Pretty Instinct (11 page)

And Bubs? Yet again, my sweet, innocent, always kind and accepting brother comes out the worst. Confused and bereft, he won’t understand a damn thing about the politics that surround him, only that he’s lost another friend.

Is my father right? Am I dragging Conner through a maze of uncertainty and instability? Is my uncle miserable, faking wanting to be here only to make sure I don’t destroy his nephew?

Too bad I can’t simply say “things were better before, let’s go back to that,” cause that’s certainly not the case.
Before
sucked colossally, no one happy or stable.

And now’s not looking real great either. Which leaves only future…so I guess we’ll see what happens.

***

Tonight’s show is at Fletcher’s, a skeezy, way too big and too questionable venue for my brother, so not only am I dismal from today’s events and our wanderer having wandered, but I made Bruce and Conner skip the show, giving them free run of my credit card for a movie or something else fun instead.

With some last minute adjustments, Jarrett’s got his bass in hand and I’m about to shred on the guitar strapped around my neck. I usually prefer to play piano, but tonight I need raw, soul-searing metal in my hands—and we need a guitarist.

“Who’s already hammered out there?” I yell into the mic, pressing my boot to the foot pedal, ready to melt faces and ears alike.

The crowd roars and wolf whistles in response, feasting off my aggression. “Well good. After the show, I just might join ya. We’re See You Next Tuesday, but I won’t. Rolling out of here later, headed for some other bullshit. Anyways, this first one’s a favorite of mine and grossly appropriate.”

I lead into “Disarm” by Smashing Pumpkins, not found on our set list. The boys catch on seamlessly and join in, I knew they would, but cared nothing if they didn’t. Even if by myself, it’s my battle cry, to Cannon, Rhett, life…all disarming me, testing my strength.

Eyes closed, head back and whole world spinning around in my head, I leave everything in the song. Painfully personifying lyrics burn their way up my throat and damn near
cry
out my mouth, the words objectifying me so much so that I’m drained when it’s over, yet tempted to sing it again.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Jarrett laughs into his own microphone as I fall silent, pulling my eyes open.

It’s probably stupid and unrealistic, but I know who he means without the slightest movement of my head. Amongst the noise of the bar and the heat of the lights—more than anything, I can
feel
his return.

“Sorry I’m late,” that seductively rich voice rings out. “I must’ve misplaced our schedule.”

Frozen, losing my anger-fueled showmanship all at once, I fight to keep my focus straight ahead. Thank God Jarrett knows me so well, immediately commandeering the lead.

“Give it up for Liz on guitar!”

I use the break to unstrap and take the guitar to side stage, almost not wanting to walk back out. But I’m back, front and center, by the third bar of our original “Unapologetically,” a ditty written by all three of us, featuring jovial, more on the country side, lyrics with a mean bass line. One of my faves. Rhett sings this one with me from behind his drum kit, the ray of sun returning from behind the clouds evident in his harmonious tenor.

With Jarrett at the helm, of course there’s double meaning banter in between every song; he loves playing with the crowd. And his ornery segue to our fifth number seems to be a crowd favorite, judging by applause and raucous laughter.

“Say Cannon?” he asks with a chuckle.

“Say what?” the man to my right, who I still haven’t looked at, answers.

“I believe you may be in the doghouse with our lead mistress, bro. What’re you gonna do about that?”

My head flings to the left, shooting Jarrett a viscous scowl. How dare he broadcast band problems on stage? This isn’t a stand-up routine, especially at my expense.

“Well, if she’d afford me so much as a glance, I’d ask if I could sing her a song.” The audience, eating this up, cheers and whoops, loving Cannon’s charm. Even men are grinning and clapping.

I can either go with it and be humiliated or crack his teeth and labeled the villain. Both glaring choices suck, but I concede to the first and ham it up, turning to him with a defiant stance, crossed arms and raised-brow. With an evil smirk, I ask, “What’d you have in mind, hot shot?”

He saunters over to me, the effects of his teasing approach devastating, and leans into my ear. “What was
your
song, Siren? The one sung
to you
all the time?”

“I-I—” Tears threatening, I gulp them down and manage a whisper, “I didn’t have one.”

“You do now.” He winks, slowly moving backwards into place, mesmerizing eyes holding mine. “Grab somebody close,” he instructs the room, “this is a slow one, for Lizzie.”

