A high-pitch piano note begins the song, and my step falters. I twist, trying to see Blanche, but hands are on my back, my shoulders, pushing me forward again. I swear I hear someone say, “Sing, Saint Bonnelyn.”
I refocus on the stage, fingering the pearls around my neck. The way the spotlight lands on Rosie, it’s like little pieces of confetti dance behind her. She taps a tambourine against her leg, in perfect harmony with the piano’s melody—a cluster of twinkling stars that fall one at a time before tumbling all at once.
Rosie motions again, more urgently this time, giving me the encouragement I need to step onto the stage. The trumpet’s sudden deep notes fill the room, making it feel as if that moment was made for me, welcoming me.
And then Rosie’s singing, “No one to talk with…”
I step up to the second microphone, fingers tightly interlocked, not yet touching it.
“All by myself,” she croons.
I stand there, the words I’ve sung to myself so many times stuck in my throat.
A deep breath settles me. I lick my lips, clear my throat, and stare at the many feet on the dance floor.
She sings another line. I subtly bob my knee to the beat, waiting for the chorus, a place to make my entrance. This feeling of anticipation is the most alive I’ve felt in days, weeks, maybe even years. It rumbles through me, and I lean ’til my lips touch the cool metal of the microphone.
I swallow. Then I’m singing, “Ain’t misbehavin’…” I pause, and the piano carries me to the next note. “I’m savin’ my love for you.” I stretch the last word, my voice strengthening, deepening to become sultrier. The way the song is intended.
This earns me hoots and hollers from the people on the dance floor and from those sitting at the tables, but I don’t dare look up from their feet. I unclench my fingers, lace ’em ’round the microphone stand.
Rosie bumps me with her hip, my body falling into a natural sway. I count down the beats ’til the next verse. Three, two, one. “I know for certain the one I love,” I purr, enjoying the silkiness of my voice. “I’m through with flirtin’. It’s you that I’m thinkin’ of. Ain’t misbehavin’. I’m savin’ my love for you.”
The lyrics pour out of me, ones I’ve heard here at Doc’s, ones I’ve secretly heard at home on our radio, ones I’ve hummed in the time in between. Line after line, I sing, my voice melding with the song’s rhythm ’til the drums pick up, like rain pinging on a roof. The piano matches it, and then a cowbell, and finally trumpets, the instrumental solo creating a frenzy of feet on the dance floor.
Mary Janes and men’s dress shoes move at lightning speed, hopping, skipping, tapping. Men swirl the women ’cross the dance floor. My eyes trail up the bodies to hands that join and unjoin. People are thrown smoothly from side to side, between legs, into arms.
Their faces: enthralled and without a care in the world.
I smile, relaxing my shoulders and loosening my grip on the microphone stand. Rosie glances at me, shimmying her shoulders to the beat. I match her movements, reveling in how free I feel.
The instrumental solo is beats away from ending, and anticipation courses through me again. I feel the words bubbling from deep within me before they slip out, aligning ’em with a dip of my hip. “I don’t stay out late, got no place to go. I’m home ’bout eight, just me and my radio. Ain’t misbehavin’. I’m savin’ my love for you.”
I repeat the line, the chorus, leading to the song’s end.
“Savin’ my love for you … for you, for you”—my gaze bounces playfully ’round the room, from face to face—“for you.” I let the word hang with the remaining few beats.
It’s as if my curtain of inhibitions falls with that last note and is swept away by the boisterous crowd.
Freeze.
I close my mouth, lick my lips, brush aside a strand of hair. This moment is one I’ll forever relish. The cheering crowd. The sound of clapping. The way I feel alive.
Gulping in a breath of air, I hold it in my lungs—a last-ditch effort to savor this moment—then slowly blow out. Blanche clutches a glass behind the bar, her head shaking back and forth ever so slowly. But her face … her face looks proud. Astonished, even. With a playful tilt of her head, she lips, A-ma-zing.
“Thank you,” I whisper back. And I mean it. Not just as the appropriate response to her compliment, but—I’ll admit—for bringing me here, the place where this moment happened.
