She heard hands slamming together emphatically. Tables slapped. Two-fingered whistles.
Not one single “Hoot.”
Excellent.
She was well on the way to mesmerizing them into believing they’d come to see her.
“This next one . . . is for my friend Franco,” she said slyly. “And his good buddy Deputy Eli Barlow.”
And she got everyone’s feet stomping with Janis Joplin’s “Mercedes Benz.”
That was going to drive Eli nuts. Particularly the line about her friends all driving Porsches.
She could see Franco laughed, his white teeth flashing. He gave her the thumbs-up. And as for Eli, over there next to Blondie McBlonderson, he was shaking his head, his lips pressed together. She knew he was struggling not to smile at her pure audacity.
The crowd showed their love for that one, too, with lots of whoops and loud applause, but she had to keep it moving, and she pretty much had to stick to a set that Monroe knew. She briefly considered maybe throwing a little Florence + the Machine or Adele or Brandi Carlile in there, but the risk of sounding like a wedding singer, or worse, a karaoke singer was too great with more contemporary songs. Keeping the set a little retro, putting her own unique stamp on songs—that was the way to go. She’d do big songs, a few iconic ones, ones that moved a crowd pretty much no matter what, almost no matter the arrangement.
So she mesmerized them with a haunted, smoky version of Bobbie Gentry’s “Ode to Billy Joe.” A soulful, angst-filled, foot-stomping, ringing version of Neil Diamond’s “Holly Holy” shook the rafters and again had them singing with her, like it was a revival meeting and she was a faith healer and they’d all come to be cured of heartbreak, and everyone was wall to wall goose bumps.
The opening notes of R.E.M.’s “South Central Rain” were greeted with cheers, and she sped the tempo up and rocked it a bit harder than the original, and turned that one word chorus—Sorry!—into a howl of shame and rue. A sultry countrified blues version of The Baby Owls’ “In the Forest” resulting in a nearly unmanageable chorus of hoots was clearly a mistake, but she pulled it back from the owls’ nest with a witty, yet poignant version of Guns N’ Roses’”Sweet Child O’ Mine.” She played that famous opening lick on the harmonica, and just about delighted the pants off the crowd, who threw their fists in the air with the chorus.
And this was when Marvin Wade finally fought his way to the front to do his swirly dance, and she didn’t even tell him to sit down, because she was twirling right along with him in her heart.
She paused to breathe, to take a sip of some water that had magically appeared near her—probably Giorgio had slipped it in there—and said, “This one is for my friend, Annelise.”
She pointed to Annelise, who was standing with her mom, who was actually grinning, and Annelise hopped up and down in excitement.
And she launched into “Me and Bobby McGee,” and played a rocking harmonica line intro. By the time that song was over, everyone was singing as if they were a bunch of hammered kids around a campfire.
And that’s when she noticed, as if in slow motion, Blondie McBlonderson lean her head cozily against Eli’s huge shoulder.
And Eli’s arm appeared to be draped behind her.
Maybe not quite around her.
And Glory held perfectly still.
Momentarily dumbstruck. As in, like she’d literally been struck and was literally briefly mute.
Granted, it was hardly a cuddle. But Bethany could smell him, probably. Could feel how hard his arm was, right through her body. Could extrapolate from there how hard and hot the rest of his body was.
And just like that, the very devil took Glory.
Her sense of drama told her to remain still a heartbeat or so longer.
Long enough for the audience to go still, too. Long enough for everyone to start wondering, but not long enough for them to begin rustling. Long enough for her to infect them with portent.
Then she crooned the opening words of Three Dog Night’s famous song: “Eli’s Comin’.”
Two words. They sailed out there in the Misty Cat and filled the whole room, and she pulled out that last syllable into a crystal-pure note that soared like a warning, sung in a way that made it sound like it was much too late to save yourself. Eli was comin’.
And he was going to destroy your heart.