Tunnel hearing, no clue if Rhett or Jarrett join in, I barely manage to remain standing and dry eyed as he sings “Girl,” by, you guessed it, my beloved Beatles. Transfixed, the entire performance undoes me, but the parts where he hisses air in through his teeth, lip curling as he does so, right after he coos out “ahh girllll.” Hot damn. Every feeling in my body is replaced with deliciously feminine longing.

He made that song his sultry bitch, never breaking our locked stare, carrying me away from the here and now to a place where only he and I exist, where I’m the “girl” who makes him hiss in a deep breath past a clenched jaw…in awe of the charge between us.

“I think you’re forgiven,” Jarrett laughs and razzes aloud when it’s over, pulling me from the daze I’d fallen into. “Whaddaya say, Liz?”

Struck dumb, I bob my head, afraid to move any more than that, frozen stupid by the serenade. If you want my attention, play The Beatles…but newly discovered…if you want me tongue-tied and noticeably humid down south, sing “Girl” to me...
like that.

“All right then, let’s wrap ‘er up. Go crazy for me people, this here’s ‘I Will Wait’ by the almighty Mumford!” Jarrett shouts, fixing all the ladies with a sexy smile.

My role in this one is merely back-up harmony, a strategic choice by Jarrett since I couldn’t lead a song right now if I tried. So much is changing at once, new feelings, friends and their startling revelations…I’m confused, but alive, excited but…petrified. I’m scared to death of all things over which I have no control. Management I’ve clung to, ensured, in every way I can.

“Thank you, good night!”

I vaguely comprehend Jarrett closing the show, I have no idea if we did two or twelve songs, and I robotically wave and smile, rushing off stage. Damn near running down the hallway, I crash open the back door and suck in the cool night air while I dig out my phone.

This, I
must
control.

“Hey, how was the show?” my uncle answers.

“Good, great, where’s Conner?”

“Kidnapped by pirates, damndest thing.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” I screech.

“He’s right here, perfectly fine. Calm down. We’re in the penthouse at The Hayes, very swanky indeed, watching Pay-Per-View and pigging out on room service like the happy gluttons we are. And
you
are taking a night to be twenty-three.”

“Let me talk to Conner, please.”

“I mean it, Elizabeth Hannah Carmichael.” Eek—scary stern uncle voice
and
the first name I hate. “We’re having a great time and will see you tomorrow. Now here’s your brother.”

“Bethy?”

“Hey, Bubs, you having fun?” My question’s immediately met with indecipherable ramblings of everything they’ve done, are doing, or still have to conquer. I know he’s cared for and deliriously happy, but I had to hear it myself. “Ok, I guess you go ahead and stay and I’ll see you in the morning,” I agree with a trace of glumness, which is selfish, feeling unimportant instead of happy for him.

“K, bye,” his voice drifts off as he drops the phone, which I hear hit the bed. I go ahead and hang up, looking around now with a snort. I’m worried about him in a hotel with our uncle while I stand alone in the dark back alley of a nightclub.
Shit.

Interesting tidbit, the door doesn’t open from the outside…and now I’m scared. My whole body instinctively trembles as I turn and face the looong walk from where I stand to the street. I have no choice though, better moving toward the goal than standing still like a target. Maybe ten steps out, something cracks under my foot and I scream, turning back abruptly, my eyes growing moist.

“Lizzie!” The door flies open as Cannon screams my name, searching around desperately. Spotting me, his body visibly jolts, starting to move in my direction.

“Hold the door!” I yell at him, running that way. I can’t help it, don’t want to, I slam into his chest and bury my face in the balmy smell of his shirt, fisting it in my hands. “Thank you.”

“What the hell are you doing out here?” He holds the door with one arm, me tightly around the waist with the other. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Rhett may’ve called the police by now.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize, and the door closed and wouldn’t open,” I hiccup as I unhand him and back up. “I needed air, and to check on Conner. I’m,” I look down, “stupid. Sorry.”

Refusing my retreat, he pulls me back to him in a tight embrace, one I don’t mind at all. It’s actually welcomed by my frightened, frazzled nerves, and when he sighs against my hair, I join him.

