I met a guy who said to me once: “I been everywhere in the states: Las Vegas, New York, LA—I’ve never seen a town as crazy as Nashville!” Nashville never sleeps. And because of that, you can also get sick of it pretty quickly.
Unless you go to the library.
It’s night and day. Sure, they got the kids’ section and the children’s theater (loud!) and the teens section where they play video games all day. They have the courtyard with a fountain and children running amok, screaming, jumping, shouting—the Nashvillean bar-hoppers of the future. But they also have the reading room.
And the reading room is pure and pristine...peace.
On the second floor there are brown chairs facing a window where you look out into a small park and you can just pull a book out and read, read, read...and find some quiet in this crazy town.
I bring my laptop here sometimes, do my web design work, and then I read. Sometimes I skip the work and just read.
As you might have gathered, I read a lot.
I started reading after that incident with Brett. I think I’ve read over five hundred books since then.
Most of them romances.
That I can tell you why.
-9-
I started singing as far back as I can remember. Mom’s a big rock classics fan. And an old hippie. She plays guitar and sings when she can, but she has more of a ragged Janis Joplin voice. Mom told me that if she and I had been the same age, we would have toured America together and done concerts for a living.
Yeah right.
In some state, somewhere, I took piano lessons. It never caught on big time, but I can play a little. What I really loved to do was sing.
I sang all the time.
In every school I’ve been to I’ve had a singing part in the school play or talent contest.
My voice is big, like me. It’s the only thing about me that I’m confident about. I flaunt it as if it were a pair of firm breasts. I swagger with it as if it were a pair of long, sexy legs. When I sing, I forget. When I sing, people cheer, they clap, they ignore what I look like and appreciate me for something that I know is beautiful about me.
Many great female singers have been big girls: Aretha, Adele, Beth Ditto.
I sing at the Blues Bar on Tuesday Nights—Open Jam Night. On other nights, sometimes I’ll sing with the local bands or some of the out-of-town bands that are playing at the time because they like my voice. Max T or Vince Summers or Whitey Jackson. The Parlequins, The Salamander Slings, Three Men and a Sax—I’ve sung with all these guys. They’ve hit Nashville, played at the Blues Bar, moved on. I’ve made friends with all of them. I’ll remember them. They’ll remember me. Because it’s all about the music. And when it’s all about the music, looks don’t come into it. On stage, I’m the sexiest girl there is. And I feel sexy. Because my voice is sexy.
Feeling sexy up on stage makes me forget a time when I felt most unsexy, unwanted, maybe even a little dirty. It helps me forget The Day After, when I was seventeen.
I’ve been hit on at the Blues Bar—more than a few times. Always after I sing. I just can’t go there. I can’t have another one-nighter.
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.
~ GIN ~
-10-
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?
-11-
“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.
-12-
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.<
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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.
“It’s done,” I said to him, and I sat down next to him.
I think I sat down closer than I had before. I think his leg was almost touching mine.
I was having hormonal reactions: Pure, female, lustful reactions. No love, just lust. I knew it then. And I rode the wave, baby. I hadn’t felt this desire, this yearning—physical only—for a guy in a long time. So I rode it.
We watched the next band, and the one after that. And then we went on.
When Ace started playing, I lost my voice.
-13-
Ace is a blues and rock n roll god. He’s Elvis. He’s B.B. King. He’s Dylan. He’s the Rolling Stones, baby.
He’s so good.
We rocked the house. Actually, he rocked the house. I lost my voice. I was so stunned that I actually stared at him blankly, mouth gaping as it hung by the mike, and looked at him while the entire band waited for me to pick up on my cue.
I missed it. Lucky for me, I wasn’t the only one doing that. So was the drummer, a little. And so was the crowd, hands pausing in the air, jaws dropped.
But you know how it goes when you see a virtuoso up on stage: There’s that first moment of shock. And then the house falls down.
The house fell down when I finally started singing, when I saw his skill and rode that wave. When I matched my voice to his whining Gibson and we shattered the windows and blew off the rafters with just pure groove.
Red Hot Blues Page 3