“Bonnelyn,” Rosie says. “Sing with me anytime.”
I nod, but the response feels inadequate. I step closer, but she’s already turning to the pianist, preparing for the next song.
I sigh. An enormous part of me wishes my feet could grow roots in front of this microphone. Another glance toward Blanche, swarmed by patrons at the bar and visibly in need of a second set of hands, tells me another tune will have to wait.
The pianist starts a new song, and I reluctantly step from the stage. I take those few beats with me, humming to myself while I blindly navigate toward the bar.
Someone moves in front of me.
I sidestep. “Excuse me.”
The body shifts again, blocking my way.
I look up into a confident face that instantly quickens my heartbeat.
“I’m flattered,” Henry says.
“Why?”
“It’s sweet of you to save all your love for me.”
“What?” His words catch me off guard. I swallow. It was Roy I thought of while I sang. Not Non-Roy. But, if I level with myself, I’ve been hoping yet dreading to see Henry again after our all-night hideout. Thinkin’ maybe he’ll look at me in that same hungry way.
The way he’s watching me now.
The trumpet roars to life and he leans closer.
I lean back, instinctively, ’cause this is wrong. Wrong. But curiosity gets the best of me when I notice the darker skin beneath his eye. “What happened to your face?”
He rubs his swollen cheekbone. “It was difficult to get into Doc’s tonight. But it sure as hell was worth it. I needed to see you.”
I think of the rules: only four men per hour.
“You fought someone for his spot?” I ask incredulously, trying to push the I needed to see you out of my head.
“Of course. It was a gamble. I wasn’t sure you’d be working tonight. But here you are. And may I say, Wow. That performance…” His hand cups my cheek before I can stop him, and my knees buckle. “How is it that you make me so crazy, Bonnelyn?”
I stumble away without answering, only my feet moving. My name coming from his lips sounds too familiar, and I need to get away. I need to see the boy I’ve really been saving all my love for. I weave ’cross the dance floor, and the entire time Henry’s gaze is heavy, oh so heavy.
“I have to go,” I shout to Blanche as I rush past the bar.
“What? Where?”
But I’m already pushing through the crowd, my eyes locked on the exit.
12
I’ve never ridden through the streets of Dallas at midnight before, my legs moving so fast that my feet slip from the bike’s pedals. I’ve also never had this overwhelming desire to see Roy before, ever.
I fly ’cross the tracks, violently shaking with each bump, continuing to thump as the road turns to dirt. The air is cool, twisting my short hair ’round my face. It’s invigorating. And Blanche was right: tonight’s been epic. And I don’t want it to be over yet. Not ’til I’ve seen Roy.
My breath comes out ragged. I leave my bike and my sparkly shoes in his front yard, tiptoeing toward Roy’s first-floor window. Light from a neighboring porch guides my way.
I don’t allow myself to stop or think. I ping my knuckles against his dusty window and wait, smoothing my windblown hair. A whole second passes before I cup my palms against the window to peer in. In the shadows of his room, his handsome face peeks out from beneath a disheveled white sheet.
I knock harder. He stirs. I tap again, ’til his head twists toward the window.
�
��Roy,” I call, and recognition appears on his face.
His tall frame lumbers ’cross the dark room, and I wiggle my toes in the damp grass. My lips curl into a timid smile.
“Bonn?” he croaks. He tugs open the window. “What are you doing here?”
“Why was your window closed?”
“Bugs,” he whispers simply. “Is everything okay?”
“It is now. I needed to see you,” I say, mimicking Henry’s words to me.
A smirk appears on Roy’s face, but his eyes are narrow. “You’ve become quite the night owl, haven’t you?”
“Well, tonight it’s all ’bout you.” I reach through the open window, shaking my hand for him to take. “Unless you’d rather I leave.” I begin to withdraw my arm.
Roy pulls me into his room.
My feet touch the ground and I advance, both hands against his chest, not giving him a chance to question me further, pushing him toward his bed. We tumble onto it, amidst his rumpled sheets.
