones that got progressively hurtful and shouty and ended in the office of an attorney.
* * *
Layla considered herself a mood performer, and that night at Connie’s she was feeling a combination of kick-ass and sultry. The band had opened the set with a screaming rendition of Lita Ford’s “Kiss Me Deadly,” with Layla on lead vocals. Onstage, she was a lot less sugar and a hell of a lot more spice, and she moved across the small space like a lioness stalking its prey. She sang about being kissed once and then twice, and more than one guy in the audience wondered what that might be like. They followed the opening song with “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette, and by then Layla was completely in her element.
They kicked it down a notch with Fiona Apple’s “Criminal” and Sarah McLachlan’s “Building a Mystery.” Layla had loved so much of the music that had come out of the last three decades, especially the releases by female artists that felt like they’d been tailor-made for someone like her.
On “Picture” by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow, their bass player, Rick, a tall guy with longish hair, stared into Layla’s eyes as they sang. The two of them shared a microphone, and a casual observer might have wondered if there was something between them, but she and Rick simply sounded good together and they sang the hell out of that song.
Layla strummed a few opening notes and announced that this would be their last song of the night. “This is a new original tune. We hope you like it.”
She sat down on a stool, center stage. Kevin, their drummer, had been writing a lot of original material, and they’d slowly been adding it to their sets. Cover bands brought people into bars and they’d never be able to stop playing crowd favorites. But they hoped their fans would begin to recognize the new stuff and start asking for those songs as well.
A spotlight shined on her and the crowd remained silent as Layla’s pure, clear voice filled the bar. Her lean arms flexed as her hands moved up and down the neck of the guitar. Her face looked rosy in the spotlight, flushed, the way a person’s skin glowed right before they started sweating. Her chest rose and fell under her tight T-shirt as she took deep breaths, filling her lungs with the air necessary to sustain the long notes. Her eyes were closed, and she was lost in the music as if she were playing only for herself and not a room packed full of people.
When the song ended, Layla thanked the crowd for coming, and removed her guitar strap. People crowded the stage, ready to mob them. The guy whose lap Suzanne had been sitting on a few weeks ago walked by. Layla had completely forgotten his name by then, but there was something about his face that made it easier to recall. It wasn’t that he was the handsomest guy she’d ever met, but there was a commanding presence about him that made you sit up and take notice. He cocked his head to the side and held her gaze for a second before smiling.
Now that they were done playing, sweat gathered at her hairline and ran in a narrow rivulet down the side of her face. Her T-shirt stuck to her chest and the area under her guitar strap was soaked. Moments before she would have stepped down from the stage and been enveloped by the crowd, Liam—that was his name—heaved himself up on it like he belonged there. He reached around to her hair and lifted the long thickness of it off her neck, pressing the bottle of unopened beer in his hand against her skin.
“Ah,” she said, because it was exactly what she wanted, needed. She looked at him oddly, as if she wasn’t sure why he was standing in front of her or how he’d gotten there.
But, in time, she would learn that Liam was a closer. It was what made him such a good salesman.
He didn’t wait for permission.
He didn’t ask questions that might result in a no answer.
When he was selling cars and reached the point where the customers expected him to crank up his sales pitch, he’d put a purchase order and a pen on the table in front of them instead and say, “Sign here and we’ll have you on your way in that beautiful car in no time.” When you were well-dressed and confident, you could get away with shit like that. And nine times out of ten, the customer would give him exactly what he wanted.
Liam moved the beer bottle around to her cheek and pressed it against her damp skin. Her fans were crowding the stage, waiting for her to step down. Waiting to mob her. He opened the beer and offered it to her; she grabbed it and drank.
“How does it feel to be a rock goddess?” he asked. He probably expected her to stammer, to protest, because “rock goddess” was laying it on thick and they both knew it.
But what she said was “It feels fantastic.”
Because it did, and she never wanted this feeling to end.
She took another long drink and put the beer back into his hand. He paused as if waiting for her to thank him for the beer or the compliment, but instead she turned, and, without warning, jumped off the stage, swan-diving right into the waiting arms of the crowd with a confident arrogance that surprised even her sometimes.
Liam looked on as her fans passed her lithe body overhead, never letting her come close to hitting the ground. She shrieked in delight as she bounced among them, her weight supported by their arms. When they finally put her down, gently and on her feet, the line of people who wanted to talk to her, to buy her a drink, was at least ten deep, and she forgot all about Liam.
Months later, Liam would tell her that the night she jumped off that stage was the night she’d intrigued him so much he decided that he simply had to know more about her.
When Layla was onstage, microphone in hand, the crowd gazing up at her, she was awfully shiny, too.
Maybe shinier than Suzanne, even.
Every man in that bar would have agreed that Suzanne was beautiful, but Layla was the one everyone—man or woman—came to see.
chapter 8
Josh
Justin, one of Josh’s older brothers and a former self-proclaimed bachelor for life, met a woman he couldn’t live without, and suddenly marriage was the greatest, most awesome thing in the world. Josh had listened patiently over beers one night as Justin blathered on like a lovesick fool. Josh didn’t have the heart to tell him it was early days, partly because he and his brother were close, and partly because Josh still remembered being so stupidly in love that putting a ring on it seemed like the only gesture grand enough to honor the way he felt about Kimmy. He didn’t regret it, but if he’d had a crystal ball and even the slightest bit of impulse control, he might have had a completely different life. He’d been thinking about that a lot lately.
Justin and his fiancée were getting married next Saturday night in a large ornate church in her hometown. It was a four-hour drive, so they’d be making a weekend of it and coming back home Sunday morning after brunch. Sasha overheard Josh making the arrangement to board Norton. “Dad!” she cried the minute he hung up the phone. “Norton has to come with us. We can’t leave him behind.” In the weeks that had followed Norton becoming a part of their household, Sasha had fallen hopelessly in love with the dog. When Sasha was at Josh’s house, Norton could always be found by her side.
“I don’t think your uncle Justin, or his bride-to-be, would go for that. It’ll be okay. The place is really nice. We can sign him up for extra walks. They even have dog cookies.”