by Liv Rancourt
Though his resolve rang hollow right now, he had every intention of making Susie happy for the rest of her life.
The cab dropped them off in front of a grotty old warehouse about a mile and a half from any signs of life. Streetlights marked the end of every block, but neither of the closest two gave off enough light to reach the warehouse in the middle. If it weren’t for the strip of light underneath a door at the far end of the building and the occasional splash of a cymbal, Russell would have chased their cab down and taken the girls back to the dorm.
Until he was sure of the situation, he made the girls stand behind him and slowly opened the door. Everyone inside turned in their direction. Ryker and another man were rolling a piano across the floor. Skip stood in a doorway in the back, carrying a kick drum. Shadows hid his expression, and after locating the man, Russell kept his gaze anywhere else. A couple of other fellows were seated on stools. One held a dinged-up trombone and the other held a can of beer.
Even worse, three other Aqua Dears stood in a cluster between the men on stools, holding on to beers too.
His aunt was going to skin him alive.
“Hey, Jenny.” Annette swanned across the room like a debutante at a grand ball. “How’d you guys get down here?”
Susie skipped along behind Annette, Russell scrambling to keep hold of her hand. The warehouse had a cement floor and dim corners, stacks of boxes, and metal brackets suspended from the ceiling. Silver metal fixtures hung down in a row, and under their harsh white light, Russell took stock of everyone. Skip, Ryker, and their friends were hipsters, and next to their rolled-up dungarees and slicked-back hair, Russell felt like an oddball. His khakis still had a pleat, for chrissake.
The main door banged open, and more people came in. Pretty soon there were twenty-five or thirty young people hanging out drinking beer. Some had instruments, playing a disorganized mix of horn riffs and guitar chords and plunking bass notes.
“This is the best.” Susie’s squeal caught his attention. “Are you going to sing with them?”
Russell took a nip from the flask in his pocket. He couldn’t afford to get drunk, but he needed something to take the edge off. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You have to. Come on. Let’s go talk to Skip and Ryker.” She tugged on his hand, and after a brief, futile attempt to dig in his heels, he followed. All the way across the warehouse floor, his internal debate ran on. Sitting in with the band would make Susie happy, but making a fool of himself in front of a bunch of fellows who could really play, well...
But why did he care? He’d be gone in a week. He did care, though. Skip’s presence was like a bright light at the edge of his vision, something he couldn’t quite ignore. His voice, his laughter, a half glimpse of his lean torso bending over to lift a guitar drove Russell near to distraction. Stop it. Russell’s own nature might be twisted and depraved, but his rational mind made the decisions.
His decision had been made a long time ago.
As they approached the musicians, the smile on Susie’s heart-shaped face both warmed and reassured Russell. They shook hands all around, and before Russell could stop her, Susie had dragged him to the center of the group.
“Russell’s a great piano player.”
He shook his head at her. His mother had ensured he had a passing acquaintance with Chopin, but that was it. “Susie.”
“Hey, we’re just having fun here tonight.” Skip’s smile was friendly, without any added innuendo.
Since he couldn’t back down without making a fool of himself, Russell approached the piano and raised the cover. The ivories were worn, some of them mottled with brown, as familiar as his own face. He sank onto the stool’s leather-padded seat, checked the height, stood to screw the seat down a couple of inches. Then he got himself comfortable and ran his hands over the keys.
On impulse, he played the opening measures of Beethoven’s Minuet in G. He wanted a sense of the instrument’s tone and tuning. Instead, he got booed.
“Don’t be a drip,” someone shouted from across the room. “Play some Monk.”
“Perry Como,” came from someone else.
“Panty waist.”
With shouts and laughter carrying him along, Russell scrambled for a song to play, until Susie’s voice caught is attention.
“Play that song,” she said.
That song...by Frank Sinatra. That song...he could sing while he played. That song...he’d learned because it was her favorite. “I’ve Got the World on a String.” He ran a scale, let his fingers find the opening notes. Twangy. He made a face. Brash tone.
