The cheers and whistles are louder this time and are joined by lots of applause. This guy must have a lot of fans here tonight, or maybe it’s just a boisterous crowd ready to let loose and have some fun. The cheers continue as a skinny, dark-haired guy steps up onto the stage. He’s carrying his own guitar, a much newer and nicer one than the instrument leaning against the wall. As he slips the strap over his head, the lights gleam off the shiny wooden face of his guitar. Then the overhead lights dim and he begins to play. I recognize the opening chords of Toby Keith’s “I Love This Bar” immediately.
His voice is deep and masculine. “We got winners, we got losers, pot smokers and boozers. We got freshman, we got juniors, and we’ve got lots of slacker seniors.”
He’s changed the words to fit the college scene and the crowd is loving it. When he gets to the chorus—“I love The Joint”—the place goes crazy. The noise doesn’t die down completely all the way through the song, and when he belts out his final “I love The Joint,” the crowd explodes into thunderous applause. Chris is right. This is fun!
The MC leaps theatrically back onto the stage and grabs the microphone. “Anthony Tomaso, folks!” he says as the applause finally fades. “Thanks for kicking things off, Anthony. And as always, The Joint appreciates the plug.”
Tomaso makes a deep bow and then steps down off the stage. He takes a seat at a table right in front with three other people seated at it.
“Our next performer is another regular here at The Joint,” the MC continues. “You know him and you love him. Let’s hear it for the always popular Brian Jones!”
More cheers break out as a tall blond guy wearing a frilly white button shirt, tight black jeans and a floppy straw beach hat gets up from the table where Tomaso just sat down and steps up on stage. Some girl in the back yells out, “Kiss me, baby!” A bunch of people laugh.
I don’t get the joke—they must be regulars who know what’s coming.
The guy takes a moment to set up a music player on a small table and then stands with his back to the audience, doing something with his hands that we can’t see. A familiar rhythm issues from the player, but I can’t put my finger on what song it is. Jones keeps his back to us for another few moments before spinning around and tossing his hat into the crowd. The hat was hiding a long black wig, streaked with lime green highlights, which now falls over his shoulders. He’s painted his lips with bright red lipstick, too.
He mouths the lyrics as Katy Perry’s sultry voice sings from the music player: “This was never the way I planned it…”
Now I know the song. It’s “I Kissed a Girl.”
A cute blond girl who had been sitting next to him now climbs up on stage as Jones seductively gyrates his body while continuing to mouth the lyrics. She’s wearing a sexy black miniskirt and tight gold tank top. When the song reaches the title phrase at the beginning of the chorus, Jones grabs the girl in a tight embrace and kisses her passionately.
The crowd bursts into cheers.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” some guy shouts.
“Go to it, girls!” another guy yells.
The room fills with laughter.
When the chorus ends, Jones goes back to lip-synching the song. Each time the chorus begins anew, the couple shares another long kiss, to more cheers.
Have I mentioned how much fun this is?
When the song ends, the two performers hold hands and wave to the audience. I’m pretty sure they’re a couple in real life. If they’re not, that guy has a really good thing going.
The MC gets back on stage. “Thank you, Katy…uh, I mean Brian. I can’t tell you how excited that song always gets me. Am I right, guys?” he says to the audience. The crowd roars once again. “Now, who’s brave enough to follow that performance?”
Chris looks at me and fakes like he’s going to stand up, then sits back down and grins.
“No way would I go on after that,” he says.
I’m still not sure whether he’s serious about performing, or just having fun with me. I think I’d prefer he just stay seated here with me.
The next couple of people to step up onstage are a mixed bag. Two women sing—they’re ok, but not great, and a guy tells some jokes. One or two of the jokes are kind of funny, but most are pretty lame. The crowd laughs and groans and applauds appropriately.
Then the guy in the wild plaid sports jacket takes the stage. His appearance is met with a few groans—I’m guessing he’s performed here before, to less than rave reviews. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He pulls the microphone from the stand and walks to the very front of the stage.
