by DeSalvo, Kim
She applied some clear gloss to her lips, a brush of gold shadow over her green eyes, and pulled her long dark hair back into a simple knot. The clock read 7:00 and she grabbed her small bag, keys, and cell phone from the table by the door. “Time to start living again,” she said aloud as she stepped out into the unseasonably warm May evening and headed for Last Stop; the first stop on her journey into her own future.
Chapter 2
It was early when she arrived, but she still had to park more than a block away. She had hoped to slip in when the place wasn’t too busy and grab a seat in the corner somewhere, but obviously the clientele here was already celebrating the start of Memorial Day weekend, a three-dayer, and the official start of summer in the Midwest. Inside, gratefully, the place was dark enough that she slipped in unnoticed, and the bar area was nearly empty. Most of the patrons were playing pool or darts, or were sitting at round tables in groups. Tia ordered a Sam Adams, the only beer on the menu that didn’t have some form of ‘Light’ in its name, and settled in to observe.
The bar was a horseshoe shape, and she perched on a stool closest to the door. Shania Twain crooned from the fuzzy-sounding speakers of the jukebox, and a trio of tattooed girls in skin tight jeans and tank tops stuffed bills into the machine and argued over their next selections. There were three pool tables, and each hosted a testosterone-filled good-natured match. Most of the men wore baseball caps, faded jeans, and t-shirts advertising sports teams and various brands of mostly cheap beer. One proudly labeled its wearer as a member of the FBI—Female Body Inspector. There were a couple of cowboy hats and plenty of flannel shirts, and, as Lexi had predicted, most of the guys looked as though they’d put in a hard day’s work. They were rough around the edges without a doubt, and certainly not the sort that hung out at the country club. That was the point, though, and she sipped her Sammy and watched as a group of girls sauntered over to the pool tables to flirt with the men. Feeling a bit voyeuristic, she settled in to watch the interaction, which quickly turned to giggling, hugging, and one girl plucking the eight ball off the table just as a pretty decent looking blonde struck the cue ball.
She let her gaze wander around the room as Keith Urban’s Some Days You Gotta Dance came blasting out of the jukebox. What could only be described as a whoop and a holler rose up out of the crowd as most of the women and a few of the men flocked to the empty spot of worn wood that doubled as the dance floor, formed a line and started to dance. Although she wasn’t really a fan of country music and had never done so much as the Electric Slide, she found herself caught up in the sounds and the way the bodies moved to the beat. There was a comfort level, a camaraderie between the dancers as they switched partners, swung and twirled, and their boots stomped a rhythmic beat into the floor. She found herself tapping her leg with her fingers to match the rhythm. When one of the pool players wandered over and asked her to dance, she smiled, thanked him, and politely declined.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck prickled and she felt eyes on her—the sense that someone was staring. She swept her gaze across the bar, and then she saw him. He was sitting alone on the other side of the bar sipping what could only be a martini. The fancy glass with the floating olive was definitely out of place amongst the Miller Lite mirrors and sports paraphernalia adorning the dark walls. He held her glance for just a moment and then quickly turned his gaze away. A flicker of recognition passed over her, and she tried to place the face—hoping it wasn’t someone she knew from school. She looked over again to find him turned away from her, watching the dance floor behind him. Her quick glance was enough to see that he was good looking, but he desperately needed a new hair style and a shave. He had a dark brown mullet, circa Billy Ray Cyrus—did people actually still wear their hair like that? She thought that fad died when Bono finally cut his off back in the 80’s. But when he turned his head, something else caught her eye, and she noticed a much lighter tuft of hair waving out just over his ear. He was wearing a wig; she realized—is that what you called it on a guy? She found herself intrigued. Why in the world would any man, who obviously had at least some blonde hair, choose to: A) wear a wig and B) make it a mullet? And why was there something so familiar about his face? Well, she decided, she was here to observe, after all, and he was as good a candidate as any. She watched without being too obvious as he studied the dance floor.
As she focused in on her target, Tia wove ridiculous stories in her mind. Maybe he was an undercover FBI agent on a surveillance mission just waiting for his mark to slip up. She glanced around the room at the pool players, dart throwers, dancers and drinkers. Could one of them be a fugitive from the law? Or maybe the guy was just going horribly bald, and was trying to delay the inevitable, or to look younger for the ladies. Yeah, right, she thought, smiling to herself—as if any self-respecting woman in this day and age would be seen with a guy sporting a mullet! She settled back into her stool and sipped her beer. Suddenly, this observing was getting a bit more interesting. But then, Lexi’s warnings started creeping into her mind and her thoughts grew darker. Maybe he was in disguise because he was a fugitive. He could be a serial killer stalking his next victim, hoping that the nationwide manhunt would be focused on a guy with a really bad hairdo—he’d commit the crime, and then dump the wig and be walking around with a luxurious head of long blonde hair…she shivered then at the idea that he had been watching her.
