Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (51 page)

Inside, a table’s been erected at the far end of the room, at which four visibly coldhearted individuals who have each had a worse day than the other sit patiently awaiting my audition. Not one of them smiles. The only one of the four I recognize is my acting professor, Nina Parisi, a needle-eyed, cold-faced
bone
of a woman whose caramel skin sags at the eyes as if she hasn’t slept in sixty-six years.

“Hello,” I say when I take my place before them. I don’t know how close to stand, so I measure myself at roughly thirty feet away, which still feels too close. “I’m D-Desdemona Lebeau, and I’ll be acting in a … Sorry, no. I’m performing one verse of an original song called ‘A Palace of Stone’ … as well as a dramedy—er, dramatic piece from D-D-Damien Rigby’s
Quieter The Scream
.”

Then, with all due emotion, I perform.

“How’d it go??” Victoria begs me the moment I’m out of the door.

I’ve returned to the lobby filled with the others who have either gone already or still anxiously wait, practicing their audition pieces to the walls or the stairs or each other. There’s a peculiar comfort in watching them go at it while knowing that my own audition is over with and I’m no longer enduring the anxiety that is so visible on their faces and in their wringing hands.

“It went okay, I guess.”

“Just okay?” She frowns on my behalf. “It’s alright. Nerves get the best of us. Maybe spring auditions will be better for you.”

I smile. “And yours?”

“Perfectly!”

Her face bursts with ecstasy. It’s like she’s been dying to express how perfectly her audition went for the past hour. And she does just that, detailing to me every little nuance she discovered, even in the tiny sixty second opportunity we’re given in front of them.

“Oh, Des, you should come with us!” she exclaims suddenly. “We’re all hitting up the Throng & Song after this.”

I squint at her. “Whose thong?”

“
Throng
. Come with us! It’s
the
Theatre hangout.”

Considering it’s Friday and, now that the audition is over with, I just have a weekend full of freedom ahead of me, I tag along with Victoria, Eric, and Chloe on a trip across campus, down a street, and into a piano bar slash diner called, as previously warned, the
Throng & Song
. The inside is shockingly crowded with college-aged kids, most of whom I’d assume are not old enough to drink. Baskets of fries and wings adorn every table and a thin veil of smoke hovers in the air.

We claim a table near a very small circular stage, upon which stands the most rundown upright piano I’ve ever seen, and a stool where a guitarist strums and sings unheard in the thick clamor of the room. Victoria is telling me something about her audition and I’m just smiling and nodding, unable to hear a word of it even sitting across the table from her. We haven’t been in here for two minutes and I already feel drowsy from the noise and smoke.

A waitress comes by and asks each of us if we want something from the bar. To be heard, she leans in so close she could kiss each of us. Her words tickle my ear, and I wince and answer, “Vodka tonic, please.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but as the day turns to night, the noise grows even louder. It is so deafening in here that I feel pressure against every wall of my skull, as if it’s being invaded by an army of sound and every cell in my body works to defend my cranium castle, resisting the swarm. I clutch my head at one point, convinced that my brain is being rattled inside by the noise.

After three vodka tonics and a round (or was it two?) of tequila shots that the others
insisted
we do, the noise doesn’t bother me at all.

“Oh my god, y’all,” Victoria slurs, giggling as she leans into me. We’ve all traded positions over the past hour and now she’s nearly sitting in my lap. “I’m gonna need another one of whatever the fuck that was. That shit was
goooooood
.” Eric shouts the name across the table. “Huh?” Eric shouts it again. “What?”

The guitarist finishes his song, and the half of the bar who are actually paying attention applaud noisily, a chorus of hooting and whistling cutting through the room. “Thank you, thank you,” the musician says with a wave of his hand. “I’m taking a ten, then I’ll be back. Peace.”

When the guitarist makes his leave, Victoria leans into me. “Confession: I want to have his babies.”

I giggle, though I’m not sure if it’s because of what she just said or because the room’s spinning and that somehow tickles. “There’s nothing sexier in this world than a singer,” I blurt back into her ear.

“Oh! I want to hear your audition piece!”

I stare at her through foggy eyes. “You already did, silly! Thirteen times in a row, remember?”

“I mean your
song
, dummy!”

“Ooh, right, yeah.” I laugh. Flecks of saliva dust the table in front of me and I slap a hand over my lips, inspiring Eric to laugh at me. “Shush! I haven’t
drinked
anything since—Uh, haven’t
drunk
anything—Uh, what’s the word? Drank? Drink, drank, drunk?”

“You should drink more often,” Victoria shouts into my ear. “You’re so much more fun.”

“Are you calling me boring?”

“No! You’re just …
less
boring when you’re drunk!”

“You
are
calling me boring!”

“No!”

“You think I’m boring? Hey, Other Eric!” I shout, squinting across the table at him. “Am I boring? Hey, Chloe! Am I boring??”

They shout back answers I can’t hear. I slap my hand on the table, causing the drinks to jump.

“Alright, then,” I say, assuming their answers. “I’ll prove to you how very
not
boring I am. I’ll prove you all wrong right now.”

I push myself up from the table and stumble to the stage. Victoria’s laughter trails me along with a few words I obviously can’t make out. When I’m on the stage, the pianist greets my eyes with worry. “No, no,” I tell him with a dizzy wave of my hand. “Don’t worry. I’m an actress. I have training in these sorts of things.”

I have no idea what I mean by that, but I say it.

