Ink Slapped

by A. M. Jones

  Ah, she’s regaling him with old people stories. I chime in, “Savannah was puked on the other day. I wanted to take pictures.” Hmmm… that doesn’t sound right. I open my mouth to explain, but the table goes silent. Everyone stares at me as if I announced I’m an alien and I’m ready to probe.

  Savannah whispers, “Tay, no one wants to hear about vomit.”

  “I figured you needed a new story to tell. The old man hard-on one is getting hoary.”

  “T—” Adrian starts, but Savannah plows on, “Because an elderly woman getting sick from chemo treatments is not funny.”

  I don’t think a lonely old man story is funny either, but I keep my opinions to myself as everyone resumes their conversations. I imagine their faces snapping off to reveal mechanical gears. Clyde’s jaw short circuits and the words coming from his mouth are stuck on repeat as smoke billows from his ear and green fluid like antifreeze drips off his chin. His crooked tooth pops out with a metal spring left in its place.

  I laugh but clear my throat when the table once again goes silent. Too bad they all still have their faces. “I need another margarita.”

  More time passes as I keep to the tequila even taking a couple of straight shots. They talk about heading to a dance club. Adrian is in an intense political debate with the person on the other side of him. It’s getting heated, but his hand moving through the air catches my attention. Wiggling, I grab his hand and bring it underneath the booth, wanting to take some sting out of his rant. I guide it up my thigh and he stops mid-sentence. He looks forward, like he’s thinking, but in reality, he doesn’t want to draw attention to me. I press his fingers against the inseam of my shorts and rock my hips.

  His eyes close and open to look at me. I hump his hand again, and he leans in to whisper, “T, you should see yourself right now.”

  “If you don’t want to take care of me here, then take me home.”

  “Everyone ready? We’re hitting Second Ave,” Savannah declares, as Clyde pulls her from the booth. Both of them laugh in their drunken stupor.

  Adrian pulls his hand away. “Sure, let’s go.”

  The rejection hits me hard. “You guys go on, I’m heading home.”

  I wait for Adrian to say he’ll accompany me, but he only kisses my lips. “I think that’s a good idea.” He plays dutiful boyfriend and books me an Uber. “You want me to come over before I head home later?”

  “I’d rather it be now.” I try one last attempt to change his mind, kissing his neck. His woodsy cologne hits my nose as his warmth wraps around me.

  A throaty laugh escapes his lips, and he pulls away. “Naughty. Give me a few hours, okay?” I meet his blue-eyed gaze and smile at the promise in them, but my enthusiasm is half-hearted.

  The group walks away, and he hurries to catch them. After they disappear in the flock of people covering the sidewalks, I don’t wait for the Uber, but stroll the mile or so to Music Row, smoking long-awaited cigarettes.

  I take the time to people watch and listen to the assortment of music floating out of bars. A couple of girls giggle and hold each other up. One of them belches, bringing a whole new round of laughter. A horse carriage rides by with a bachelorette party giggling and whistling to various men. They sport bunny ears and cowgirl boots, and the bride’s veil flaps in the wind. A couple walks by with paper hats on from Dick’s Last Resort—the restaurant treats its customers like shit for fun. The woman’s hat pronounces, “My fist smells like his butt,” written sloppily in black marker with an arrow pointed to her male companion. His hat says, “My butt hurts. If you see this, gimme some Advil.”

  There’s a brief period when I’m the only one walking, but when I cross a bridge over I-65, the crowd thickens again. It’s after midnight on a Friday and various music floats on the night air. I stand outside Jimmy’s watching Eli take out his emotions on his guitar while singing into the microphone. The stage sits right inside so passersby can see what’s happening. People mill through the doors wide-open, drawing everyone in like flies. Eli’s voice does this husky, vibrating thing that causes blood to pump through my lower regions.

