by Ginger Scott
“Everyone take two to get another drink and then get settled for our girl Murphy Sullivan. She’s sort of a crowd favorite here at Paul’s, so if this is your first time, you’re in for a treat,” says Eddie, the Paul’s announcer. He’s the manager, and I think he might be in his seventies. He wears a three-piece suit every Saturday, because he says anything less would be an insult to “these fine paying patrons.”
I love Eddie. He’s a little gruff at first. He doesn’t like to mince words, and he’s always right to the point. But he’s also fiercely loyal, and because he likes me, I know I’ll always have one man in my corner.
“You’re the big finale tonight, sugar,” he says, stepping off the stage and resting a palm on my shoulder with a small squeeze. I smile and nod, but internally I feel every trigger that happens when I faint. If only I could actually pass out. That might get me out of this.
Eddie passes and I stand, swapping places with my guitar case, pulling the strap around my body and adjusting while I hold the pick between my teeth. And because I haven’t been tested enough in life, my nightmare gets exponentially worse the second I turn around.
“Don’t swallow that,” Casey says.
He’s wearing the same thing he was in when he walked out of my house this afternoon. Even the damn beanie that I tried to steal away is in its place, on his head. His smile is stupid and lopsided, and I want to spit the pick out of my mouth at his face, but I know I can’t spit hard enough. With my luck, it would probably just get stuck on my lower lip.
“You didn’t have to come watch me tonight,” I say, turning my attention to the stage. It’s so empty and inviting—nothing but a stool and a mic under dim lighting. This is why I like it here.
“You didn’t write back, and I need to talk to you,” he says, before both of us are distracted by the countdown happening a few tables away. And my fan base has just upped their blood alcohol content again.
“Hey, I know her, right?” My eyes dart to his, and the stupid smirk on his mouth.
“Oh sure, her you remember,” I say with a roll of the eyes.
Sam was like a bridge in high school—she was a cheerleader because she loved gymnastics, but she also loved theater, so we hung out a lot. She and I always clicked, and when we found out we were going to the same college, we signed up to room together. We’ve never talked about Casey, because there was never anything to talk about. Even now, she just knows him as that guy from high school who it turns out works for a record label now and might hook me up. I don’t tell her about the butterflies. I don’t tell her, because they aren’t supposed to be there, and clearly Casey would prefer them to go away, too.
I can feel him looking at me as I straighten my flowing blouse and tank top over my jeans, pulling the wrinkles free from my guitar strap. I pledge to keep my eyes focused on the stool, on my next mission—the next fifteen minutes that will be over soon. But then the son of a bitch talks and gets in my head again.
“I just meant from that picture. That’s the girl in the picture with you, from Helen Keller,” he says.
I give in and look at him, and his eyes are squinted and his mouth slightly askew. That’s his pondering face—he’s pondering if I’m jealous.
Well, I am. Good for you, Casey Coffield—I’m a mess of a jealous girl with a crippling disorder that I literally have to punch in the face every time I want to touch my dream. Thanks for the distraction, though.
“I’m on,” I say, shaking my head and stepping up the side stairs opposite Eddie.
My senior citizen friend points a finger at me with raised brows, asking if I’m ready. No, I’m not—but I give him a thumbs-up anyhow, because nothing is going to get magically better in the next few seconds.
Eddie announces me as the last open-mic performer for the night, and I walk to my tiny island of a stool while my drunken best friend and her fraternity chant my name and pound their fists on the table. The scene is comical. It must be, because other people are laughing.
I search the front row tables for familiar faces, but there aren’t any. Only laughing faces. And my ears quiet with the hum of stress that’s now taking over my nerve endings.
“H…H…Hi,” I say, feeling the pull.
I stall by pretending I need to adjust the mic, siting on the stool with my legs crossed and pulling the slender stand close to my body. I twist the coupling in the middle and lower it too far on purpose so I have to adjust it back to where it was. It’s a ruse, and I’m pretty sure everyone knows it.
My hearing clears, but only long enough to hear one of Sam’s friends whistle and call out my name. I chuckle, but it’s pretend.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice soft in the mic.
Why did I pick a new song to do? I should stick with my tried-and-true set. My guitar is tuned for something entirely different though. I spend long seconds staring at the strings, debating changing, and searching for something clever to say—a story to tell—to amuse the small crowd here while I fix my guitar for a different song.
“I just need…” I start, looking out, but only seeing lights. That’s why I love Paul’s—because I can’t see people—the lights blind. Only tonight, I hear people I can’t see. It’s worse. There’s a whistle again, and my eyes fall to my trembling hands, and my guitar slips, knocking the mic stand forward. I grab it in time, but the large wailing sound of a typical sound check deafens.
My heart hurts.
I’ve battled this so many times—even in recent years. I always keep my shit together. I can defeat it. I don’t cry. I won’t cry.
“I’m…” Nothing comes next. I’m sorry. That’s what I’m supposed to say. My voice is supposed to come out charming. I’m supposed to be approachable and friendly. I should smile, but I can’t even feel my face. The words are locked away.
