Bobbie laughed. “That definitely needs remedied.”
“Play a song,” Chantel chanted. “Play a song. Play a song.”
The entire table began to imitate her, and the chorus soon spread throughout the bar.
“One song,” Dawn said, lifting a finger.
“As many as you’d like,” Bobbie said, nudging her toward the stage. “I can take the night off.”
Kellen sat up straighter as Dawn approached the piano. She ran a finger over the keys, so lightly that they made no sound. A lover’s caress. Every eye in the room was turned in her direction. He wasn’t sure if it was his association of Dawn plus piano equaling sex, or the way she so easily commanded the massive instrument with a mix of confidence, genuine love for music, and talent, or the way she looked in that dress that had him instantly aroused, but he was suddenly glad he had a sturdy table to hide his lap from view.
“Jimmy better hurry,” Chantel said. “He’ll kill me if he misses this, and maybe if he sees her with a hot guy, he’ll finally get over her.”
Kellen couldn’t take his eyes off Dawn to spare Chantel a glance. He murmured, “Mmm hmm,” which seemed to appease her enough to silence her chatter.
Dawn slid onto the piano bench and adjusted the microphone. “I won’t damage your hearing with my singing,” she said, and several quiet laughs circulated around the room, “but if you know the words, feel free to sing along.”
Kellen’s heart raced as she began the song, and the melody did seem familiar, so he must have heard the tune at some point. Maybe Adam had played it. He’d played jazz guitar in the past. Bopping around in her chair like she had restless butt syndrome, Chantel sang the chorus, and though she had a phenomenal voice, Kellen wished she’d shut the fuck up so he could focus on Dawn’s playing. During the piano solo, the entire bar fell silent—even Chantel. Perhaps the other patrons were also holding their breaths as Dawn played a series of notes so quick and clear and perfect, he never wanted her to stop. But she did stop eventually, to segue back into the chorus.
“And that’s why I told her she had to leave,” Chantel said with a sad sigh.
Kellen blinked to reset his brain and gave her a look that should have sent her diving under the table for cover, but she had her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand as she watched Dawn play, her body rocking with the beat. How could anyone ask Dawn to leave? Couldn’t this idiot hear how perfectly Dawn played?
“She didn’t miss a note,” Kellen said. “She never misses a note. That was spectacular.”
Chantel’s light brown eyes shifted to him. “Actually, she missed every note, because she makes every song her own. If you knew the original, you’d realize that.”
“She makes every note better,” Bobbie said, a wide smile on his face. “But she doesn’t belong here. Her talent is wasted on the likes of us.”
“You told her to leave because she was wasting her talent?” Kellen knew he’d never have the strength to do that for her. He too much wanted to be with her. He was already dreading the idea of her returning to Los Angeles. But he could deal with a long distance relationship if he had to. That was what planes were for.
“Sometimes she needs nudging,” Chantel said. “Doesn’t know what’s best for her. Lets her emotional attachments to people get in the way of her dreams.”
And maybe that was why he’d found her alone in that beach house. He’d thought it unusual that some lucky man hadn’t already made her his.
“So don’t you get in her way, mister.” Chantel poked him in the arm. “She needs support behind her, not in front of her barring her path to greatness.”
“How about beside her?” Kellen asked, thinking there was no way he’d ever stand in her way.
“Maybe,” she said as the song ended and she jumped to her feet to applaud.
Kellen clapped along with the rest of the bar and winked at Dawn when she turned his way. It was almost as if she was looking for his approval, but she sure didn’t need it. The woman was spectacular in every sense of the word. And she didn’t need to perform for him to recognize it.
“Play ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’!” someone yelled from across the bar.
She turned on the bench, and Kellen thought she might tell off the requester—as she’d mentioned how much it bothered her to have to play that song in jazz clubs—but she squinted into the gloom near the bar entrance and asked, “Jimmy?”
“Dawn!” The man yelled again and shoved through the crowd, jostling people unnecessarily as he headed for the stage.
“Jimmy?” she repeated.
“Dawn!”
Kellen laughed as he was reminded of the scene from Rocky when Adrian and Rocky continued to call for each other. His laughter died when Jimmy reached the stage and scooped a laughing Dawn into his arms. Kellen didn’t know what he’d expected—some unattractive slob, apparently—so when he recognized Jimmy as the prime specimen he was, Kellen rose to his feet. The dude had the body of a boxer, the face of a male model, and the messy hair of someone who didn’t own a comb.
Chantel grabbed Kellen’s wrist. “They’re just friends,” she said.
“I put pants on for you,” Jimmy told Dawn loud enough for everyone to hear. “And ran three blocks.”
