Wild Abandon

by Jeannine Colette

  While some patrons seem to be volunteering their friends, no one stands.

  “Come on, guys, we’re all drunk here tonight.” He raises his own glass from a nearby stool and cheers the crowd, who clap and laugh. “No need to be embarrassed. We don’t even know what we’re doing up here half the time!”

  I look around the room and see no one is volunteering, so I raise my hand.

  “Looks like we have a victim, Justin,” the mandolin player says to the banjo player.

  “Jeez, I thought we were gonna get stood up. Well, come on. Get yourself on up here, darlin’.”

  I slide off my stool and walk up to the stage.

  “What’s your name?” he asks when I reach him.

  “Crystal,” I say into his microphone.

  “Whoa, you ain’t from around here. Where you from?” When I tell him where, he laughs. “They sing bluegrass in New York City?”

  “No, I don’t sing. But I can play the bass,” I say.

  The bass player makes a motion to offer his instrument to me, but I hold up my hand.

  “Actually, I was hoping you had a harmonica around here.” I tilt my head and sway to the side a touch in question.

  To my left, an outstretched hand offers me a harmonica, and I see it’s from the guitarist. I thank him, and without even asking if they know the song I have in mind, I bring the metal instrument to my face, pucker my mouth, cup two hands around it, and blow out the opening notes to “Timber” by Pitbull, featuring Ke$ha.

  I get the first few chords out and turn around to see if they know the tune.

  The guitarist is the first to start strumming the thumb, thumb rhythm that begins the song. The bass plucks, keeping in time, so I lift the harmonica back to my mouth and play the same chords again. On cue, the banjo and mandolin play, and instantly, the six of us play the fast-tempo song.

  With the harmonica smooshed to my face, I know I’ve smeared my lipstick, as I’ve done before. I play the riff again, and with a raised brow, I look at the banjo player, and he knows what I’m asking him. The answer is, yes, he knows the words.

  So, when it’s time, I pull back and let him rap out the Pitbull part. I take the moment to wipe my mouth as my body moves to the awesome beats they’re playing. When it’s my turn to play on all the Ke$ha parts, I put the harmonica to my mouth and play again.

  Almost the entire bar is up on their feet, dancing and singing, filling in the words where my harmonica sings. My right foot taps in rhythm, my knee bouncing, and as much as I try not to, my head does this weird jerk. I do it when I hear a good song on the radio, and I know I look like a chicken.

  Oh well. I’m having a blast. It’s the most fun I’ve had since coming to Napa.

  The Barge Poppers are full of energy and warmth. We play in unison and totally jive with each other. When the end of the song comes, I blow out the last chorus and then add a few more, giving a finale just for fun.

  The room erupts in applause. I take a mini bow and hand the harmonica to Justin. Then, I leap off the stage and start to head back to my spot at the bar. Feeling high from my performance, I think I’ll celebrate with some bourbon, a bluegrass cocktail.

  A few people stop me on the way and give their comments on how awesome that was while another patron goes up to the stage and asks to sing with the band. They welcome her just as easily as they did me.

  I go back to my barstool, which is surprisingly empty. On the other side of the bar is Nate leaning in with his arms spread wide on the bar, almost inviting.

  “Nice performance.” He slides a drink in front of me. “Bourbon whiskey, pineapple juice, lemon, and maraschino.”

  I look down at the drink he provided and had made well before I even sat down. “How do you do that?” I ask in the most exasperated tone.

  Nate just shrugs, a smug look on his face. “How do you do that?” He lifts his chin up at the stage where the band is now playing a slow country ballad with the girl singing slightly off-key.

  I take a sip and savor the well-made drink, a perfect mix of sugar and whiskey. “It’s just something I know how to do.”

  “That simple?”

  “That simple,” I say as I scan the bar.

  My eyes do a double take when I see a jacked blond smooth-talking a petite brunette in the corner, who is feeling his biceps. Looks like Dallas found someone who appreciates his workout routine.