“I’m just glad I found you, stubborn woman. I could’ve told you Conner’s having a great time if you would’ve asked instead of running.”

I lift my head up and back, my incredulous look calling out his hypocrisy. “
You’re
gonna talk about running?”

“Yea, I am, to you. Later, though. For now, we’re gonna go call off the search party and have a good fucking night.” He locks his hand around my own and leads me inside.

“How’d you know about Conner?” I ask.

“I went back to the bus, but I’d already missed you guys. Your uncle told me where we were playing and why they weren’t going to be there, so I gave him my credit card and told him and Conner to have fun.”

“They already had my card,” I laugh. “If they actually use yours, I’ll pay you back.”

“No,” he stops suddenly, me banging into him, unprepared, “you won’t. I wanted to do it, I did it, and it’s done. Leave it. In fact, leave a lot out of your mind, where it belongs, and come have some fun for a change.”

“Bossy,” I mumble, but not low enough, since he cocks his head back and winks.

Rhett and Jarrett rush towards us, relieved at my reappearance yet full of seething questions, but are rebuffed immediately by one demandingly in control Mr. Blackwell. “She’s fine, let’s drop it. And she’s off duty tonight. Think we can show her a good time?”

“Fuck to the hell yes.” Jarrett beams, clearly onboard.

“Liz?” Rhett questions, holding out his hand to me.

To take it, I’d have to leave Cannon’s side. I’m probably making it seem monumental in my mind when it’s not, but something tells me, in my gut, not to choose. Instead, I turn and head to the bar, alone. “Find a private table, first round’s on me!” I call out, bounding away, determined.

“What can I—hey, you’re the girl from the band!” the handsome bartender gushes, leaning across the bar to me with a huge grin. “Whatever you want, on the house.”

“Well,” I look up behind him, confused by the lack of menu, “three guys, one girl, all night to kill and most of them harboring a lot of fury and resentment. What would you suggest?”

“That’s a tall order.” His brow creases. “Is this girl safe with the guys?”

“Absolutely.”

He considers me a moment more, finally seeing enough in my resolve that he’s assured of my safety. “Shots and beers then. Anything particular?”

“Surprise me.” I smile, kinda excited. I’ve never done this, even when Conner’s on “visitation.” Awkwardly balancing a full tray through a rowdy crowd, I search for the boys far too long when a curly, red haired waitress takes pity on me.

“Hey, band front woman, right?” she yells over the music.

I nod, watching the teetering tray skeptically.

“Let me get that for ya.” She takes the waiting disaster from me in stride. “Follow me, your group’s up here.”

Making a note to tip her well, I follow her up a flight of stairs, illuminated by purple light, into a raised level of much more private tables.

“I’ll try not to put anyone else up here,” she says, starting to set the drinks on the table.

“Shit, sorry, Mama.” Jarrett stands, pulling out a chair for me. “I should’ve helped ya. But thank you very much…”

“Vanessa,” she answers his unspoken question with a full, blushing grin. “I’ll keep you guys hooked up.”

“Thank you, really,” I tell her. “The bartender said on the house,” I scrounge in my pockets, never leaving myself without some money, and pull out a crumpled hundred, “but this is for you.”

“Thank you. Enjoy. I’ll be back.”

The three of us all watch Jarrett track her retreat, hunger and intrigue oozing from his pores. “Nessy, Nessy, Nessy,” he mutters, licking his lips. “Come into my web, said the spider to the fly.”

I snap my fingers right in his face. “I dare you to have five lines of innocent, interesting conversation with her,
before
you find out what color her panties are.”

“She’s not wearing any,” he quips back, eyes dancing.

“Wha—how?” I stammer in astonishment.

“You wanna talk with the boys, you drink with the boys. To breaking in Liz.” Jarrett raises his shot glass, gesturing with his head to mine. “Come on, tough girl.”

Cannon and Rhett, silent until now, both chuckle, their shots already in the air.
Well then
. I mentally scratch my pseudo-balls and raise my glass, sit straighter in my chair, and clink the cheers. “Bring it on, penis packers!”

We toss back in synchrony, me busting out on my own to cough and sputter afterwards.

“Easy there.” Jarrett claps me on the back. “Here, always be ready to chase it.” He hands me my beer, which tastes even worse than the esophagus-burning concoction I just consumed.