“Is everyone having a good time tonight?” he asks. There’s not much of a response, but he pushes on. “You might find this hard to believe,” he says, “but I had a date with a hot blonde chick the other night.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “I don’t want to say she wasn’t smart, but later on, when things were starting to get hot and heavy, I blew in her ear. She said ‘thanks for the refill.’”
The joke is met with a couple of groans, but not much else.
The guy stays onstage another couple of minutes, telling more jokes about students and about blondes. He gets a few chuckles here and there, but otherwise not much of a reaction. When he finally steps down from the stage, he receives a smattering of polite applause. I think he’s lucky there’s no alcohol served in here—the reaction from a liquored-up audience might have been quite different.
Before the MC even reaches the microphone, Chris is on his feet.
“Now there’s an act I can follow,” he says. “Wish me luck.”
Uh, oh. He’s really going to do it. My mouth says, “good luck,” but my brain is saying, “oh, no.”
Chapter 15
I feel myself slinking down into my chair as I watch Chris weave his way between the tables to the stage. Relax, girl, I tell myself—no one except the kids sitting near us knows which table he came from. Besides, Chris is a smart guy. He wouldn’t do this if there was any chance he might bomb—would he?
I force myself to sit up straighter. I wonder what’s he’s going to do? Not tell jokes, I hope. He’s pretty funny sometimes, but this crowd seems much more into music than comedy. He’s right about one thing, though—he’s picked the perfect act to follow.
To my surprise, Chris doesn’t get up onto the stage. Instead, he takes a seat at the piano. I definitely did not see that coming!
I have to admit, he looks pretty cute sitting there at the piano with that beret tilted rakishly across his brow. It doesn’t hurt that his mismatched sneakers are out of sight under the piano, either, at least from everywhere but the very front tables. I’m worried this is not a piano music kind of crowd, though. It could be worse, I guess. He could be playing the flute or the cello.
The MC looks over at him. “Well, it looks like our next performer is ready,” he says. “What’s your name?”
“Chris.”
“Okay, Chris. Do you need the mic?”
Chris shakes his head no. So now I know he’s not going to sing. Or tell jokes. He’s just going to play. I wonder what kind of music he plays?
The MC sticks the microphone back into the stand. “All right,” he says. “Let’s see what Chris has in store for us.” He steps down from the stage.
Chris cracks his knuckles in front of his chest as the MC disappears into the crowd. He nods his head a couple of times—establishing a beat in his mind, I guess—and begins to play.
He starts slowly, barely nudging the keys. The tune is somber, and hauntingly familiar. The low hum of conversation in the room begins to quiet as people strain to hear the music. I don’t think most of them know whether they like it or not yet. Chris begins to play louder, more forcefully, and I finally recognize the song. It’s “Hurt”—the Trent Reznor version more so than the Johnny Cash. I can hear the lyrics in my head now. The music grows more powerful, and the room grows quieter. His playing is really very good. Maybe one day he and I will play
a duet together—in private, of course. Never, ever in a place like this. My grandmother always tells me to never say never, but in this case….
Suddenly, the melody changes. Chris’s fingers are pounding the keyboard now and his head is bobbing up and down. Without missing a beat, he’s shifted from the slow and somber “Hurt” to the rollicking “Great Balls of Fire” by Jerry Lee Lewis. Talk about a leap. When his fingers slide across the keys in a loud glissando, the crowd roars.
“Yee-haw!” someone yells.
Chris bangs the keys for another few moments, then lifts his right foot from beneath the piano and begins bouncing his heel on the keyboard, playing the high notes with his foot. Along with most of the rest of the crowd, I laugh and I cheer. Now I know why he wore those crazy, bright colored sneakers.
