by Cara Nelson
His jaw dropped and loud laughter came from next to him.
“Snap,” Boomer said. His laugh was as loud as his name suggested it would be. He’d gotten it from operating a sound boom when he was first in the business. He hadn’t done that for ten years but the name still fit the man.
I saw Gauge’s mouth open and then slam shut. He had a big filter. I could tell he evaluated everything before he said it. Very calculating. I’d get him to talk, eventually.
The woman, whose name I learned was Dani, said, “I’ll go get the van and then let’s motor.”
* * *
The bar and grill they found was small and kind of a dive. My friends preferred upscale places, but this was home—after all, a lot of good stories come out of bars. It was pretty grungy—my kind of place. Despite that, it was very busy, which meant that it was either a great deal or definitely the place to have a great hamburger.
Six of us stood there and Gauge was right behind me. I could sense him there without even turning around and when I breathed in, I could smell his cologne. It was amazing and there was nothing I would have loved more than to fall asleep with that shirt on so I could drift off to dreamland with that scent.
“I’ll have a table cleared for you in a minute,” a waitress said, walking toward us and calling out. She kept on motoring, though, showing she didn’t have time to stop while she spoke.
In the distance, someone hurried to clear off the table and slop some water on. Then, with perfect timing, the waitress was back. “You can go sit down. I’ll be there to take your order in a bit. ”
We made our way through the crowd; there were a few college-aged kids, but mostly blue collar workers that had just gotten off their shifts. Some were laughing and enjoying their hard earned frosty cold beers; others were complaining while taking swigs of those same cold beers.
“What are you smiling at?” Gauge asked, leaning over and whispering from my right side.
“Just love atmospheres like this. They’re ideal for people-watching. ”
“Do all journalists love to people-watch?”
“It’s helpful. It’s often in what people don’t say that you can learn the most. ”
“How very ‘big brother’ of you.”
I turned to Gauge and furrowed my brow. Was that another slam? Well, it didn’t really matter, because the second I saw his face I completely forget about it. I wasn’t sure what I thought of him when he talked, but looking at him wasn’t painful.
“Come on, you two, sit down. You’re clogging the waitress’s path,” Dani said from behind.
“Oops,” I said, navigating around the tall high top in the corner and sitting down in a spot where I could look at everyone. I’ll admit that I was disappointed that Gauge sat in a seat where his back was to everyone across from me. How else was I going to get him to start talking so I could get a grasp of him for the story?
“Do you guys’ go out to eat together often?” I asked.
“Not really,” Boomer said. “Sometimes you’re spent after a show and set-up and just want to kick it back in your room.”
“Or it’s already time to get ready for the next city, and the last thing you need to do is be working with beams that weigh a ton on a hang-over,” another guy named Phil said.
“Not good,” I said. Then I looked to Gauge. “And how about you. Is it a constant party after every show, living it up?”
“That’s a big myth, for me, anyway. Do some stars do that? Yeah, but they’re mostly the rockers that we consider pickled now; Jagger, Richards, Tyler, guys like that,” Gauge said.
“But when he does, it’s always caught on tape, isn’t it?” Dani said.
Gauge started laughing, nodding his head. “I swear, I’ve only been out once in my life, but the tape pops up enough for people to think I’m a sex-crazed guy who downs shots as much as I breathe.”
Everyone was laughing. Gauge’s words gave me something serious to contemplate and a great angle for my questions. I’d just assumed that I’d be prying out the juicy stories. But just like with smaller-time musicians, it was still just a job on some days. Like any job, you couldn’t do your best if you were hungover or burnt out.
Which is why I’d better slow down on drinking those beers, I thought. I had a horrible habit of drinking too fast when I was nervous, one that snuck up on me every once in awhile. Not tonight!
The waitress walked over with a huge tray balancing on one shoulder. On top of it were six huge burgers with a load of fries to the side of each one.
Once the burger was in front of me, I sized it up and took out my knife to cut it in half. Everyone else was already slathering on their condiments and diving in. As I began to cut, I heard, “What are you doing?”
“This thing is huge. It won’t fit into my mouth. ”
Everyone started to snort and snicker. I smiled. Yeah, I walked into that one.
“You can’t cut a burger. That’s just wrong,” Gauge continued.
I looked at him and then down at my knife. “Why?”
“Because.”
“That’s all you got?”
“Yes,” Gauge replied, munching.
I’d been challenged and contemplated the situation. I decided to step up to the plate and set my knife down, put on some spicy BBQ sauce, and lifted the burger up to take a bite. It was clearly bigger than my mouth, though. I glanced sideways, hidden behind the safety of my burger, and saw Dani taking a bite, going from the bottom up. I tried the same thing and managed to take a bite of it. It was delicious, but still…
This is not very sexy. OMG, I thought.
I sat the burger down and took a drink of my beer. I looked over the rim of my glass at Gauge. He was watching me, and when I set the beer down he began to lick the side of his mouth. What was he doing? My look must have shown my confusion. He called out loudly, “You have BBQ all over your chin.”
I put my hand up to my chin and felt something gooey. My face flushed and I quickly tried to rebound.