Well, his voice was twangy and brash too.
“Be quiet,” Ryker yelled from somewhere behind Russell’s right shoulder. Russell paused, wondering if he should give over the instrument to someone else.
Ryker knocked his arm a little too hard. “Not you. I can already tell you’re bona fide.”
Russell didn’t want to overdo things, so he caught Skip’s eye. “You sing? I’m pretty good at transposing. We can find a song and a key—”
“Nah, man. I wanna hear your sounds.”
Russell shrugged, ran through the opening chords, and started to sing.
The lyrics were nonsense, his delivery nowhere near Frank Sinatra’s casual cool, but there was scattered applause. Squealing from Susie. Conversation faded and left him holding the weight of everyone’s attention. He had no microphone, his voice was husky from barking at the girls during their warm-up, and the lyrics pounded on his uncertainty.
It was, after all, a song about being in love.
Susie’s arms circled his neck, startling him into a gasp. Her soft floral scent relaxed him. She nuzzled his shoulder, and he breathed a little deeper, steadying his voice for the end of the verse.
A snare drum joined in, tapping the beat when he got to the bridge. The second time through the verse, he stopped singing and let the piano swing for eight bars or so, pulling back when a horn chimed in on the melody.
The thought of jamming with the trumpet player tightened him up again, but it was a saxophone, not a trumpet; some other guy, not Skip. The impromptu ensemble came back to the bridge, and on instinct, the band pulled back so his voice could be heard.
Another horn, maybe a clarinet, grabbed the melody, and a trombone seconded the rolling baseline in Russell’s left hand. They kept it up, trading leads, and at some point, a string bass joined in. Russell pulled back further, comping along with the horn players, just a silly so-and-so in the band. After the sixth repeat, he raised one hand to cue the others to the last verse.
Russell all but shouted the first words of the line and pointed at the drummer, who roared into the break. Another short phrase, then a high horn, the clarinet or a soprano sax, played a fierce, bluesy trill. The last phrase, a declaration. I’m in love.
Well? Was he? Just asking the question made him flush.
Applause and laughter. Cheers and stomping on the floor. Susie gave him a big slobbery kiss on the cheek. Ryker knocked him on the back again. “From now on, I’m calling you Frank.”
Russell brushed him off and half stood. Skip pointed at the stool and shook his head. “You’re not done yet, buddy. You know any Louis Jordan?”
A guitar plucked a melody.
“Maybe?” Russell said.
Skip put a hand on his shoulder. “Well, we’re going to teach you to improvise, then. Paddy, you count us off.”
The bass player hoisted his oversized cello and stood where Russell could hear him call out the chord changes. They jammed on the tune for a while, then someone called out another one, and they kept going.
Russell didn’t know all the tunes, but no one seemed to care, so pretty soon he stopped caring too. He relaxed and laughed and just had fun.
During a break between songs, Skip leaned against the piano keyboard. “You promised you’d sing ‘Misty’ for us, Russ.”
“Did I?” Russell scratched his head, grinning at the keys. “I don’t think I can sing it an
d play at the same time.”
“Don’t worry about it. What key?”
They worked out the details, and Skip strutted over to the guitar player. The band started up, a little rough around the edges, and Russell sang. The words were hokey, and Skip’s smile got to him. And Skip’s horn? The sound wrapped around his heart and squeezed.
Several songs later, Russell had exhausted his musical capacity and yielded the piano. “You guys are set to jam all night,” he said, waving off the musician’s protests, “and I have to find my girl.”
“Do what you got to do,” Skip said with a distracted smile.
Russell stood, stretched, and glanced around the room. Where were Susie and the others? Grabbing a beer and a place on the sidelines, he scanned the crowd. It didn’t take him long to find all the swimmers, all of them except his girlfriend.
During a break between songs, someone banged through the main door. “The heat,” they yelled. “Circled the block twice now.”