  My chest expands with warmth. With closed eyes, his face drips with sweat as he sings. A few of his hairs stick to the side of his mouth. The natural selection thing comes to mind. Forearms bunch as he grips the neck of the guitar. From where he’s standing, the outline of his rear is prominent and imaginable for biting. The things I’d do to this man. The things I’d let him do to me. Judging from the throng of women giving him their undivided attention, I’m not the only one. Maybe it’s only the tequila making me feel frisky, if my earlier actions are any sign.

  The band continues in a flawless flow to another song. I’ve only heard him play a few songs, but I’m surprised at their sound, something different—a sound far from commercialized and mainstream. A sound which sets them apart. My foggy brain can’t even think of an accurate description. Ashamed of my own stereotyping, I wonder why hadn’t I noticed this sooner? Because he didn’t want to talk about the band. And why are they playing in a rundown bar a few times a week?

  Another song starts, and Eli accents the music with a harmonica. The whole band uses their feet in tune with the drums. The crowd catches on and does the same, so the bar becomes a part of the music in one massive wave of thumping and clapping.

  I don’t know how long I stand there, but the blond bassist catches my eye. He winks, and Eli looks back at him in annoyance, as if the bassist missed a note. He smirks at Eli, jerking his chin toward the window. Toward me. With that one head jerk, a roomful of eyes land on me. I step back and trip over my foot, bumping into someone. I wobble to stand straight.

  The someone—a man—grabs me. “Watch it, sexy. Wouldn’t want to fall down.”

  I open my mouth to thank him, but he’s staring at my cleavage. The best thing for me to do is to go home so I do.

  My head pounds when I wake fully-clothed and no Adrian. After I shower and make coffee, I call him.

  “H’lo?” He sounds worse than I feel.

  “You never made it.”

  There’s a long pause with movement in the background like he’s trying to get out of bed. “I know. I got too drunk and just came home.”

  “Okay, I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “Sure, babe. I’ll call you later.” He clicks off without waiting to hear my response. I shut all the blinds. My apartment becomes a cave, my favorite atmosphere, and grab my remote. As I plop on my fluffy couch, the events of the night before flood back to me. My face heats as I recall making a fool of myself in front of strangers. I must have looked like a cat in heat. No wonder Adrian rejected me. I would’ve done the same thing. Then I stood outside the bar watching Eli like some kind of stalker. Fuck me, I wish lightening would strike me down.

  After seeing Eli in full musician mode, I’m more curious than ever. I wait a few hours and watch a John Hughes marathon on cable television.

  I search Eli’s number in my recent calls, type out a text, and hit send before I lose my nerve.

  What’s the name of your band?

  I have Anthony Michael Hall to thank for this one—superhero to all geeks.

  Humiliation threatens to choke me as the minutes tick by. I make a piece of toast with peanut butter. Then I busy myself by bringing my kitchen to some kind of order. When Adrian spends a lot of time here, my place becomes a landfill. I’m not the neatest person in the world. My stuff is everywhere. I like to think of the mess as organized chaos, meaning I know where everything is, but at least I throw the trash in the trash. Adrian is downright disgusting, but I’ve tried to learn not to let it get to me. I put the last glass in the drainer and make it back to the living room. Just as Super Geek holds Molly Ringwald’s panties for all to see, my phone chimes.

  I told you, we don’t have one.

  What was it? I reply, lying on my couch.

  We’re playing again tonight.

  I’m not sure what to think about him ignoring my questio
n, but is he inviting me out? Oh, so tempting. At what I saw last night, I feel rather eager to listen to a whole uninterrupted set. I glance at my laptop, which I have yet to open today. I’ll have to get to it soon or my emails will pile up. Plus, I have a sunset family shoot.

  Sorry, I’m busy tonight.

  What R U doing now?

  I bite my lip and smile. Nursing a tequila hangover.

  One of those nights, huh?

  Yes, thanks to you, I displayed myself in an impish manner. My body warms just thinking about it, and I can’t believe how brazen I’m being with him.

  I dump my phone next to me when he doesn’t reply and shame hits me double time. Maybe I’m still drunk. Ten minutes go by before my phone chimes again.

