by Penny Reid
Willis turned back to me, leveled me with his dark brown eyes. Like the rest of us, Willis was dressed in a tuxedo, bowtie, cummerbund, the whole get up. Unlike the rest of us, Willis was in his mid-forties and never minced words.
Unfortunately, he chopped his words instead, usually with a dull blade or a mallet. Willis’s thoughts were often sporadic and hard to follow; as well his analogies didn’t quite make sense.
“Listen, Cupcake. He’s got it bad for you, like a porcupine and a balloon. Now, I don’t care what y’all do in your free time, but I’m tired of losing good people because you kids can’t keep your seatbelts fastened. We lost Pierce, our last pianist, when Janet and he refused to work together after six weeks on a mattress tour. They drew straws and he came up espresso—you see?”
I nodded, trying to follow. “So, Janet and Pierce, your last piano player, were a thing? And it didn’t end well?”
“It never ends well.” Willis narrowed his dark brown eyes and pressed his mouth into a flat line. He was bald, his head completely shaved, and the collar of his dress shirt didn’t quite hide the tattoos on the back of his neck. This didn’t affect our squeaky image since he was our drummer and sat at the back of the stage. Also, he was my boss.
Willis lowered his roughened voice—made gravelly by years of smoking and drinking and laughing too loud—and squinted at me until his pupils were barely visible. “Musicians are like lightbulbs, they burn hot and bright, but can’t be screwed more than once. If you two need to get it out of your system, that’s fine. But you’re a great kid, real goddamn talented, pretty, look good on stage. But Fitzy is also pretty and will be hard to replace—you get my meaning?”
“I think so. You don’t care if Fitzy and I get together, but you don’t want it to impact the dynamic of the band. Right?”
He nodded, looking irritated. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Yes, absolutely. I understand loud and clear. Not dating bandmates is one of my life rules.”
What I didn’t vocalize was that Willis didn’t need to worry. Although Fitzy was super hot, super nice, and super talented, I felt no attraction to him beyond the surface of his skin and the attractiveness of his voice. This was because Fitzy wasn’t very bright.
If he were an actual lightbulb he’d be a twenty watt fluorescent. Hard to look at—because he was so pretty—but too dim to make a noticeable difference in any given room.
Abram the bassist, however, was a completely different story. His face wasn’t classically good-looking—with his long brown hair, hazel eyes, big jaw, and hook nose—nor was he book smart. But he was tall and broad and manly-handsome. As well he was shrewd, and wicked sharp. He had a razor wit and twisted sense of humor.
He also always had one or two women in the audience who waited for him after our sets. It didn’t matter if we played a country club wedding outside New Haven, a dive bar in Queens, or a high-rise in Manhattan. Without fail, he never went home alone. As well, at times his jokes were shaded with bitterness; it was easy to see he was jaded.
I was undoubtedly attracted to Abram—the talented, witty, sexy bassist. But I wasn’t attracted to Abram—the serial dating king of the bitterness squad.
I’d come to the conclusion that intelligence was my catnip, followed closely by charisma. And, thanks to my romantic history, I’d realized that just because a person was intelligent and charismatic didn’t mean they were good for me. The brighter the brain, the greater the gravitational pull, the more wary I was.
Therefore, Fitzy was harmless.
And furthermore, I was careful to stay out of Abram’s orbit.
What I needed was a nice guy who understood my jokes. Someone who was friendly rather than charismatic. Someone who was bright, but wasn’t so brilliant he was blinding.
“Get on your perch, lady bird. It’s almost time.” Willis walked past me to his place behind the drums.
I grabbed my bottle of water and followed Willis to the stage. Avoiding Abram’s level stare, I gave Janet a friendly head nod and waved at Fitzy. He waved back, giving me a big, white, perfect smile.
Tonight we were playing a Christmas party at a New York City location we knew well. It was a converted fire station, now a moderately sized concert venue—very popular spot for weddings and office parties. I liked it because the interior was original red brick with cool Norwegian-looking tapestries lining the walls, likely placed purposefully to help with acoustics.
Also, the stage was set back from the dance floor. Though I’d been playing publicly for several months, being close to or surrounded by the audience still felt overwhelming. I liked being in the back, with the piano between me and the audience.
The set started with the basic cocktail hour fare: heavy on the piano, vocals, and saxophone; light on the drums. We would play five sets, each growing progressively louder and edgier as the older crowd left, leaving the young people who wanted to dance.
Nothing was special about this event. I had no expectations, indications, or signs from above (or below) that this event would be any different from the dozens of other office parties I’d played over the last several months. I was cool. I was collected. I was fine. I was doing my thing and wondering if I still had bacon in the fridge, because I had a severe hankering for a BLT.
Then, amidst my bacon preoccupation, my ponytail holder snapped during the fourth set and the bobby pins I’d placed to fasten my bun were no match for the weight of my hair. I was forced to perform the remainder of the set with curls in my face.
It was irritating and distracting. As well, and inexplicably, the snapped ponytail holder was the catalyst for an intense and abrupt wave of self-consciousness. The sensation started with a nagging tingle on the back of my neck. I ignored it. It persisted.