“Well, sometimes a woman’s got to get a little dirty, right?” I said.
“Yeah baby, that’s what I’m talking about,” Phil said.
I put my tongue out and licked my lower lip and then wiped the remainder off with a napkin. “That’s some good sauce,” I added.
Everyone got back to eating, and alas, it was time to go. I made my way back to the van with the crew feeling really happy. I also found it fascinating that not a single person had come up to Gauge to say something. It was hard to believe that they didn’t recognize him. His one tribal tattoo was a clear identifier.
We were all staying on the tenth floor, and the elevator had just enough room for the six of us. Unlike the restaurant and van, I was right next to Gauge in the elevator. When I felt his body pressed against mine, my imagination hijacked my common sense and I thought about what it would be like to see the rest of those tats. How many were there and where were they? And piercings…any hidden piercings? The thought of where they might be made me think ‘ouch’ and ‘oh’ all in the same second. I shook my head, breathed in, and was so thankful that we had arrived.
“Well, thanks everyone, and goodnight. See you in the morning.”
I received an array of ‘goodnights’ back. Gauge smiled at me and nodded his head ever so slightly. I did the same and turned around and walked the five doors down to my room, not able to wipe the grin off my BBQ-sauce-free face.
Chapter Four:
Savannah Magic
It’s amazing how quickly you can run out of things to say when you’re on a tour bus with a select few people. I didn’t mind, though, because I’d learned that the best information and details come from simple observations, understanding body mannerisms and those little looks someone gives when the person they were talking to just turns away. I wanted everyone to think I wasn’t paying attention, and there was no better way to do that them putting in my ear buds and having people think I wasn’t paying attention. I pulled out my tablet to send a
few long overdue emails at the same time. I sure had enough time. It was a twelve hour bus ride.
With some Fitz and the Tantrums blaring, I began to catch up on my correspondence, getting lost in the music as well as my thoughts. I didn’t want to write anything that seemed too gossipy or revealing, but I was so eager to tell Jessie and Trinity what was happening and get some of their input. The lusty party of me had begun thinking that there was some sort of chemistry between Gauge and I. The sensible part of my mind told me I was nuts. Quite honestly, I didn’t always trust my instincts when it came to guys, and had that perpetual fear that I might misinterpret their motives. Having that happen with Gauge was not an option.
On the other hand, my message to my parents was all about the business and assurances that none of the ‘big, bad musicians’ were taking advantage of me, their youngest child. They never worried about my older sister and brother the way they did about me.
I sensed someone staring at me, and didn’t even have to turn my head to know it was Gauge. I savored the spice of his cologne, a scent I’d gotten used to over the past few days.
“Hey,” I said, smiling and removing an earbud.
“Mind if I sit down?” he asked.
“Sure, no problem.”
“Who you listening to?”
“Fitz and the Tantrums. Know them?”
“Yep.”
“Like them?”
“Yep.”
“Is that the depth of your musical assessment?” I asked, laughing.
“For now.”Gauge smiled and leaned back, placing his hands on his thighs and glancing down at my phone. “They always say you can tell a lot about a person by their playlists. Think that’s true?”
“Absolutely. Maybe I can see yours…for research, of course.”
“If you let me see yours, I’ll let you see mine.”
“I haven’t heard that since seventh grade,” I said, laughing.
“Then you’re long overdue.”
I handed Gauge the playlist and wasn’t surprised when he went to the artist list and to see whether there was any ProVokaTiv on it. There wasn’t—not a single song. I should have put it on a playlist, not just looked at it online.
“Wow, you really don’t like us. You’re not even a part of the million downloads for ‘Danger Angel’. ”
“Nope…must have forgotten.”
Gauge turned to me. “Really, is that the best you got?”
“Yeah. When I’m busted, I’m busted. Admit it and move on, right?” I prayed he’d let it slide. “That’s a good philosophy. So I guess you won’t be asking for any autographs, will you, Brynn?”
“That’s okay for some journalists, not me, but I’ll admit, my friends would probably love it. They’re definitely fans of your music. ”
“So you believe in keeping a professional distance?” Gauge asked.
“It’s the smart thing to do, especially when you’re supposed to write an impartial, informative piece on someone, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. Personally, I always stay away from journalists and reporters. It’s hard to trust them. ”
“And yet, you talk to me. Why?”
“You don’t have that journalist demeanor—yet, anyway.”
“Demeanor?”
Gauge smiled and shrugged his shoulders, like it should be perfectly clear what he meant. “You know, like everything that comes out of your mouth is loaded and you want a certain response to it, or hope to get some dirt for the next big scoop.”
“Wow, Gauge, you really have a low opinion of journalists, don’t you?”
“For the most part. I know they have a job to do, but it’s not my sort of thing.”
“Well that makes us even. I don’t love your music, and you don’t love my career. ”
The two of us laughed and eventually quieted down. I put my earbud back in and put my tablet away. There would be no finishing that last email at that moment. Part of me wondered if that was the plan.
Before I knew it, twelve hours had passed and we were pulling up to the hotel in Savannah. It would be a free day for me to do as I pleased while everyone set up for the concert and the last-minute details were taken care of. I wasn’t going to waste it. I was going to see some sights and try to find a few fans or anti-ProVokaTours to get some fresh perspective.