  Adrian can thank me later.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and pull a blanket over my head. If he only knew.

  Trudging back into my apartment from the family shoot, I’m relieved to make a bill payment on time and set a few bucks back for a pair of boots I’m dying to have. I still haven’t heard from Adrian and check my email before I dive into photo edits. I receive an invitation for yet another major book signing event. My palms get clammy and I wipe them on my leggings before deleting the invite. There’s no way I can do it. I’ve tried and was a mess the whole time. Why put myself through the discomfort again? I might look like a freak show, and many people get inked to draw attention to themselves but not me. I don’t care about people staring and their curiosity. That’s not it at all. I hate being the center of attention. My insides freeze and my mind goes blank, which makes it hard to move or speak in coherent sentences. Not my ideal situation.

  I check the clock to see it’s ten at night and think about Eli’s subtle invitation. After a quick online search for the number, I dial Jimmy’s Bar.

  Background noise comes through before someone speaks, “Jimmy’s. This is Monica.”

  “Can you tell me the name of the band that was playing last night?”

  “I’m sorry, I believe they’re in between,” Monica says, and I recognize Eli’s singing in the background.

  “Okay, what was it?”

  The noise cuts off, and I check my phone. The total time of the conversation flashes at me. Sixteen seconds. She hung up on me.

  “What the fuck is with the band name?” I question my empty apartment, throwing my hands in the air. I guess I’ll have to discover the answer myself.

  Less than an hour later, I weave through Jimmy’s bar patrons, tobacco smoke, and raucous laughter. I have on jeans and a loose top, wearing contacts and hoping to not draw attention to myself. Eyeing the line of liquor bottles with apprehension, I grab a light beer and sit at a wobbly table in the back. It’s packed in here. I assume these are fans of Eli’s band. He should have a name and social media and… promo photos of the band. I can help with all of this, of course, but he said he likes playing and is happy to be doing it. It’s just… staring at the band in all their glory, I imagine a huge banner, band t-shirts, and promo items scattered around.

  Speaking of scattered things, the instruments on stage are rather eclectic, especially the guitars—a mandolin and a banjo along with a few different acoustics. Eli holds an electric.

  Eli looks better than he did last night in his dark-washed jeans and fitted gray V-neck. His eyes aren’t as tired as he stares over the crowd. The emotion spilling from his vocals stirs something deep within me. The lyrics speak of missing someone, their smile, their taste, and their general sense of being. As he sings, his eyes close. The words pouring from his soul mingle with the music and it’s as though I can feel every drop of blood, every scar he’s ever received. Watching him in his element speaks to me on a certain level—a creative level I understand and one where I long to be understood.

  At this train of thought, I gulp several swallows of beer. I don’t need to become enamored with this guy, but watching him, it’s hard not to want to get to know him.

  They play more unknown songs. Are these songs theirs or cover songs? I don’t know, but they’re great, even if heartbreaking. My quick assessment of them last night holds true. They’re one of their own. Different. Southern. Rock, sometime heavy, sometimes not. I’m not sure how to describe it. There’s some kind of texture in the instrumentals that match his voice… like rustic electric blues.

  It’s surely the same as writing a novel that doesn’t stick within the limits of genre tropes and expectancies. There’s nowhere “right” to place their unhinged style.

  After a little while, several patrons break out into excitement and crowd a woman with long dark hair. I watch as she smiles and signs autographs. This isn’t unusual in Nashville. I don’t recognize her, but she must be well known.

  Even with my buzz, I notice the growing uneasiness of the band and the lack of attention they’re now receiving. Its members keep an eye on their lead as he keeps his eyes straight forward. On their next break, he puts a guitar in its case and chats with a few people. A familiar dark head steps in front of Eli, and I slump deep in my chair. What the hell is Adrian doing here? I don’t care because all I can think about is how much I’ve seen and what I’ve come to realize. Eli Gregor is nursing a broken heart.