  I turn back to Nate, who is still in front of me but his ear is leaning in to hear an order from another customer. He grabs two beers from the cooler, sliding them over.

  When he looks back at me, I ask, “How do you know Dallas?”

  Nate nods to a gentleman to the left and leans below the counter. He grabs a glass and fills it with ice. It’s like he knows what his regulars want before they even order it. “Your date? I’ve seen him around here.”

  “Why did you send over food?”

  Nate’s shoulders slightly shrug. “That guy’s the biggest pain in the ass. Comes in here and asks how many carbs are in everything. I just do that to fuck with him.”

  Good. So, it wasn’t just me Nate was trying to fuck with.

  I blow out a breath of air and watch the condensation of my glass fall down the sides and onto the bar.

  “Where do you find these guys?”

  My head shoots up at Nate’s question. “Oh, um…MatchDateLove.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s an Internet dating site. So far, I’m zero for four.” I pull my phone out and show him the site.

  “Let me see that.” Nate grabs the phone from my hand while sliding the drink he just made to the patron to his left.

  He leans over the bar and rests his elbows close to my own while he starts skimming through my prospective dates. The bar is bustling with people hovering around, trying to get a drink. The two female bartenders are working tirelessly while Nate is perusing my phone.

  I raise my hand to grab the phone, but he scoots back toward the shelves and crosses his arm, continuing to look. His head is shaking, and his mouth twists up into a comical expression, as if he thinks every guy on there is hysterical.

  Standing up, I reach forward and try to get my phone back. Nate is too far, so I just end up swiping at air.

  “Can I have my phone back, please?”

  He is thumbing the screen. He eventually stops and starts reading. “This is your profile?”

  I raise a brow, as if to ask, So?

  He holds the phone up and starts to bellow out, “I love to curl up with a glass of wine and read a good book. That’s your opening line?”

  Now, it’s my turn to lean back and cross my arms, but this time, it’s in defense. “What’s wrong with that?”

  He looks at me and then looks back at the phone. “I’m not looking for a hook-up. I’m looking for my partner in crime.” His tone sounds as if this is the most outrageous thing he’s ever read.

  I want to tell him that it’s better than the profile Naomi wrote for me the other day. It pretty much said, I’m a sexy redhead, and if you want to see if the carpet matches the drapes, give me a ring!

  I received about fifty unwanted suitors, thanks to that porno paragraph. The wording I have on my profile now is exactly what I’ve had for the last five years, plus a tweak to fit my new Napa persona. It lets men know who I am and what I’m looking for.

  “Looking for a man who enjoys the symphony, walks on the beach, and is willing to travel the world with me.” Again, Nate does not seem impressed.

  I don’t see a ring on his finger, so he clearly is just as bad at dating as I am or is one of those anti-commitment guys, which is more likely the case, given his stance on love and death and all that nonsense.

  I tilt my head to the side. “Okay, Mr. I Hate Everything About Love Yet Seem to Know Everything About It, what would you write?”

  Any sign of friendliness fades from his face the second I finish my sentence. Taking one strong step forward, he places the phone on the bar and looks at me
with a clenched jaw and eyes sending daggers of intensity my way.

  Great. Now, I’ve insulted him, and I have no idea why. Not only is my dating relationship with men a complete mess, I can’t even strike up a witty conversation with a guy who has made me a drink and wants to give me dating advice.

  “I’m sorry,” I say timidly yet in a louder voice than I wanted to. In order for him to hear me, I have to speak up. “Apparently, every time I bring up love, you get all serious.”

  He is still staring at me. His body is tense as he holds on to the bar. People are trying to get his attention for drinks, yet he is standing here, unmoving.

  I release my arms and lean forward into his space. When I do so, he blinks back and jolts just so but doesn’t move. I take this as a good sign.

  “Listen, I’m new to town, and aside from my girlfriend, I know no one. You seem like a decent enough guy, sending me drinks and helping with bad dates—despite the fact that I can, without a doubt, handle my own.” I put my hands up in defense and then lower them. “I’m not looking for a romance with you, and I promise not to bring up love anymore. Just stop doing that angry face, okay?”