I lifted my gaze to Abram and found him watching me with a smirk. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to my fingers as they flew over the keys, writing off the tingle as Abram-related. A moment later I glanced back at Abram, feeling irritated I could still feel his stare, but he wasn’t looking at me.
Yet, I felt eyes on me. I felt watched. It was a weight, like a hand, and I couldn’t shake the impression. My heart thudded uncomfortably in my chest as I scanned my bandmates. I found them all focused on their instruments.
I told myself I was being silly, but the feeling persisted. It was unnerving, like walking down a dark hallway and hearing the echo of footsteps.
When the set was finally over, I twisted my hair over my shoulder and out of my face. I glanced at the audience as I stood from the piano, scanning the crowd for the source of my discomfort, half expecting to find nothing.
But I did find something.
I found blue-green eyes on a familiar face, dressed in an immaculately tailored suit, with a tall brunette on his arm, a drink in his hand, and his penetrating gaze firmly anchored to mine.
CHAPTER 1
Resonance Structures
“I’m sorry, Willis. I need a minute…I don’t feel well.” I was sitting on an upturned bucket backstage, my hands on my knees. My voice was weak and I truly, truly did not feel well.
Janet was rubbing my back and Fitzy hovered nearby with a plate of food. Abram was leaning against the far wall, his feet crossed at the ankles, his hands shoved in his pockets as he watched me.
Seeing Martin again—just seeing him across a crowded room—had been so much more flustering and mind-bending than I could have predicted. My thoughts on repeat were:
He’s here.
He’s here with someone.
I kind of still hate him.
But I hope he doesn’t hate me.
I think I’m still infatuated with him…
Surprisingly, the loudest and most pressing thought: He’s seen me naked.
Martin, plus my dad—when I was an infant—were the only two men in the entire world who had seen me naked. Really, only Martin actually counted, because I didn’t have boobs or pubic hair or a girl shape when my dad used to give me raspb
erries on my tummy. Plus, he was my dad.
Only Martin…
That pressing thought served to confuse me and increase the potency of my awkward feels. Perhaps I needed to fix that. Perhaps I needed to find another guy and show him my girl stuff, widen my audience, so that being in the same room with Martin didn’t turn me into a skeevy, nudity-obsessed wacko.
Perhaps diluting the meaningfulness of intimacy would lessen the impact of his presence. Then I could look at him and think, Hey, you’re one of the guys who has seen me naked. So what? Who hasn’t seen me naked?
“Do you think you can play? It’s just one more set,” Janet asked softly, pulling me from my thoughts. She was a nice girl, very maternal, with a heart entirely too soft. A direct contradiction to the image she projected with her dyed black hair, pale skin, icicle eyes, and copious piercings.
I nodded and closed my eyes. I could play. I would play. I just needed a minute to stop my hands from shaking.
I wondered if there was a broom closet nearby where I could chill out for five minutes. I wouldn’t hide all night, just until it was safe. Maybe Fitzy could join me and I could show him my boobs.
“Jarring, unsettling, startling, alarming, disconcerting, distressing, disquieting.”
A pause followed my mumbling, and then Willis asked, “What are you doing?”
“She’s chanting synonyms.” Abram’s voice carried from across the room. I opened my eyes and met his gaze. He was watching me with interest. “It calms you down, yes?”
I nodded, frowning. He was entirely too shrewd.
Willis grunted. “Well, okay. That’s…as weird as a loan shark with debt. But we got another ten minutes before rodeo time.”
I held Abram’s gaze for a moment longer, then stood—a little wobbly on my feet—and turned to Willis. “I think I’ll take a short walk.”
Fitzy leaned forward and began to volunteer, “I’ll go—”
But Abram lifted his voice and talked over him, “I’ll walk with you. Come on. Let’s go.”
The tall bassist pushed away from the wall and crossed to me, wrapped his hand around my arm just above the elbow, and pulled me out the back door.
“Be back in five minutes!” Willis called after us.
“We’ll be back in seven,” Abram countered, steering me down the alley to the street and away from the stink of the dumpster.
I pulled out of his grip when we reached the sidewalk and folded my arms over my chest, not really feeling the cold of the last November evening because my mind was racing, trying to keep pace with my heart. I was definitely not going to show Abram my boobs. That would be like jumping from the frying pan into the beer batter, then back in the frying pan.
When I saw Martin across the room, I just stood there, my fingers still on the edge of the baby grand piano. It didn’t feel real and I was sure he was going to disappear if I blinked.
So I didn’t blink.
Eventually, Fitzy pulled me off the stage and I had no choice but to blink. Yet when I looked back and Martin was still present—still standing at the bar with his beautiful date next to him, surrounded in a thick cloud of arrogance, still staring at me—I almost blacked out.
He didn’t disappear. He was real. And he most definitely saw and recognized me.
“You feeling better?”
I realized Abram and I had already walked a block and a half. The distance was a surprise. “Yes. I feel better. We should go back.”
Lies, all lies. I didn’t feel better. I felt like throwing up. Will the drama never stop?!
We continued forward.
“Sometimes you sound like a robot when you speak.” He didn’t appear to be annoyed as he made this comment; rather, it was simply an observation, maybe meant to distract me.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Mostly when you talk to me.”