Getting a grip on her own mind she laughed at herself and her sudden bout of paranoia. What were the chances, really? But then she thought about her car, parked over a block away on a dark and deserted street lined with closed businesses and crisscrossed with unmarked alleyways. A tingle ran up her spine, and she suddenly realized how alone she was here amongst all these total strangers. She decided then that she wouldn’t leave the bar alone; she’d ask the bartender to recommend someone who could walk her to car or, if she chickened out on that and she needed to, she could always call someone to come and meet her. It would be one more thing Lexi would hold over her head and gloat about forever, but Tia knew Lexi would come if she asked. In the meantime, mysterious mullet man was a curiosity, and if someone did come up missing tomorrow, she could at least give a good description of him—and foil his mullet ploy.
She started taking notice of the details, glad to have something on which to focus. His shirt, she noticed, although just a standard button down in a solid color, seemed a little too fitted and nice for this place—duh, she thought, it was about the only one in the place that wasn’t flannel. And as he rested his elbow on the bar and leaned his head into his hand (was he trying to hide his face?), there was no tell-tale sign of dirt under his fingernails. He looked too clean—too put together—for Last Stop. He was drinking a martini, obviously out of place in a joint like this, and he wasn’t interacting with anyone. No game of pool, no dancing, no hitting up girls; he was just sitting alone, like she was, at the opposite corner of the bar. Another observer, perhaps? Another lost soul looking for something in anonymity? Then, as she watched, he reached around for his martini glass and she saw the tattoo on his hand.
The Chinese symbol for younger sister looks something like a one hundred degree angle intersected perpendicularly with a wishbone, followed by a sweeping vertical line with a sort of skirt near the bottom and two more perpendicular lines crossing the top. An unusual choice for a tattoo, but one that obviously held some sort of sentimental meaning to the bearer. She realized suddenly that she’d seen that tattoo before, in an issue of Rock’s Finest magazine. A name popped into her head instantly—Dylan Miller—mega-star, two time Grammy winner, actor, Sexiest Man on Earth as chosen by the readers of Person to Person magazine, rock’s hottest bachelor according to Rock’s Finest. She had tickets to see his band; Incidental Happenstance or InHap, to fans; play tomorrow night, and it was the summer’s hottest show—both the Saturday and Sunday shows had sold out in less than an hour. It was likely that he was already in town, and he was known to make random appearances around the city w
hen he was. No way, she thought—it was impossible that one of the most popular performers in the world was sitting across from her at a cheesy country bar out of town…wearing a mullet which was sure to have girls avoiding him and men ignoring him…
“Whoa,” she whispered to herself, her heart suddenly pattering a little irregularly in her chest. She shook her head slightly and tried to get a better look at him. She was sure the mullet wasn’t his real hair, and she was pretty sure about the tattoo as well, the one Dylan Miller had done after his younger sister died of leukemia. She thought that the symbol was right, and it was certainly not the typical place to put a tattoo; on the back of the hand, just below where the thumb and index finger meet. But he had turned away again, and she couldn’t get a good look at his face. The lighting wasn’t good here, either, and the shadows hid his features rather effectively.
Finally, the song on the jukebox ended and Carrie Underwood’s mellow voice flowed in, slowing the crowd. Much of the group left the dance floor and only a few couples remained, wrapped up in each other and swaying to the seductive rhythm. Finally, the man turned back to the bar.
She tried to watch him from the corner of her eye, looking at him without actually looking at him. If it wasn’t Dylan Miller, she definitely didn’t want him to think she was checking him out. And if it was, then what? He was obviously hoping not to be recognized, wanting to blend in with the crowd, not unlike herself. She couldn’t even imagine what it must be like to never be able to go out for a simple drink without being mobbed by fans. If she called attention to him everyone in the bar would surround him, wanting autographs, pictures or begging him to perform. That wouldn’t be fair to him, and, on a more selfish note, her quiet night of people watching would be over as well.
She watched with sideways glances as the song on the jukebox ended, and the notes of the next selection drifted from the speakers. It was Untangled, an InHap song with just enough southern influence to have spent some time on the country charts. The man’s head rose alertly and he stiffened for a moment, his eyes quickly spanning the room. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and he relaxed again, watching the exchanges on the dance floor as more and more couples slid in to sway with the melody. Tia watched his interest with her own, and as he lifted his glass again and drank she looked intently at the tattoo. Despite the shadows, she felt more confident that it was the right symbol. Just then, the bartender leaned in and said something to him and he smiled—and then she knew.
She had never been star struck—rarely watched the tabloid TV shows or read the magazines, except for an occasional issue of Person to Person when she went on a trip and needed something mindless to read in the airport. But here she was, ninety eight percent certain that she was sitting across from one of the biggest stars of the day—a singer/songwriter/actor whom she’d admired since her college days. She’d seen dozens of his concerts—Incidental Happenstance had been a part of much of her adult life. His band was one of Nick’s favorites too; in fact it was at an InHap show that they first met, introduced by her old college roommate. She and Nick knew all their songs—Nick had played guitar and sung every one of them. She sang harmony, sometimes just the two of them, and occasionally at the pub. It was to one of InHap’s songs that they would have had their first dance as husband and wife.