  Nate’s chin rises up. His downcast eyes look at me, and the silence between us is deafening, despite the music playing in the background and the constant chatter of bar patrons.

  My chest rises, and I realize I’m holding my breath. I let it out and start to feel odd for making that statement.

  Did I just profess my undying friendship to this guy?

  I recount my words and wonder why I am so damn bad with them around him. Perhaps that’s why I went into music—to pour my heart into the music of the cello, to avoid expressing my feelings, instead spending hours practicing in my room. Sometimes, I wonder what I’d do if—

  “Angry face?”

  “Huh?” I snap out of my internal diatribe and am enraptured once again with the green.

  He points to his face and starts making a circle in the air around it. “You said I do that angry face.”

  Insert awkward shrug by the girl seated at the bar, holding a bluegrass cocktail in her hand. Yes, that would be me.

  “It’s kind of mean-looking, and it makes me feel uncomfortable.” There I go again with my verbal prowess.

  And that’s when he does this thing that almost knocks me off my barstool.

  He laughs.

  It’s not a big or boisterous laugh. It’s not even audible. It’s visual, only seen through the jump in his chest, the rise in the sides of his mouth, and the slight parting of his lips.

  My heart skips a beat.

  “You hanging out for a while?”

  I nod my head. He leaves his station in front of me and starts taking orders.

  I turn my stool away from the bar. This move has two purposes. One, I want to finish watching the band, and more importantly, two, it will keep me from staring at him all night.

  It’s bad enough that he’s wearing a T-shirt that shows off his incredible arms. They’re well defined and strong. Yes, I have a thing for arms. And by thing, I mean, an obsession. But that’s probably the most attractive thing about him.

  He’s emotionally unavailable and on a completely different playing field than I am. Where I’m interested in love, marriage, and a baby carriage, he’s swindling it up at a bar. I mean, he’s a grown man who works in a bar. Not that I have anything against bartenders, but a single guy in his early thirties—I presume—who is against love and works at a bar doesn’t exactly scream, I can’t wait to be a bridegroom!

  And, fine, he has a good-looking face, if you like the strong jaw with a five o’clock shadow, refined nose, and full mouth. At first glance, he almost looks pretty boyish, but then you take in the buzz cut, the hardness of his body, and the overall aura, you know he is rough, rugged, and a wall of solitary.

  Looking over my shoulder, I see him talking to the crowd. Girls are flirting with him, but he doesn’t give them a lick of attention. Bartenders are supposed to be flirty in order to get more tips. Clearly, Nate didn’t get the memo.

  Watching him move about, I catch a glimpse of something on his arm. A tattoo. On the inside of his left wrist is an infinity sign etched over the vein that leads straight to the heart.

  If there’s one thing I hate on a man, it’s tattoos. They’re unsightly and usually have some ridiculous meaning. I mean, why would someone put a tribal tattoo around their bicep if they’re not part of an actual tribe? Or a Tweety Bird tattoo on their calf? Or Thor on his thigh? It’s just heinous and—let’s not forget—permanent.

  But this tattoo is kind of nice.

  It seems odd to me. An infinity sign as a lone tattoo on the inside of the wrist. But what do I know? I wouldn’t even dare risk getting a piercing on my body, aside from my ears.

  I turn back to the stage and spend the next hour and a half listening to the band and drinking my bourbon. I haven’t had to ask for another. When one is finished, another is waiting on the bar in its place.

  The Barge Poppers complete their set, thank the crowd, and pack up. Looking at my watch, I see it’s after midnight, and the bar is starting to empty out.

  I lean to the side and grab my bag when a large body takes a seat next to me, draining a large gulp from the beer in his hands. His Adam’s apple bobs with the movement, causing me to swallow, too.

  Nate puts his beer on the bar and holds his palm face up. “Phone me.”

  Tentatively, I hand it over and watch as he goes into my dating app.

  “Men want a girl who is fun, flirty, and down for a good time,” he states, typing into my phone.