His perplexed expression only makes this moment more important. My mind flashes to the other week, how Buck looked at Blanche with instant desire. Instant. Yet Roy has never lusted over me quite the same way. I think of Henry. My mind drifts to the intenseness I felt from Clyde’s eyes. I stop any further thoughts. I need to. I’m here for Roy. I crush my lips to his, needing to feel that spark, needing Roy to be more than the safe small-town boy I’ve known my whole life.
Roy kisses me back. I slip my tongue into his mouth and fumble with his shirt.
“Bonn?” he mumbles against my lips.
I shake my head, his head moving with my motion, the two still linked together.
Deepening the kiss, I sink into him, feeling him, knowing my surprise visit is exciting him as much as me. I smile, pulling back to see his face.
His eyes are still narrow, but that smirk is gone. Desire stares back at me as he licks his lips. “Is this how girls with short hair act?”
My stomach flutters. “It’s how I act.”
He runs his hand ’cross his forehead. “Guess that makes me a lucky man.”
I laugh, music to my ears. A new thought springs to mind. “Would you ever fight someone for me?”
This time Roy laughs. No doubt I’ve caught him off guard again. “Are you forgetting James Tucker?”
“James Tucker,” I repeat. That’s right. Roy whopped him good, a few years back, for razzing me ’bout having a tear in my hand-me-down skirt.
Through the darkness, I drag a fingertip down Roy’s mouth, pulling his lower lip, imagining the cut James left behind. And I want more, more. This night is like diesel fuel.
“Touch me,” I say, on top of him. My tone is low, seductive, the voice I used when I sang. I grab Roy’s hand, moving it to the small of my back, then lower, squeezing his hand so his fingers dig into me.
And then I’m on my back, Roy looking down at me, kissing me. The rhythm of his breathing pulses into me, matching the erratic beat of my heart.
“I want you,” I murmur into his mouth, followed by a moan. The sound is unfamiliar yet intoxicating, like something out of a Jane Austen book. “Do you want me?”
“Where is this all coming from?” Roy asks, each word slipping out between kisses.
“Would you rather I stop—”
“No.”
Self-satisfaction swells in me.
I was done saving my love. I wanted to show it, experience it, prove it. And Roy’s being receptive.
It only strengthens my desire to share Doc’s with Roy. Maybe he’ll want to swing me ’round the dance floor. Or play a round of cards at the tables. He’s a good cardplayer—one time he didn’t have to do his chores for a week, after he beat his pa in a game. And just ’cause his daddy had problems with alcohol, it doesn’t mean Roy will. Soon. Yes, soon I’ll tell him. But tonight … I want tonight to be ’bout us.
A sense of power courses through me, driven by Roy’s desire, forming another thought in my head: I can leave him wanting more. He’ll want more.
Just as I pushed him onto the bed, I push him off of me. The shadows of his room once again coat his face in confusion.
I backpedal toward his window.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
I slip one leg into the night, straddling the windowsill. “I’ll see you at school, Roy.”
“Why not tomorrow? I’ll be at our house.”
“Busy,” I say flippantly.
“But…” The light flicks on next to his bed. Roy’s eyes are big, his lips swollen, his cheeks flushed. He points down at himself, clearly happy I’d decided to stop by. “You’re leaving me like this?”
I chuckle—I’ve awoken a beast, one that’s been sleeping our entire relationship—and climb through the window.
Running ’cross Roy’s yard, flinging myself onto my bike, I’m giddy.
I’ve never ridden through the streets of Cement City after midnight before, my adrenaline moving my legs so fast that my feet slip from the bike’s pedals. I’ve also never had this overwhelming feeling of power before, ever.
13
After last night’s foray into singing and heated foreplay with Roy, my current mood is “craving attention.” I grudgingly step off the stage at Doc’s, a place Mary has encouraged me to go whenever the mood strikes me. I’ve been innocently flirting with the crowd through the sway of my hips and my sultry tone all night.
When I get back to the bar, Blanche is grinning at me like a goon. “Keep doin’ what you’re doing, Bonn. Tips go up, way up, when you’re prancing ’round under those lights.”