It was a singer’s song—emotional, even histrionic, crazy high notes, room to growl and scream for vocal acrobatics. It was hard and fast and had a killer hook—and Monroe about beat holes in the box and the bar stool.
And she sang the whole damn thing straight to Eli. Did not take her eyes off him.
She KILLED that song.
When she brought it to an abrupt end, the crowd screamed approval.
She didn’t pause to bask. Although she did notice that Eli slowly removed his arm from behind Bethany and crossed both of his arms over his chest, almost like bandoliers. And his face was expressionless.
She was on a mission now, whether it was worthy or not, though if pressed, she’d have to go with not. She didn’t care: it was untold relief to pour out her frustration and fury and angst and lust, turn it into the kind of fuel that made an audience wild. She segued into “Featherbed,” the song she’d been singing out behind the Plugged Nickel just before she bit a guy, the first song she ever wrote about Eli. Its huge, ringing ethereal chords were the perfect fit right there in the set, and when she was done, the audience cheered it as if it was an FM radio classic. She half suspected they’d cheer if she burped into the mic right now, but she wasn’t about to split hairs.
“Thank you! That was one of my own. And speaking of something of your own . . .”
She segued right into the chiming chords of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way.”
And maybe it was a little on-the-nose lyrics wise. But suddenly, without realizing it, she was both wooing and waging war with song tonight. And maybe it was unfair, but she didn’t care.
Monroe slammed into it on the stool just like she had when she’d annoyed Giorgio with it the other day, squeezed the flour sifter and used it as an ersatz cowbell during the verses, alternating that with the box and the stool, and it was just brilliant.
And then suddenly Glenn loomed in her peripheral vision and flashed five fingers at her.
Five minutes.
And then she had a reckless inspiration.
Under cover of ecstatic woooooing she bent down to Monroe and said “this one’s new . . . Think . . . it’s kind of like . . . She patted out the rhythm for him quickly. “Almost a bolero. Kinda like Led Zep’s ‘Kashmir.’”
“You start. I’ll get it,” Monroe said. He was glowing with success, and his dyed black hair was plastered to his head with sweat.
She trailed her fingers over that D sus 2, then the G, and with the anticipation of that haunting, martial intro, her hips moved into the rhythm, showing them all how that song was going to make them feel.
Monroe kicked in after a few bars. He used his hands, humping out a muffled rhythm on the box, turning it into a sort of tabla. And he had it exactly right.
The audience was instantly captivated. It only got better when she opened her mouth to sing.
Are you afraid to touch me, darlin’?
Are you afraid you’ll burn?
You’ll have to get in line, darlin’
You’ll have to wait your turn
Yeah everybody wants me, darlin’
But one day you’ll finally learn
I only ever wanted you
Because, baby, I’m a badass rose
Baby, I’m the kind that grows
Stronger when it storms
And weaker in your arms
I might cut you, make you bleed
But I’m all you’ll ever need
Don’t give up on me
Oh, don’t give up on me
And as she drove it toward that verse crescendo, every last one of the men in there imagined what it would be li
ke to feel their hips moving over hers.
And all the women were infused with a sense of their own power.
And Eli was still as a stone, and his arms were still crossed. As if to protect that soft underbelly that she was going for.
By the second verse, the dark in front of her was lit by cell phones that were all up and aimed at her, to capture this song and this moment. A few guys attempted to stand on chairs and tables and were quickly all but swatted down by Glenn and Truck Donegal.
The last verse she sang mostly a cappella, accompanied by the softest of heartbeat pats on her guitar.
Are you afraid to love me, baby?
A little scared of pain
Cuz love is kind of messy, baby
And heartbreak leaves a stain
If you’d rather wake up with a stranger
than open up a vein
I guess that’s how it goes
Baby, I’m a badass rose
And when that last note of the song rang by itself, she knew every pair of lungs in the place had stopped moving.
So they could savor that last note until it vanished into the ether.
She remained motionless.
Frozen, as if she’d cast a spell on herself.