  I push my shoulders back. “I’m not a good-time kinda girl.”

  Nate smiles and continues to type. “I can tell.”

  “Hey!” I hit him in the arm.

  He carries on, unaffected.

  I wait a few moments, just staring at his profile, waiting for him to finish. When he does, he hands the phone to me, and I look down at the words he’s written.

  Gone is my old profile, and in its place is, Sarcastic, passionate music lover and impulsive traveler. Girl-next-door type by day. Badass cellist by night. Not here for a hook-up but am looking for someone to enjoy a drink and some laughs with. If you are, too, I give you permission to rescue me from online dating. Plus, meeting in person is always better. ;)

  It’s cute, flirty, and exactly me.

  “Badass cellist?”

  “I saw your occupation. Why would you dumb down what you do? If a man is intimidated by a concert cellist, then he doesn’t have the balls to date you anyway.” He takes another swig of his beer.

  “This is perfect, but as I’ve learned many times, some guys don’t even care about the profile. Just last week, my date acted like he hadn’t even read it.”

  “He probably didn’t. You’re cute as hell.”

  I take a moment to, first, be flattered by his comment. Cute as hell isn’t exactly gorgeous or beautiful, but it’s still a compliment.

  Then, I take offense. “I have more to offer than a ‘cute’”—I use air quotes on the word cute—“face. I at least deserve the ten seconds it takes to read about me.”

  He studies my answer and then turns his body, so he’s facing me. “That’s true, but let me ask you this. A guy walks through the door and offers to buy you a drink. Do you let him?”

  “It depends,” I say. I immediately cringe at the fact that I walked into his trap.

  “On what?” His grin shows he knows the answer.

  I mumble my words, “On whether I think he’s cute or not.”

  “Online dating is the same thing.”

  I lift a finger in the air. “Yes, but I actually read profiles after I decide if the guy is good-looking or not. I have set criteria he needs to fit.”

  “And Carb Freak hit the mark?” That bottle goes right back to his mouth, and his tongue darts out with each sip.

  “No. My friend Naomi accepted him. I’m looking for someone successful, cultured, and ready to settle
down.” I poise myself in the most proper position.

  Nate leans to the side, his eyes looking over my face, up and down. “You have a checklist of the perfect man?”

  Folding my hands on my lap, I lift my chin. “Yes, I do.”

  Nate narrows his eyes. “You’re doing it all wrong. Come on, Red, let’s pick out your next victim.” He takes my phone and holds it up in front of us.

  “I have a name.” I balk.

  His eyes never leave the screen. “I know. It’s Crystal.”

  Oh. Well then…

  “I know your name, too. The waitress told me.”

  Nate just shrugs and starts flipping to the left, looking through the profiles. “What about this guy?”

  I look at the picture on the screen. He’s a handsome guy, I suppose. He’s leaning against a car, his tattoo sleeves showing on the skin exposed from his T-shirt.

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “First of all, he has tattoos, which are not my thing. No offense.”

  I glance at Nate’s wrist. He doesn’t seem to be taking offense, so I continue, “And he’s leaning against his car, which means he’s one of those guys who obsesses over his car. That means, he wouldn’t let me borrow it to run to the store. And, God forbid, if it got a scratch on it, our whole night would be ruined. He’d spend the entire night pouting while I stood in the kitchen after just making a romantic dinner and even breaking out the sexy lingerie. But, instead of looking at me, all he’d be able to picture was the dent on his Carrera. No, thank you.”

  When I’m done, I look at Nate.

  His mouth is open. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

  “I’m a professional dater. Next.”

  Nate skims through until he finds someone else. This next guy only features a headshot, no particular background showcasing where he is or anything about him. He has a broad smile and eyes that crinkle with laughter.

  “He’s cute. I wish he had hair though. Let me see the rest of the profile.”

  “What’s wrong with his hair?”

  “I like a guy with hair I can grab on to. It’s just a preference but not a deal-breaker. Let me see the rest.” I motion with my hand for him to scroll down.