Finally, he finishes with a flourish, sliding his fingers back and forth along the entire length of the keyboard a couple of times. The crowd cheers and whistles. Chris stands up and acknowledges the audience with a quick nod of his head, then begins to thread his way back through the tables, back toward me. He’s grinning, but there’s a touch of boyish shyness in his grin. It’s the first sign of shyness I’ve ever seen in him, and I kind of like it.
I’m still clapping softly when he sits down next to me. I can’t believe I was worried he might bomb, and that I’d have to share in his embarrassment.
“Not bad,” I say. “Not bad at all.”
“Twelve years of lessons,” he explains. “Mostly church music, show tunes and classical stuff, but when I learned my assignments well, I was allowed to improvise and have some fun.”
“Well, you sure looked like you were having fun tonight, especially when you did that thing with your foot.”
He grins. “Too much?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Definitely not. The crowd loved it.”
“I told you,” he says, “it’s all in who you follow.”
“Yeah, but being good helps, too,” I reply.
“So you really thought I was okay?” he asks.
I think it’s cute that he still wants reassurance, even after the audience’s reaction.
“Better than okay,” I say. “Way better.”
He wipes his brow with a napkin. “I was a little worried. I haven’t played in a while.”
“How come?” I ask. He certainly didn’t sound like he hadn’t played in a while.
He shrugs. “No piano. This is the only place I know that has one, except for the music department, and no way am I going to play in there in front of all those genius types.”
I’m guessing that those “genius types” may have done a shade better on “Hurt,” perhaps, but no way would they have topped Chris’ Jerry Lee.
“So is this why you brought me here?” I ask. “So you could show off your talent for me?”
He laughs. “We’re here because I knew we’d have fun. Showing off was a bonus.”
“Well, I’m duly impressed,” I say, meaning it.
We listen to a bunch more acts. Some are pretty good, but only one gets a reaction anywhere near like the one Chris got, a teeny little girl with a big voice who did a great cover of Taylor Swift’s “Back to December.” She definitely had me believing she had treated some guy really crappy and now was very sorry. I wonder if guys ever feel that sorry about treating a girl badly. Probably not.
Around ten o’clock, we decide we’ve had enough. It’s cooled down a few degrees outside, but the night air is still very pleasant. I slip my arms around Chris’s arm as we stroll away from The Joint. The noise from inside fades as we get farther away.
“That was really fun,” I say. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he says.
“You realize, don’t you, that anytime we go back there now, they’re going to want you to play.”
A surprised expression crosses his face and he stops walking. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“I do. I’m going to have to share you with all of them from now on.” I smile. “I just hope you don’t have a weakness for groupies.”
He purses his lips like he’s deep in thought, and then takes the beret off his head and grins.
“I know,” he says. “I won’t wear this next time. Nobody will recognize me without it, and we won’t have to worry about any groupies.”
I laugh. “You’re probably right.” I nudge his foot with mine. “Especially if you don’t wear those sneakers, either.”
“Okay, got it,” he says. “Next time, no hat, and lose the sneakers.” He puts the beret on my head and looks at me appraisingly.
I do a quick spin for him. “How do I look?” I ask, batting my eyelashes flirtatiously.
He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Really cute,” he says, his voice serious now. “Like always.”
His eyes are fixed on mine. My cheeks begin to grow warm—has the temperature of the night just gone up? I think I want to move my eyes away from his, but I must be wrong, because they stay glued there.
Uh, oh. His face is moving closer to mine.
Have I mentioned that we haven’t really kissed yet? A few light kisses on my cheek and a couple of goodnight pecks on the lips. That’s been it. I’m pretty sure that’s about to change, though.
Am I ready for this? Truthfully, I don’t know. In some ways, I am sooo ready. More than ready. But in other ways, I’m nowhere near ready. Cautious girl versus growing up college girl, I guess. I haven’t kissed a boy for real since Brian, almost four years ago. My heart is pounding, threatening to burst out of my chest. Is it longing? Or fear? I’m pretty sure it’s some of both. And if I’m going to do this, do I want to do it here, out on the street, where people can see? At least I won’t have to worry about it going any further than a kiss out here. That’s something, right?