I skimmed a brochure in the lobby of the hotel, reading about tours of the old Savannah homes. I was definitely excited about the thought, having loved those antique buildings since I was young. Many of them existed in the Twin Cities, and jogging in those neighborhoods was something I’d always enjoyed. I wasn’t going to jog today, but a working tour was definitely a fun way to spend the day.
I decided to start off with a home that wasn’t part of a bigger tour—the Haunted Mercer House. I couldn’t resist. I made my way over there on a trolley and hopped off near the house, intensely curious. The red brick, with its ivory pillars and wrought iron accents, was gorgeous.
A small group of people gathered in the foyer of the home, waiting for the tour to begin. I’d been looking around when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something. It definitely wasn’t a ghost. It was a rock star trying to be incognito. The problem was that I’d recognize Gauge anywhere. His baseball hat and shades didn’t do much to hide those full, kissable lips. Then there was his legendary tribal tattoo, the most prominent of many others. Exact number not known—yet.
I made my way over. “Hey, I didn’t take you for a haunted house type of guy.”
“Oh hi, I didn’t see you here.”
“Really?” I asked, not believing him.
“Really. I don’t give a shit about the haunted thing. It’s all in the architecture. How could I come to Savannah without checking it out?”
“I see,” I said. “Well, I’ll leave you to your exploring, then.”
“It would be foolish for me to just ignore you.”
“I was here first,” I said.
“No you weren’t,” Gauge countered.
“You’re so stubborn, Gauge.”
“It’s Sam today.”
“Oh that’s right, incognito…kind of.”
The tour was full of all sorts of great insights. Everything the guide said made me think of a question. She said the architect was John S. Norris, and I wanted to know what else he’d designed. Two people had died there: some freak accident where a guy fell from the second floor and a really weird one, where some kid had ran up on the roof chasing a pigeon and fell right off, impaling himself on the beautiful wrought iron fence. Weird stuff. I was fully expecting to see something at least slightly bizarre with all the odd things that had happened at that house. Sadly, I didn’t see anything that was more than ‘interesting. ’
An hour later, we were walking out, talking about debating why we didn’t get to see Jim Williams, and whether the movie and book based on the house, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, were accurate at all. As we bantered back and forth, I found myself laughing and relaxing more with Gauge. He did the same, and that pleased me. He seemed genuine, a change from all the guarded conversations we’d had before. Perhaps he wasn’t as complicated as I thought he might be, but he certainly was cockier than I’d imagined.
“Should we get some lunch?” he asked.
“That would be great. I’m starving…no more big burgers, though. I haven’t had a chance to run or do anything the past week. ”
“Are you one of those women constantly worried about their weight?”
He wasn’t afraid to ask the personal questions. I marveled at his forthrightness.
“No, but I don’t want to start being one. Plus, a good work-out helps clear the mind and think things through. Don’t you think? You obviously work out.”
“I do, and I never miss a day.”
“How do you do it?”
“I do all core work—just my body and what’s around me.”
I didn’t say it, but I sure thought it—that is one effective workout plan. I h
adn’t see him with his shirt off, but I imagined he had a six pack on his six pack, the type of guy who would be sought out by Calvin Klein or Playgirl—I’d definitely buy that issue and explore what was all happening underneath that tight fitting gray t-shirt he had on.
“That’s cool. More people are starting to do that. I’m not a huge aerobics person, but I love to run.”
“Runners usually look so tortured.”
“I’m probably one of the few that you see running with a silly grin on their face. Those who look so serious are just deep in thought, not tortured—usually, anyway.”
“So I don’t need to worry that they’re not eating their prunes,” Gauge said.
I looked at him. His face was so serious, I started laughing, wrinkling my nose at the thought. “Disgusting!”
He burst out into laughter, and I couldn’t help but laugh, too. His laugh was deep and a little dark, and you could tell it was authentic by the way the crinkles around his eyes formed.
“Okay, we’re around a bunch of cafes. Any preferences?” Gauge asked.
“Not really. I don’t know this area.”
“I do. How about Foxy Loxy Café?”
“Sure, sounds good.”
A half hour later, we were sitting outside in a quaint courtyard at a small café table. We were drinking horchata lattes, one of their signature drinks. The waiter said that that horchata had originally been made with melon seeds, but rice was more common now. I was all about adventure, but I wasn’t keen on ordering it at first—sounded horrible. I was glad I gave it a try, though, because it was actually good. We’d also ordered food. Gauge was having pork carnitas and I was having a cheese board, salivating at the thought of biting into one of the plump grapes that came with it.
“What an amazing place,” I commented, looking around at everything. I just loved the atmosphere that the Spanish moss swaying in the breeze gave the entire courtyard. It was more haunting than the Mercer House was, in my opinion. The long, willowy green vines reminded me of arms that might reach out and wrap you up when you least expected it. The bright flowers of reds, melons, and yellow tones in the large clay pots were what lured you in, wanting to go up and touch them, feel the petals that looked so velvety, and then it happened. You were ensnared. It was Savannah’s version of a Venus Flytrap.