Shoot. If he and the other Aqua Dears got arrested, Aunt Maude would string him up. He didn’t know about the laws in Seattle, but back home, drinking beer in an old warehouse could get them in a whole lot of trouble. He waved at Annette, intending to ask her to round up the others, when Skip bumped him. Hard.
“Here.” Skip shoved keys into Russell’s hand. “You can drive, right? Get the girls. We gotta get outa here.”
Russell nodded, and Skip kept moving. He went to the next closest cluster of people, and Russell waved Annette over. “Did you hear that?”
“I wasn’t listening.” She shrugged.
“The police are outside. Get everyone together and meet me at Skip’s car.”
“Oh shoot.” For once, Annette’s poise seemed to fail her. “What are you going to do?”
“Look for Susie.”
“Oh.”
Her brows closed in, taking her expression from nervous to scared, but Russell didn’t have time for her dramatics. “Just find the others.”
Annette scurried off, and Russell made a big circuit of the room.
Susie was nowhere around.
Dammit.
The crowd quickly faded away, and the yoke of responsibility chafed, weighed him down. Fear and anger duked it out in his belly. Where the hell is she? He headed for the door at a jog. The warehouse was empty. She wasn’t inside. She must be hiding in some dark corner where the streetlights didn’t reach. Russell planned to start with a lap of the building, then take his search around the block if he needed to.
Annette caught him before he’d crossed the threshold. “Now promise you won’t be mad.”
“What?”
She attempted to block him, but over her shoulder, he saw Ryker came around the corner of the building, holding Susie around the waist. She had an arm draped over his shoulders and was obviously tipsy.
“Hey, Annette.” She staggered; not just tipsy, she was flat-out drunk. Losing her balance, she caught herself on Ryker. “Hey, come back here and help me. That’s a good boy.”
One hand pressed flat to Ryker’s chest, and her body stretched against him in a surprisingly intimate way. Russell froze, unable to think of anything to say.
Annette strode over to the couple, heels clicking on the asphalt. “Come on, Sus. It’s time to go.”
Susie held her index finger to her lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anybody, but Ryker’s a really good kisser.” She erupted in giggles, even as Annette dragged her away.
Surprise muffled his thinking, but as it faded, Russell’s chest hurt as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. Embarrassment fueling his anger, he caught Ryker’s eye. He straightened to his full height, debating whether he should punch the guy out. Or rather, weighing the costs of teaching the guy a lesson.
From behind him, fingers grasped his arm. Skip. “Can you help me out here?”
Russell turned his head slowly, without letting go of Ryker’s gaze. “What?”
“We need to stow the gear so the manager doesn’t get hacked off.” Skip’s grip was firm enough to let him know he wouldn’t be punching anyone.
He inhaled hard, jaw so tight he could have cracked a tooth. He was outnumbered, and he knew it. “Yeah, okay.”
“Paddy will take Annette and the others as far as Forty-fifth and University Street. We can meet them there.”
Skip’s voice held just enough sympathy to let Russell know he wasn’t completely outnumbered. “Wait, you know the manager? Why are we leaving, then?”
“Because Ryker’s dad will be cranked if he finds out the cops had to shut down a party out here.”
Russell followed Skip back into the warehouse, and together they shoved the piano in a shallow alcove off the main floor. They moved the drum kit without taking it apart and picked up as many beer cans as they could find in five minutes or less.
“If you want,” Skip said, dumping an armload of empties in a trash can. “How about tomorrow after the show, you and me go out for a drink.”
Russell paused in his reach for a can. “I’m not sure...”
“I mean”—Skip held his hands with the palms open—“you just look like you could use a friend.”
A friend. Since leaving college, Russell hadn’t seen many of his friends.
“Think about it, anyway,” Skip said. He was over by the wall with his hand on a toggle. He flipped the switch. The big overhead lights went out.