“What can I say? You bring out the artificial intelligence in me.”
I heard him chuckle as he took my arm again, bringing me close as we skirted a crowd of rowdy young men, all dressed in New York Knicks jerseys, likely on their way home after a game at Madison Square Garden. When we were past the boisterous crowd, I moved to pull my arm out of his grip, but he didn’t release me. Instead he tugged me into a small doorway and turned me to face him.
“So, who’s the guy?”
I lifted my eyes to his, found him studying me with moderate interest. Moderate interest for the perpetually sardonic Abram felt like a laser beam pointed at my skull.
“What guy?”
“The guy at the bar. The stockbroker, or hedge fund manager, or whatever he does.”
I squinted at Abram, setting my jaw, but said nothing.
He lifted a single eyebrow and I noticed he had a scar running through the center of it. The scar paired with his hooked nose—likely broken more than once— and long hair, gave him a rather ruffian-like appearance, a pirate prone to fights.
“Ex-boyfriend,” he stated. He’d clearly pulled the answer from my brain with his ruffian voodoo.
I grimaced. “Yes…kind of.”
His lips pulled to the side as his eyes skated over my face. “Kind of?”
“We need to get back.” I didn’t move.
“Are you afraid of him?”
I ignored this question because it was entirely too complicated for me to answer. Instead I said, “It’s been five minutes at least.”
“Did he hurt you?”
I closed my eyes, leaned back against the brick of our little cave, and murmured, “We hurt each other.”
We were silent for a stretch and I felt his gaze on me, but I hardly noticed. My mind and heart were twisted up in a battle of wills, and yet neither of them had decided what to do, how to feel, or what to think.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Once again, Abram encircled my arm with his long fingers and tugged me down the street. This time I made no effort to pull away. Once we reached the first stoplight, he slipped his grip from my arm to my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. Even in my fog I definitely noticed. Usually, I would have withdrawn by crossing my arms over my chest in the universal body language code for not interested in you touching me, but instead I let him hold my hand. I let myself take some comfort from the connection, even if he wasn’t really offering any.
Honestly, I had no idea what to think about Abram, whether he was actually offering comfort, why he was holding my hand…so I didn’t think.
Soon we were back in the alley and entering the back door of the venue. Willis was the only one left in the backstage area; he stopped mid-pace as we entered. “You’re late as a Chevy to a fuel efficiency contest. It’s been ten minutes.”
“We’re not late. We’re early,” Abram drawled, squeezing my hand then releasing it. He crossed to the cooler and pulled out a Coke while I sunk back to the bucket I’d been sitting on earlier.
“Early? You said you’d be back in seven minutes. It’s been ten.”
“Yeah, but I meant fifteen.” Abram paired this by lifting his broad shoulders in a shrug, then adding an unapologetic and crooked smile.
Willis turned his scowl to me. “Are you ready?”
I opened my mouth to respond but Abram cut me off, “No. She threw up twice during the walk. She can’t play, unless you want her tossing chunks all over the stage.”
Again, I opened my mouth to interject. This time Willis cut me off. “No, no! You stay back here, I can’t have glitter at a confetti party.” He rubbed his bald head and stomped toward the steps, muttering as he went, “We’ll figure it out.”
“You’re welcome,” Abram said between swallows of Coke, bringing my attention back to him.
“Why did you do that?”
“So you’ll owe me one.”
This only served to intensify my frown. “I don’t owe you one. I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Fine. Then I did it because I’m a nice guy.”
I shook my head. “You’re not a nice guy.”
He grinned, looking positively wolfish. “No. I guess I’m not. But you’re a nice girl. You bring out my altruistic side.”
“Hmm…” I squinted at him and said nothing else, but I felt a little bit better.
This, this right here, this exchange between Abram and me was likely the source of my improved spirits. If I’d met Abram last year I likely would have run in the other direction. But now I was talking to this smart, charismatic, undeniably hot musician and hadn’t once considered that I might be reduced to a blubbering fool.
I was officially adulting.
I was engaging in discourse with a guy to whom I was attracted, but whom I would never consider dating. Bonus: I wasn’t trying to change the subject to musical theory, or some other tactic meant to distract.
Abram mimicked my squinty stare—though his was joined by an amused smile—and tossed his empty Coke bottle in the trash. “Wait for me after the set, I’ll take you home.”
“No thanks, I’m taking the train.”
He stopped in front of me on his way to the stage and straightened his bow tie before sliding his long-fingered hands—bass-player hands—down the front of his suit jacket. The suit wasn’t tailored very well and was baggy around his middle. Obviously he’d sized up so the shoulders would fit but hadn’t invested in tapering it to fit his torso.
“You’ll wait. Remember? If you’re too sick to play the piano, then you’re too sick to take the train.”
“I live in New Haven. That’s a long drive.”
He shrugged, turned, sauntered to the steps, and called over his shoulder, “I like long drives.”
I heard the recorded music cut off and Fitzy announce the last set followed by an upbeat number. I stayed on my bucket, my arms folded across my stomach, for three and a half songs, considering my options and trying not to think about Martin.
