“It’s about time somebody caught that bastard.” He laughs, rubbing his hands together with excitement. “Payback’s a bitch,” he says. Then he saunters off into the crowd.
“Ford works with Logan in the front,” she explains in between pouring drinks. She takes a twenty from a guy and presses it down her top. I can see the tip of it sticking up from her cleavage. And so can her customer. He licks his lips. “Oh, did you want change?” she asks sweetly. He shakes his head, laughs and walks away.
“Have you worked here long?” I shout. The band is just getting started on the stage, tuning their instruments and playing some snippets of music. I turn around to look toward them. The lead singer is already shirtless. But the crowd seems to love it.
“About a year,” she says. She’s working quickly to fill drinks, and the club is getting busier and busier. I almost wish I could go and help her. I feel pretty useless sitting on the sidelines like this with nothing to do.
“Who’s the band?” I ask, jerking a thumb over my shoulder.
She shrugs. “They’re new.”
I hear the beginnings of Free Bird start to play and my fingers itch. I swipe the tip of my finger across the calluses on my thumb and wish it was me on that stage. But it can’t be. They’re just doing cover songs, anyway. But they’re songs that make my fingers twitch and make my heart start to beat faster.
I turn around to watch them.
They’re really very good. But there’s one problem. Their lead guitarist is stinking drunk. They barely got through their warm up, and he’s already stumbling over the cords. Their bassist turns to glare at him, and he grins and keeps on playing. But he can barely stay on his feet. He motions to a waitress and she brings him a shot. He tips it back and keeps on playing.
The bass guitarist is pissed. I can tell. I would be too. You don’t mess with the music. Ever. I’m itchy on the stool, and I want to go and take the guitar from him and take over. I force myself to sit still.
Logan stalks close to me from across the room and stops half way. “You ok?” he mouths. I nod at him and shoo him away with my hands. He grins at me, and stays where he can look my way. I hope he’s not planning to hover all night.
I twitch for a completely different reason when I see a girl walk up to Logan. She’s wearing a short skirt and a skimpy top, and her boobs are sitting up like they’re stacked on a shelf for people to look at. Logan’s eyes skim across her chest, and she lays her hand on his arm, leaning close to him. I scoot to the edge of the chair, watching to see how he reacts. He watches her lips for a moment, and then puts his hands on her shoulders and pushes her back. She scowls. He takes a step back from her, and my heart thrills.
“Damn,” Abby says. “Never thought I’d see that happen.”
I look over at her. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve never seen him push one away.”
Logan looks over at me and winks.
The girl glares at me, and turns to say something sharp to him. He looks at her kindly, but there’s no heat in his gaze. At least not the kind she was looking for. She huffs off.
Suddenly, the band’s amp screeches loudly and their lead guitarist stumbles, falling to his knees. His buddies stop playing and try to stand him up, but he just lays there laughing.
The crowd starts to shout, pushing toward the stage. They are not happy. And I can’t say I blame them.
I motion to Logan, and he rolls his eyes as he walks toward the stage. The crew staggers the lead guitarist to his feet and lifts the guitar strap over his head, but he’s too wobbly to stand. Logan bends, shoves his shoulder into the man’s middle, and hoists him over his back. Logan winks at me as he walks toward the back of the bar and disappears behind a curtain. The band members are huddled in a circle, trying to figure out if they can continue or not without their lead guitarist.
My fingers twitch and I wiggle my feet, trying to keep away. But it’s impossible. I slide from the stool, my legs wobbly as I walk over, and very nonchalantly step onto the stage. My heart is pounding in my ears and I couldn’t utter a sound if I wanted to, my throat is so tight. But I pick up the abandoned guitar, slide the strap over my head, and look at the band members. I pull my pic out of my pocket and hover over the steel strings. One of them reaches to take the guitar from me. But I start to play before he can.
Sweet Child of Mine rolls off my fingertips, the sound of it filling the space, and the men step back, aghast at the little girl who’s playing the big boys’ guitar. Truth be told, it’s too big for me, but I don’t let that stop me. “We going to play or what, boys?” I yell. But I don’t stop playing, no matter what. The crowd is hooting, and I do a quick show for them.
The boys of the band all rearrange themselves, and the lead singer comes to me and asks, “What can you play?”