I laugh. An upstanding English teacher who moonlights as a seductive speakeasy singer. Wouldn’t that be rich?
“But it also means I’m going through these bottles faster,” she adds. “Mind getting me a new one?”
I turn on my heels, a pep in my step.
“Hold up!” Blanche says, and I face her. “I got so caught up in playing nurse last night that I forgot to ask you where you ran off to. Is there any other reason why you’re glowing?”
“Maybe.” I draw out the word.
“Bonn!” She grabs my shoulders. “Stop being such a closed book.”
“Fine,” I say, but I hesitate, partly ’cause I enjoy watching Blanche squirm, and also ’cause I want to keep my Roy-related excitement to myself a bit longer. Blanche has shared her conquests with me many, many times. But Roy ain’t a conquest, even if last night did feel like a victory.
“Bonn…” She grips my chin, holding my face steady.
“I went to Roy’s—”
Blanche’s eyes go wide, her fingers tightening on my cheeks. “In the middle of the night … you did not.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And did you make him your Roy Toy?”
“Blanche, no, we ain’t married.”
Her hand falls away, thumping against her leg. She holds up a finger to a man at the bar who is trying to get her attention. “Okay, well I’m half impressed. ’Bout time you two kicked it up a notch.”
I smile to myself. In that moment with Roy, the idea of freezing time didn’t cross my mind. I wanted more. More touching, more kissing, more pleasure. Heck, I still want more.
“You’re grinning all goofy,” Blanche says, smiling too.
“I think I may’ve created a monster. Roy didn’t want me to leave.”
She laughs. “I take it back. I’m fully impressed. Maybe I’ve created a monster. Ya know, it’s not too late for me to introduce ya to Buck’s bro—”
“Blanche…”
She laughs. “Fine. In that case, I’m done with this conversation. So how ’bout you”—she turns me toward the back room, slaps my butt—“grab me some whiskey. I feel some very thirsty eyes on me.”
Over my shoulder, I smile—the expression stuck on my face—and give a quick wave to Buck, who is ever so slowly settling onto a bar stool, his hand gripping his injured stomach.
In the back room, I pull open the closet door, flicking on the dim li
ght inside. Wooden crates are lined on shelves, and I peek through the cracks for a green bottle.
Found it.
Bottle in hand, I turn to leave, running straight into a crooked smile.
My free hand flies to my chest. “Henry, you scared me.”
He smiles and steps closer.
I look left, right, not sure what I’m expecting to find other than bottles. “What’re you doing back here?”
“You ran out on me so fast last night. I wanted to see you. Really see you.”
I bite my lip. “You did?”
He nods, confident. “And you want to see me, too.”
I push out a hip, meeting his confidence, and create a subtle curve to my body. “Think so, do ya?”
“I know so.”
Now I swallow and bring that hip back in. “How did you get back here, anyway?”
“Your sidekick was distracted with that boy of hers. Slipped right on back.” He steps even closer, runs the back of his hand down my cheek. “I hear you already sang tonight. I wanted a private show.”
Just like that, my insides are engulfed in flames. I tighten the grasp on the bottle’s neck, feeling as if the dark glass could shatter any moment from knowing this is wrong. Or maybe my grip’s so tight from the way the tips of our shoes touch, the way he made our shoes touch, coming back here for me. I can’t help myself; I tease, “Those don’t come cheap.”
“How ’bout this for payment?”
Henry cups my face with both hands and my eyes betray me, falling on his lips before finding those hungry eyes. He tilts his head forward ’til our foreheads touch. I should pull back. But the way he breathes me in …
A second passes, and another.
My arms hang limp at my sides. The bottle slips from my grasp. I vaguely hear the breaking of glass, hardly notice the wetness that splashes my legs.
He crashes his mouth onto mine, just like I’d done to Roy last night.
Roy.
Our life together.
I pull away, gasping for air. “I’m sorry. I need to go.” The broken glass gleams in the dim light, and I stumble backwards. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
Brushing past Henry, I rush back into the main room of Doc’s.
Becoming Bonnie Page 12