“Excuse me!” I call into the microphone, then give it five solid taps that cut through the cacophony of collegiate banter and screaming and laughter.

To my utter surprise, dozens of pairs of eyes turn to meet mine on the stage. I see every pair even through the haze of smoke and light. The noise cuts in half.

Holy hell, I actually
did
get their attention.

“My friends think I’m boring,” I explain to the room, inspiring even more silence and attention from them. “And I’d love to prove my friends wrong. So while our sexy guitarist is taking ten, I’d like to sing you all a lovely little song.”

Three guys cheer from the back of the room. Some girl shouts, “Let’s hear it!” followed by a chorus of roars. My friends at the table near this tiny stage wear looks of astonishment, their eyes sparkling with pride and alcohol.

“It’s a song I wrote about myself,” I tell the room. “A song about how we close ourselves up. A song I hoped would inspire me to break free from my own … from my own proverbial palace. A song …”

Suddenly lost in the emotion of said song, I stop explaining and let the music speak for itself. Gripping the microphone, I bring my lips to its black, puffy head, then close my eyes.

And I sing.

The room, which was only a moment ago packed with the deafening noise of so many voices, is now filled with only one: mine. My voice reaches through the room. My eyes search, a strange desire to touch every person in this room gripping me by the throat.

Something magical happens. I feel something in me let go. I’m weightless as I sing to them. If I didn’t have such a grip on the microphone, I just might float away. I let the words of “A Palace of Stone” stream out of me.

And then, somewhere between the second and third verse, I see him in the crowd.

Oh my god. He’s been there the whole time,
I realize.

Beautiful as ever, intense, and wearing a tight white shirt that makes that bad-boy tattoo up his neck pop … Clayton sits on a barstool palming a beer bottle, and his eyes are alight with fierceness, with yearning, with something I cannot even name.

Or is it the alcohol that makes me see these lovely things? Is it the alcohol singing and not me?

Clayton doesn’t seem to care, and his eyes do not avert in the least.
I have him in the palm of my hand.
He watches … He watches and listens.

This would be the second time he’s heard this song. This is the second time I’ve captivated him. What else could that expression of his mean?

I’m hypnotizing him.

Yes. Finally, the tables have turned.
I’m
the one he’s obsessed with now, in this one moment, as long as I can make the song last. I am his siren, luring him with my music.

And then I hear the tinkling of piano notes. I turn to find that the pianist has joined in, following my lead with the melody I sing. The guitarist, who’s back from his break, has been watching from the side of the stage, his eyes sparkling with wonder. He picks up his guitar and joins his friend, supporting me with their tunes, totally improvising as they go.

Maybe it’s the music that inspires me, as a wicked, naughty little demon takes control of my body.

Plucking the microphone off the stand, I saunter down from the stage, still singing, and slowly cut my way through the crowd—to him. Every lyric I have is now given straight to Clayton.

It’s a matter of half a verse before I’m standing right in front of him, singing my music.

His face stiffens.

Is that fear I just inspired in his dark, threatening eyes?

I sing my words to them, my fingers slowly, gently, lovingly, tenderly stroking the microphone up and down.

I’m an actress who shows no fear.
With my free hand, I bring a finger to his neck, tracing where that dark ink comes up from the muscular, hidden unknown beneath his shirt. Firm and frozen, he coldly watches me.
The bravest in my whole biosphere.
I brace myself against his table, my hips grazing along his side as I sing up to his wary face.

Clayton’s eyes narrow, as if I’m wounding him with my music.
Yes, let me wound you with it, so that you might feel an ounce of the agony I’ve felt all week ever since I first laid eyes on you.

As the musicians bring me into the final verse, I pause and bring a hand to that beer in his hand. It slips from his grip easily and I bring it to my lips, my eyes locked on his. I take a swig of it, then set it back on the table. My eyes wrinkle slightly in response; I hadn’t expected the beer to be so bitter. His eyes turn glassy and a hint of amusement twists his lips.

It’s work to perch atop this throne
… Oh god. That smirk of his is so sexy, I could ditch the song and plunge into him right now.
This throne made of credit cards and silicone …

I’m standing so close to Clayton now, I feel heat coming off of him. I’ve never felt so exposed, so free …
Don’t dare give your heart, or you’ll fall right apart.

I lick my lips as the guitarist strums and the pianist glides his long fingers.
Right here in my palace of stone …

He parts his lips, his face tightening, pained.

My lips kiss the tip of the microphone as I push the last lyrics out.
Yes, right here … in my palace of stone.

The music concludes in a contemplative, resolving chord.

Silence swallows the room.

Clayton’s eyes.

Me and a heavy microphone in my hand, growing heavier and heavier by the second.

I’m met suddenly with the reality of what I just did.
In front of everyone.
The alcohol’s no longer a mask. I just sang the most personal song I’ve ever written to a room full of strangers.

Clayton breathes.

I can’t.

What did I just do?

Then there’s a shout of joy from the back, startling me, and then the rest of the room erupts into applause and cheering. I think I’m imagining it for a second, stunned by the reaction. Are they mocking me, or did I really do a decent job?

When I look at Clayton again, I see a question in his eyes. Suddenly, nothing else matters.
I got his attention,
I tell myself.
He knows who I am. He’s curious. I caught him.
And in the midst of all my doubt, I feel like I’ve won some game I didn’t know I was playing. The game of cat and mouse. The crush game.