  One of the best things in my life is when I have the strings beneath my fingers. The way they feel. The way the notes all come together when the strings do exactly as I tell them. The way I can manipulate those notes into different sounds. When the first drop of sweat runs down my temple—something I barely notice anymore—because I’m lost in the flow and craving that intense satisfaction at hitting everything right and feeling the connection of the music to myself. It’s a need. It’s familiar. It’s comforting. It’s a therapy I’ve taken to since I was a small child. But today’s therapy is cut short and I’m not thrilled about it.

  “Do you have a minute?” Adrian asks as I hop off the raised platform.

  “I’m just heading out.” I turn to my band. “Sorry, I’ll catch you guys later.”

  “It’s not a problem. Just get out of here.” Crockett waves me away before scowling in her general direction. Why she’s here, I don’t know. Suppressing the urge to look at her and her adorning fans, I grab my guitar case. Jack takes attention from me by hitting his wah pedal and showing off chops.

  Edie crosses her arms in constrained disapproval. “You can’t just cut off a set like this, Eli.”

  I pause, placing a finger to my lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we were being paid for this gig.” She meets my gaze, knowing I’m right—we do this because we want to, two to three nights a week. I shake my head and give her a tight smile, “Sorry. They’ll stay and do what they can.”

  When she says nothing, I salute the guys, but Taylor’s asshole boyfriend follows me out the door. “I need a favor from you.”

  “What would that be?” I already have an idea. Several people stop to acknowledge me, but I want to get away from here. The last thing I want is for people to get nostalgic and want our ex-singer to sing with us.

  “Just do the shoot and sign the release forms. Nothing else.”

  “Nope. Taylor offered to shoot promo photos of the band.”

  “I’ll find and pay another photographer for you. A better photographer.”

  Spots dance in my eyes as I get a little light-headed. What a set of balls on this guy. My fist clenches and I have to loosen my jaw to speak. “Nah, I like her style. She’s a great photographer. And anyway, what does she think about this?” I gesture between us. He glares, and I laugh. “That’s what I thought. She has no idea you’re here.”

  He lifts a shoulder. “I see it as helping. She’s been distracted. I think it has to do with you looking like something she made up in her head.”

  I already know this could be true. But even though I’m only a lowly songwriter, I know a little something about writing. When I’m not writing a new song, I’m thinking about the next one. So, I can only imagine how it is when writing novels. “You don’t think distraction has anything to
do with being a writer? Living in your head can keep you constantly distracted.”

  His face twists before he lets out a frustrated sigh. “More than usual.”

  He must be feeling neglected or something. Don’t I know the feeling all too well? “I’ll cease contact after both shoots.” I’m not sure if I say it because I’ll do it, because I’m in a bad mood, or just to get him the fuck off my back about it. He stares at me for a long time before nodding and walking in the other direction.

  The next morning, a key turns in my door, and I vault from the bed in no time flat. The old wood floor creaks a hollow sound as my feet hit it. My hearts pounds as she walks right in like she owns the place. She has to be gorgeous and of course, pain splinters through my chest.

  Her heels tap against the floor as she approaches and scans my body. I’m in nothing but my boxer shorts. “Eli.”

  “What are you doing here, Madison?”

  Her lips purse like she’s sucking a lemon, and she flips her long brown hair with impatience. “Don’t sound so happy to see me.”

  “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but I saw you last night, dear.”

  She rolls her eyes. “And you left before I could talk to you.”

  “You should know better than to go into a crowded bar if you wanted to talk. Here’s an idea,” I snap my fingers as I head into my small kitchen and start a pot of coffee. “You can always call if you want to talk, but I suspect that’s not the case.”

  Minutes tick by as I lean against my counter listening to the coffee brew.

  I cross my arms, staring her down and willing her to say something.

  “Maybe I wanted to see how the band was doing. Ya’ll have—” I shoot her a look to cut her off. I don’t want to know what she thinks. It’s none of her business anymore. She clears her throat. “I was hoping to get a feel for a collaboration with you and the rest of The Rebs.”