And then she leaned once more into the mic.
“I’m Glory Greenleaf. That’s who the fuck I am. Thank you. Good night.”
Just in case The Baby Owls’ management was listening, or something.
A sort of pandemonium ensued.
But not, thankfully, the kind with thrown fists and stools.
Cheers and stomping revealed an audience that was well and truly drunk with beer and glorious entertainment, high on music in a way that hadn’t anticipated. A happy, happy crowd.
She grinned and raised her guitar briefly overhead like a prizefighter and let the cheers rain down on her as if they could soak into her skin, right down into her soul, wash out every ache she’d ever had.
Wash out how it felt to have Eli standing there next to another woman, who would ride home with him in the dark, and maybe he would kiss her, and maybe he would even make love to her, but the whole time, the whole time Glory was sure he’d be thinking about her so hard it would be a wonder he didn’t cry out her name.
It wasn’t fair but life wasn’t fair and love might as well be war and music was hers to use any way she wanted.
And then Glenn grabbed the mic from her and practically elbowed her out of the way.
So much for mystique. But zoning and noise laws were what they were.
“Thank you, Glory Greenleaf! Wasn’t she fantastic? Thank you all for coming! Now get out!”
The crowd laughed merrily. Everyone thought Glenn was a character.
But he meant business.
A kid fought his way up to the front.
“That was awesome, man. Glory! Do you have a CD I can buy? Will you sign my boobs?”
He hiked up his shirt.
Jesus. He was pretty hairy.
But earnest.
“I don’t have a Sharpie on me, but—” she started.
Another guy popped up. He had a huge beard and a zealous gleam in his eyes.
“You were incredible. You remind me sort of Adele meets Grace Slick meets PJ Harvey meets—”
“GET OUT, young man. Shoo!” Glenn waved his arms at them like they were bears getting into the garbage.
They scrambled backward and turned and jogged for the exits.
So much for savoring the afterglow.
But she understood. There were noise laws and there was at least one lawman on the premises.
“I can’t thank you enough, Monroe. You were brilliant.” She high-fived him.
They were both incredibly sweaty. His Motörhead shirt was glued to him.
“You, too, Glory. I loved it. Hey, I’d stick around to talk some more, but gotta strike while the iron’s hot. You know how it is.”
She rolled her eyes, but she fist-bumped him.
He grinned and leaped off the stage. Given that he was a newly anointed rock star for the evening. A cluster of girls were around him almost immediately, chattering happily.
She hoped Monroe got lucky tonight. He might not ever find the perfect death-metal singer here in Hellcat Canyon, but getting laid might help take the edge off the disappointment, and she knew how precious dreams were.
“OUT!” Glenn bellowed into the mic, and the final stragglers finally massed and scurried out. “Drive safely, people. We want you to get home alive. And if you drive drunk our deputies will get you immediately.”
Glory reflexively reached down into her case for her red bandanna to begin wiping down her strings.
“Here.” Glenn pressed something into her hand. It looked like a stack of order pads.
“What’s this? You’re giving me homework?”
Talk about anticlimactic.
“We passed these around while you were playing, told people to look up your Facebook page and write down their e-mail addresses. They’re yours to keep.”
She flipped through them. She had maybe a couple hundred names here. For a musician, it was almost as good as currency.
She looked up at him mistily.
It was such a lovely thing to do and in all the excitement she hadn’t thought to do it.
“Boy, you must really want to get rid of me, Glenn.”
“The sooner the better, sweetheart,” he said, but he smiled. “One last thing.” He pushed something else into her hand. It was actual currency.
“It’s two hundred bucks, in fives and tens and ones. Don’t spend it all it once place.” He patted her and bustled off, waving away her drop-jawed gratitude.
Two hundred bucks! That was officially the most she’d ever made playing music.
She’d give Monroe and Giorgio some of it, for sure.
She rolled it tightly and jammed it deep into the pocket of her jeans.