“Murphy,” someone says, louder than a whisper. “Murphy,” my name is called again.
I lean forward and cradle my guitar, giving myself this one second to decide to bolt or keep fighting.
“Murphy,” he says it again.
Casey. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, holding my guitar pick. I tilt my head up, hiding from most of the world behind my hair. He’s smiling. Not laughing. He’s smiling, barely and his eyes are looking for me, to pull me back.
“You dropped it,” he says, the silver pick nothing compared to the size of his hand. He holds it up between two fingers, and I take it, whispering “Thank you.”
“You’re all right,” he says before I can look away. “Just jump. You’re all right.”
My heart is pounding, so I hold onto his gaze for a few extra seconds, my hands searching for the right hold on my guitar, the muttering of people in the audience growing louder.
“Jump,” he says.
I never stop looking at him. I convince myself we’re in the studio—and he’s just played Van Halen for me, poorly. It’s a joke that happens only in my head, but it makes me smile. I find the mic and tilt it into place, and I talk to him…and nobody else.
“Sorry about that,” I chuckle. “I uh…I…”
No.
My eyes close and open for a reset. I smile, the outline of Casey’s face all I see under the hot lights above.
“I dropped my pick,” I laugh.
I will myself to charm the crowd I’ve lost, and I block out the catcalls from my friend and her friends. I focus on Casey’s smile—and the fact that he is somehow here. Even though he makes a mess out of my heart and head. He’s still here. And I lean on him.
“This is something new,” I smirk.
His head tilts.
And as much as I wanted to make this song a hate anthem about boys like him, when faced with one that’s rooting for me, I just can’t.
“It’s called ‘Tease,’ and I’ll let y’all sort out what it’s about,” I say, a playful smile making my lips twitch as I lean forward and feel the energy of the mic calling me close.
Casey
“Tease”—there could not
be a better title for that song.
I’m not sure if she realizes how sexy it is, but wow! I hit record on my phone the second she said she would be playing something new. I was expecting the song I told her I liked. This surprise is welcomed, though.
The staccato lyrics spill from her troubled mouth like poetry. She’s putting men in their places—calling us all on our ways. She’s putting me in my place. And I’m going willingly. This song is her dominating me.
By the second verse, she loses herself, and I know she’s going to be all right. I lean back in my chair and just listen, my head internalizing and working out the rhythm. I can’t wait to layer this with something soulful. This song—it’s the kind of song people make love to.
My eyes open on her at that thought. My hand flexes at the memory of being splayed over her stomach, and I imagine more. By the final verse, she’s so close to the mic that I watch her love it—her tongue slow across her lips in carefully timed swipes. I am mentally begging her to lick it. This is her performing, and she is a master.
I’m her slave.
I shut off the recording when her final note ends and the applause erupts. Her table of friends is obnoxious, and I can see it threaten her peace, so I lean forward again to catch her sightline.
“So good,” I mouth slowly.
I don’t smile, but only because I can’t. The feelings she’s stirred—they aren’t the smile kind. They’re primal.
They’re probably the exact kind of feelings an asshole like me gives into, which is why I’m going to give her the news I came here to share, and then leave.
I suppose the news could have waited. When I think about it, it’s selfish that I’m here at all. Of course it’s selfish—that’s what I do, isn’t it? I want to tell her because she’ll be happy, and that will make me happy. So if I reduce the formula, I’m here to make myself happy. I swear it’s not that I want credit, though. It’s only that I want to give her a taste of success, because she’s worked hard, and she needs something to believe in.
And since I’ve ruined so much…
She finishes three more songs, then escapes to the edge of the stage. I wait patiently at my table near the front, nursing the small Pepsi I ordered instead of the double shots of whiskey I wanted. The loud table that’s been cheering for her—obnoxiously—stands and meets her at the bottom of the steps. Her friend, the one I recognize, is tipsy, but is genuinely proud of our girl. The guys are clueless losers—especially the one that wraps his bear-claw arms around her and lifts her from the bottom step, spinning her once before setting her on the ground. At least, I presume he set her on the ground. I had to look away.
When I search for her again, a minute later, Murphy has moved to the tight area behind the bar where she’s filling out something on a clipboard. It’s probably the list to perform next week. Bear-claw is overly interested, leaning over the bar and watching her write, and before my self-discipline kicks in, I walk over there with the intent of pressing my palm against his forehead to shove his face away.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” her theater friend slurs. “In the flesh!”
I grin at her, tight-lipped, and pull my beanie from my head, tucking it in my back pocket before running my hand through my hair and stretching my palm out to shake hers. She stumbles into me and her hand grabs at my chest in that familiar way I’ve come to know at the end of the night in a club or bar. Only this time, I wish it were the hand of the girl watching me with disgusted eyes. And I wish it weren’t a bar at all, but rather her bedroom, while on her floor, listening to her favorite records.
“Good to see you,” I say, because while I recognize her, I don’t remember her name either.
“That’s Sam,” Murphy says, her eyes set on the notepad she’s still writing on. “You recognized her tits, remember?”