Memories of Nick flooded her suddenly, and she was quickly overwhelmed. How many nights had he played his own guitar and sung Dylan Miller’s songs? She saw Nick’s face for an instant, and knew that he would be furious with her if she passed up an opportunity to tell Dylan Miller just how much his music had impacted her life—their lives. But should she? What would she say? How could she do it without blowing his cover? And why was she having such a hard time catching her breath? She glanced over again and saw that his martini was nearly empty. Emboldened by the story she would whisper to Nick later that night and boast to everyone else in the morning, she hailed the bartender with her index finger and ordered another martini for the stranger across the bar. As he mixed it, she made her way nervously around to where he sat. Her heart pounded in her chest—she couldn’t believe that she was so nervous.
She slid into the bar stool next to him just as the bartender delivered the martini. “A drink from the lady,” he said, tipping his head toward the stool Tia had just occupied. Then he quickly turned away to take another order.
Dylan Miller looked at her. Before he could speak, she whispered, “Listen, I know who you are. I’m not going to blow your disguise or anything, you’re obviously here incognito and I respect that. I just couldn’t pass up the chance to say thank you. Your music has been a huge part of my life and I’m a big fan. Your songs…”
“Sorry, Miss,” he interrupted, looking down at the bar and avoiding eye contact. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” He glanced up at her briefly before quickly averting his eyes again, plucking a pair of glasses from the bar and sliding them on. Nice try, Tia thought, but I’m not fooled. She’d caught the quick flash of surprise in his eyes when they met hers; he was obviously flustered at being recognized. Plus, she heard the touch of his blended Australian/British accent, which she thought sounded more British, and that made her ninety eight percent jump up to ninety nine point five, at least.
“Oh, I’m not mistaken,” she said confidently. “But I can easily see that you’re looking for privacy tonight, and I’m sorry to interrupt that. I’m not going to try to hang out with you, or ask for an autograph or anything. I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity…”
He looked down at the fresh drink. “Yeah, well, thanks for the drink; it really wasn’t necessary. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not anybody, and I did come here for some alone time tonight, so if you’ll excuse me…”
“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to intrude, really. I’m not a crazed fan or anything; I just … anyway, thanks for the music. It’s kind of been the soundtrack of my life, and I think you’re incredibly talented. Thanks for sharing your gift with the world—it’s meant a lot to a lot of people, and I’m one of them.” She slipped off the stool and turned to go. “I’ll leave you alone now.”
He nodded and murmured something unintelligible, turning back to his drink.
She started to walk away and then turned back. “Oh, one more thing.”
Here we go, Dylan thought. He looked irritated, but glanced patiently in her direction, lifting his eyebrows in question. “Yes?”
“You really need to fix your wig,” she whispered. “There’s kind of a big hunk of your real hair sticking out on the right side. Other than that, pretty good disguise, by the way.” With that, she walked away and returned to her own seat. She looked over once to see him tucking the stray locks back into the wig, then purposefully turned her attention back to the pool players once more.
It was all she could do not to look at him again as her heart settled back into a normal rhythm. Wait until she told Lexi about this encounter! She would never believe that Tia had (sort of) met Dylan Miller, and at Last Stop of all places! They’d actually (kind of) had a conversation! Lexi would absolutely freak out, and Tia looked very forward to telling her that her choice of venue tonight had been exactly right.
But she of all people knew what it was like to have unwanted eyes on you constantly, and she’d respect his need for privacy. For her, it had been the looks of pity she got after she lost Nick—she couldn’t even imagine being a superstar and never being able to go out in public without being accosted. She didn’t want him to feel that some fan was staring him down, and she thought he might leave if he felt uncomfortable. It was stupid, she knew, but she felt a certain sense of excitement just knowing that he was sipping the drink she’d bought for him, even if they weren’t drinking together. She ordered another Sammy and tried to focus on the interactions between the sexes, but her concentration was gone. Unconsciously, she glanced at him again and he tipped his glass toward her. It wasn’t an invitation, but at least it was an ackn
owledgement. She tipped her bottle in return and smiled. He smiled back, wryly, and turned away.
Shit, Dylan thought. He didn’t think there was any way anyone would recognize him in a place like this, a dive bar far enough out of the city to be a local hangout and dark enough to conceal identities. All he’d wanted was a simple drink, some noise, and some people—to be one person in a crowd and not some rock star seeking attention. He thought the mullet would be the perfect disguise—he looked like some 80’s throwback and knew he wouldn’t be attractive to women, and figured the men would just ignore him. It had worked until the woman across the bar somehow recognized him.
He took a sip of his martini and glanced over curiously at the woman again. The cheap gin burned his throat and reminded him of the old days, when a bottle of Boodles was a prized possession. She was pretty, the woman. She had dark hair that was pulled into a casual twist, and he’d just caught a glimpse of the green of her eyes. Nice eyes, he thought. She was natural, good looking even without a lot of makeup, which was pretty much the polar opposite of the rest of the women in the place. Although it seemed that she tried to blend in to the crowd, it was obvious that she was an outsider here too. He wondered what it was that made her seek refuge in this little dump of a bar, alone, and obviously not looking to meet anyone. He’d noticed a couple of the boys from the pool tables checking her out, and one had even approached her and asked for a dance. She had politely but firmly declined.