She looked up sharply, suddenly, as alert as if someone had flicked her in the back of her head.
Eli was moving steadily through the crowd, making his way toward her at an unnervingly purposeful, stalking gunslinger pace.
He stopped finally.
So, briefly, did her heart.
His face was extraordinary. Tense and brilliant with some emotion that was hard to identify, but which wasn’t the least bit mild, and was probably a little dangerous.
Her heart jabbed hard in her chest. She’d never anticipated a verdict more.
“Subtle,” he said finally.
The most dryly ironic single word she’d ever heard.
She just held his hard gaze with a little faint smile.
As though she’d won a round of a duel.
“Glory, you were amazing! Wasn’t she amazing, Eli?” Bethany had apparently ducked into the bathroom, and now she bounced up behind him and looped her arm through his. “I was dying to see The Baby Owls, but you felt so much like the real thing I didn’t miss them at all.”
The real thing.
Those words sort of vibrated in the air.
Glory couldn’t face Eli’s hard, questioning look, or his taut jaw anymore. The line of tension between them was charged, and the air was full of lightning, and if that line snapped, dangerous sparks could fly everywhere.
She dropped her gaze and gathered her hair in her fist and used it to fan the back of her neck.
“You need me to blow on it back there?”
Her head shot up. Franco Francone had bounded up next to her on the stage.
Eli turned on his heel and walked straight for the door, pushed it open, and was gone.
Glory watched that extraordinary reaction with a certain unworthy satisfaction.
And more than a little uneasiness.
Bethany looked startled.
Then she spun and all but loped after Eli, her hair bright in the dark light. “Bye, Glory. Wonderful show,” she called.
Glenn and Giorgio and Sherrie were swooping about, gathering bottles and re-arranging tab
les like pros. The place would be spotless again by morning.
Glory dropped her hair. Once again, her eyes were on the door.
“You’re a star, Glory,” Franco said. “And at this point in my career, I know a star when I see one.”
“Kind of you to say so,” she said to Franco. Uncharacteristically humble. But she now realized she was tired.
She studied Franco. And thought about Eli taking Bethany home in his big truck. And anarchy stirred in her soul. She wondered if she ought to just make out with Franco in the dark in his fancy car. The way she once made out with guys at parties in high school until she and Mick Macklemore had become a thing. And then maybe she ought to shut off her brain and let her body decide for her if she wanted more.
Because Eli had been right: sex was a great way to make yourself feel better. It was a little like alcohol, though, in that it had the power to make you feel pretty horrible if you did the wrong kind of imbibing.
She looked at Franco and thought all of this.
Trouble was, it seemed inconceivable that she had ever kissed anyone casually. Or without consequence.
Now, thanks to Eli, she knew what a kiss could be. What it could mean. How it could make and ruin a life in just a few moments.
“Need a ride home?” Franco said softly.
Giorgio loped onto the stage and started briskly breaking down the mics. He paused and intercepted a glance from her. He went still. And he must have read something in her face.
“I’m parked out front. You still need a ride home, Glory?”
She was surprised. They’d of course never discussed any kind of ride.
“Yeah, thanks, Giorgio.” She turned to Franco. “Thanks for the offer, but I told Giorgio I’d catch a ride with him. He’s scared of the dark.”
She couldn’t resist that one.
Giorgio muttered something that sounded like “Piglet panties” under his breath and shook his head as he stalked off with the mic stand.
But people could surprise you.
In the half light of the Misty Cat, up here on stage, Franco sure looked like he ought to be the romantic hero in her story.
But then, that’s why he was paid to be on TV.
The real thing. Those words came back to her.
Franco was reading her face while she was reading his, apparently, because he leaned toward her and said softly, as if confiding a secret, “You should give me a chance, Glory. You won’t regret it.” He gave her a quick cheek kiss, more a mischievous peck than anything, then gracefully made his exit with a flap-of-his-hand farewell. Out the back, like a star.
Wild at Whiskey Creek Page 19