Russell stood at the top of the long rectangle made by moonlight through the front door. Everyone was gone. The quiet pressed against his ears and amplified the blood thrumming through his veins. “Sure.”
“Go out to the car, and I’ll lock up.” Skip’s voice came from the direction of the light switch, softer, huskier than normal. The moment stretched out, strangely intimate. He cleared his throat. “Go on now.”
Still, Russell didn’t move, locked in a battle between doing the correct thing, the expected thing, and the one thing he wanted to do. His fists clenched, knuckles jammed into his thighs. He did not need to get back at Susie by messing around with Skip.
“Go,” Skip whispered.
Russell went.
***
Skip looped the heavy padlock through the hook in the doorjamb, kicking himself for letting Ryker throw a party. Although, if he were honest, he’d own that Russell’s turn with the band was worth some trouble. Skip wouldn’t have predicted the poolside god could have done such a fine job with a Frank Sinatra tune.
A car door slammed. Russell must have made it back to the Buick. He loped over to the car and flung open the passenger door. Two of the swimmers were in the back, with Russell in the passenger seat, his khaki pants rumpled and his normally smooth cheeks showing the hint of a shadow.
“Slide over,” Skip said.
“Why?”
“You can drive, right?” This wasn’t the time to admit how much he liked the idea of having a tough guy drive his car.
Russell nodded with a grimace.
Skip shrugged, fighting to keep the tease out of his grin. “You’ve got the keys.”
Russell’s answering smile was more tired than anything else, but he slid across the seat and grasped the steering wheel. Skip climbed in, Russell turned the key, and the engine rumbled, a rich, dirty sound vibrating through Skip’s solar plexus.
“Make a right out of the parking lot,” Skip said, and drive that baby right over here. Russell had a hand on the gearshift, but the flashing blue light of a police car pulled in behind them.
“Shoot,” Skip said. He glanced over his shoulder, blinking into the cop car’s headlights. “Ryker’s dad’s going to be hacked.”
“Russell,” one of the girls in the back squeaked, “we’re going to get into trouble.”
“It’ll be all right, Phyllis.”
He said it with so much confidence, even Skip believed him.
The police officer’s bulky form approached, a wide black belt slung under his generous belly. “You’ve got your license with you, right?” Skip asked.
With another long glance at Skip, Russell rolled down the window. The cop flashed a light in the car.
“Officer,” Russell said, holding out his license.
The cop tipped the flashlight up, giving Skip a start. In the semidarkness, he recognized Murphy, a copy whose usual beat was down in Pioneer Square. He and Officer Murphy knew each other pretty well, and Skip eased back against the door, heart pinging in staccato bursts. If he did nothing else, he needed to stay out of the light.
Officer Murphy shone the flashlight on Russell’s license. “What’s a guy from Red Wing doing out here?”
“Seafair.”
Good. The fewer words the better.
Murphy flashed the light around the car again. Skip kept his gaze out the passenger window. The light passed him, then came back.
“Oh, this is good,” Murphy laughed. “Mister, um...” Murphy took another glance at the license. “Mr. Haunreiter, what are you doing with a pervert like Skip Johansen?” Another laugh, meaner, nastier. “And who you got back here? Are you two lezzies?”
“Russell.” Another plaintive cry came from the girl in the back.
“Excuse me, Officer, but as Mr. Johansen’s legal counsel,” Russell spoke with more poise than Skip could ever hope for, “may I remind you slander is a crime, and unless you want to charge us with anything, I suggest you go back to your car and let us go.”
Murphy’s look of surprised dismay made Skip’s lips twitch.
“You really a lawyer?” Murphy clearly didn’t believe what he’d heard.
Russell met his gaze squarely. “Yes, sir.”
Murphy flipped the license onto Russell’s lap. “You all go home. It’s too late to be hanging around down here.” He tucked the flashlight under his armpit and notched his fists on his hips. “And be careful about who you’re hanging out with.”