Her eyes shut instantly and she sets down the pen, her fingers flexing for a brief second before turning away. I think even she’s surprised she said that. Good on her, though, because there’s really no response for me to give. No, I didn’t recognize her tits comes to mind, but only for an amusing second.
“Yeah, Sam. I remember,” I lie. That was the wrong thing to say, because Murphy spins and gives me a sharp glare the second I do.
“I mean, from the theater photos…I saw your picture.” I try to repair the damage, but it doesn’t matter—Murphy’s moved on, working to pack up her guitar and fend off the banal conversation from the bear-claw lips hovering over her.
“Murphy says you’re helping her get a record deal?” Sam asks, her hands flirty, touching my collar and arm. I take a step away so she’s closer to the guy she came with and begins touching him instead.
“Well, that’s what he says, but…we’ll see,” Murphy hums, her tone doubtful as she snaps the clasps shut on her case and pulls the strap along with her bag over her shoulder. “Sam…and friends,” she grimaces, “thanks for coming. I’ve got an early morning, so…”
“Awwww, I thought you were coming out with us. Party bus!” Sam says, hopping on her toes. It’s amazing to me how this behavior is so appealing when I’m lit.
“Sam,” Murphy says, squaring her shoulders with her liquid-happy friend. “It’s not a bus, dear. It’s a limo—and it’s a gross one at that. And you know I am not the party girl.”
“I know, but…” her friend whines.
“I love you. I’ll see you for lunch this week,” Murphy says, tilting her head forward. The exchange is sweet, and I’m envious as she glances at me and furrows her brow before turning and marching right through the back door to her car.
“Murph, hey…wait,” I call after her. She isn’t running, but she’s not wasting any time, either. “Murph…”
She turns and offers a tight-lipped, very fake smile. It catches me off guard so I stare at her for a second, my lips parted and my heart surprised at the way it feels. My eyes fall closed and my head tips forward with a breath of a smile.
“I’m sorry. You’re just…you’re kind of all fired up, and it caught me off guard,” I say, cocking an eyebrow as I glance up to her.
She doesn’t look at me—instead only fidgeting with her keys and chewing at her lip. The longer it takes for her to find her words, to look up at me and answer, the more I realize just how much damage I’ve done. I forced her to play pretend, and she has been trapped in that role ever since. I need to leave this girl alone, but I need to make it right first.
“Lane really liked your com…your company today,” she says, her gaze still at her own feet.
A legit smile hits my lips at the memory of earlier, before pieces started falling into place. I swallow while I think of what to say, a way to answer that conveys exactly what today was for me, a way that say’s I’m sorry, and means it for everything—all of the things.
“I heard from John…” I say instead, because that’s what I can give her.
I can give her her dream.
Her expression changes, and her hands stop twisting as she pulls her lips into her mouth, sucking and holding her breath. She brings her eyes to mine, ready for disappointment.
No, Murphy. I wouldn’t come out here tonight to disappoint you. I’m never going to disappoint you again.
“Think you can get a sub for your class tomorrow? He likes to sign contracts in the morning…when his lawyer is in…and…”
“Shut up,” she interrupts, her bottom lip jutted out, her eyebrows rising slowly, realization sinking in. I can’t help but smile at her happiness.
“He loved it,” I say.
“Shut up,” she says again, this time a small tickle of a laugh squeezing through. Her lips begin to curve and the light in her grays comes alive as her hand cups her mouth.
“I will…in a minute,” I laugh. She steps forward and pushes the center of my chest, shoving me off balance. I laugh and catch her hand, but let her fingers slide through mine quickly because that’s not what this moment is about.
“He loved it, Murphy. I knew he would. And he
wants to get you in to the studio fast. He was going to call himself, but I…” I pause, thinking the truth. But I’m a selfish prick, and I wanted to be the one who got to make you happy—just once.
“Thank you, Casey,” she says, taking a step toward me and throwing her arms around me.
The girl who doesn’t like to hug pulls me close and buries her face in my chest, and I memorize the soft feel of her hair on my neck and chin. My hands grip for a second, holding the fabric of her shirt as my eyes fall shut and I breathe her in. I let go and step back after only that second, though—that’s more than I deserve—and I push my hands in my pockets.
Murphy brings both hands up to cover her mouth again, but she can’t hide the smile in her eyes.
“So you’ll let me know? If you’ll make it in tomorrow?” I say, taking a step or two in the opposite direction, my keys in my hand.
She nods yes.
“I’ll be there,” she says. “I’ll get someone to cover, and I’ll…I’ll be there.”
“Eight…if you can,” I say.
“I can,” she responds.
With tight lips, I smile and nod before holding up a thumb. I spin and move toward my car, looking over my shoulder to give her one more congratulations, but she’s already moved into her driver’s seat and shut the door. She’s already pulling out and rushing home—to her beautiful family, who will embrace her and fill her head with positive thoughts about how this is only her beginning.
I stop at my car door and watch her pull away, satisfied that she has this new start, as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, naïve to think it’s her.
It’s Christina.
It’s my nightmare.
He’s asking for you. You have to come.
I sit in the parking lot behind Paul’s for three hours and try to think of a way to tell her no.