I wonder what my face looks like right now. Like a deer in the headlights, probably. Surely Chris can see that, can’t he? Then why is his face still getting closer?
I’m amazed at how many thoughts can race through my head in the time it’s taking his lips to move toward mine. Is he moving in slow motion? Or has time just somehow slowed down?
But slow motion or not, it’s about to happen, unless I do something to stop it. I know—I’ll close my eyes. That’ll stop it for sure, won’t it?
But it doesn’t stop it. I feel the warm taste of his breath on my lips an instant before his lips meet mine. They linger there, lightly, like a feather. A soft, moist, warm feather. A sweet, delicious feather. If I’m going to stop this, I need to stop it right now. But why on earth would I ever want to stop this? It’s heaven.
Slowly, almost imperceptively, the pressure of his mouth on mine increases. Words cannot describe the feeling. It’s almost as if our lips are falling together, merging somehow, until I don’t know where my lips end and his lips start. Time has not only slowed, I think it’s stopped. And what a wonderful place for it to stop!
My heart is racing. His kiss is flawless, fearless. I feel his lips begin to open, pulling mine open with them. His tongue presses lightly against mine, and a current like a jolt of electricity shoots through me, all the way down to my toes. An odd thought pops into my head. I can feel my toes, but I can’t feel the ground beneath them. Somehow, I’m floating, weightless. How is that possible? Stop thinking, girl. Turn off your brain and just enjoy!
His arms wrap more tightly around me, pulling me into him. His tongue begins to move. Slowly. Deliciously. With no conscious thought, my tongue follows his lead, pressing against his. Our tongues begin to dance, slowly at first, probing, tasting, testing, and then faster as our heat builds. I feel his hands move into my hair, holding my head. Somehow, despite his grip, my head is spinning. It’s just another of the many impossibilities I’m sensing right now.
How long it all lasts, I have no idea. Days? No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. But hours at least, right? Finally he pulls his mouth away. I wait a moment before I open my eyes, afraid that doing so might break the spell. When I do open them, C
hris’ face is just a few inches from mine. He’s smiling and his eyes are looking deep into mine. His hands are linked loosely behind my neck.
My heart is still racing. I try to come up with something clever to say. Or something romantic. But all that comes out is a soft “wow.” Oh, that’s real good, I tell myself. Very creative.
“Yeah,” he says. “Wow.”
I’m glad to see his brain isn’t working any better than mine.
We stand like that—my arms around his waist, his hands behind my neck—for several more moments. We must look like a statue in a park—young lovers lost in each other. All we need are a couple of pigeons to complete the scene. I wonder if other girls feel like this when they get kissed, if they lose themselves so completely, so totally? Or is it something most of them get over in high school, but I never had the chance to get used to? I love the feeling—I hope I never get used to it. But it scares the hell out of me, too.
Finally, some guy across the street yells “Get a room!” His buddies laugh, like he’s the first guy to ever come up with that one.
Bite your tongue, I want to scream as I drop my arms from around Chris’s back. Getting a room is exactly what I don’t want to do. At least, the part of me that thinks doesn’t want to. A few of my other parts might argue that point.
Chris leaves his arms on my shoulders for another moment before pulling them away, plucking the beret from my head as he does so.
Maybe it was the hat that cast that magic spell over me, like the hat that brought Frosty to life. That must be it.
“Let’s walk,” Chris says.
I take his hand. “Yeah, let’s.”
We stroll down the sidewalk. I notice we’re not heading toward my dorm.
Chapter 16
“You know,” Chris says as we walk along the street, “I still owe you that tour of the Ritz.”
My heart rate spikes and my grip on his hand tightens for a moment. Chris stops and looks at me. The hand squeeze was a definite giveaway. I don’t think he expected so strong a reaction to his simple comment. But that’s how I am. Always reading into things. This time, though, I’m pretty sure I’m reading them right.
Mine: A Love Story Page 9