“But didn’t bother combing your hair.” Dawn tried flattening it with one hand, and Kellen recognized affection between them, but no attraction. At least not on her end.
“She treats him like a little brother,” Chantel added. “He’s got girls tripping over each other to be with him, yet he talks about her all the time. All. The. Time. He’s so pathetic.”
“Some guys are like that. They only want what they can’t have.” As soon as he said it, he thought of Sara. Was that why he was still hanging on to her, because he couldn’t have her? He dismissed the thought and reclaimed his seat, watching Dawn avoid a misguided kiss from Jimmy.
“I brought my trumpet,” Jimmy said, lifting the case he held in one hand. “Thought we could have a band reunion.” He searched the crowd, and Chantel waved a hand to gain his attention. “There’s my little Chanty. Got your sticks?”
Chantel slid out from behind the table and pulled a pair of drumsticks from the back pocket of her faded jeans. “Never leave home without them.”
It turned out that Chantel also sang. The little trio was quite good. Even a rocker who didn’t typically listen to jazz recognized that. Bobbie especially seemed to enjoy his unexpected night off as he bobbed and swayed to the music. Kellen liked watching Dawn play, but he missed her proximity. He wondered if she’d felt that way while watching his performance earlier that night. Knowing her, she’d probably been so busy rewriting all their songs for them that she hadn’t paid him much mind.
After half a dozen songs, the trio let Bobbie reclaim his stage, but Jimmy wouldn’t let Dawn get off the piano bench until she agreed to play “Flight of the Bumblebee.” Kellen was up and ready to rescue her, but she conceded to play and even sent Kellen a little smile, rolling her eyes, before she turned back to the keyboard. Still on his feet, Kellen felt his jaw drop when her fingers flew over the keys. And while she’d started off playing the fast, familiar melody, once again she made it her own, making the piece even more complex than the original.
When she finished, the bar erupted into cheers, and Kellen simply gawked. He knew she was good—great—spectacular. But she continued to surprise him by how good, great, and spectacular she truly was.
“Too talented for the likes of us,” Bobbie said, clapping Kellen on the back. “Take good care of our pretty little prodigy.”
Kellen smiled. “I will.”
Slightly breathless, Dawn approached the table and hugged Bobbie before shooing him back toward the stage. Kellen wasn’t sure why he pulled her into his arms and claimed her mouth in a deep, satisfying kiss; he wasn’t usually big on public displays. Maybe it was because Jimmy was hanging awfully close to her. When they drew apart, Kellen lifted his gaze to meet Jimmy’s eyes. He expected
Jimmy to be angry or at the very least jealous, but the guy just grinned.
“Did Dawn finally get laid?” He turned to the table and said, “Dawn got laid.” Dawn elbowed him in the ribs, which made him shout to the entire bar, “Did everyone hear? Dawn finally got laid!”
“And that is why I never dated him,” Dawn said, shaking her head. “He’s incorrigible.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Jimmy said with a grin. “But I choose to take it as a compliment.”
“That was amazing,” Kellen said. “Not sure why Dawn keeps her jazz-playing days a secret.”
“She’s embarrassed by us,” Chantel said, plopping into an empty chair and gulping the remains of the beer she’d abandoned nearly an hour before.
“I am not.” Dawn patted Jimmy on the arm. “I just don’t understand the point of dwelling on the past.”
“You’ve always been annoyingly forward thinking,” Chantel said. “Now sit and tell us what it’s like to walk the red carpet.”
“I’d rather know what you two have been up to,” Dawn said, waiting for Kellen to find his seat so she could sit on his knee again.
He wrapped one arm around her. Yes, he wanted her close, not up on that stage. On his lap, in his arms. Now if only they were alone . . . But she obviously wanted to catch up with her friends, so he’d just breathe her in and think about everything he planned to do to her graceful body later.
“Chantel said you were broadening your horizons.”
Jimmy shrugged. “I’m still writing music for video games.”
Kellen straightened and turned toward Jimmy. “She did tell me about that.”
“She’s the one who got me started,” Jimmy said. “She doesn’t stick to one thing for long. She gets bored and moves on.”
Kellen assumed that was a dig on him. That Dawn would soon get bored with him and move on.
“I guess I’ll just have to be the most interesting man in the world.”
“Stop,” Dawn said, resting a hand on his chest. “I don’t need some beer commercial hero. I just hadn’t found what I was looking for. Until now.”
The weight of her claim lay heavily on him, but he shook the stupid feeling aside and smiled, running a finger down her bare back until she shivered.
“For now,” Jimmy said. “Chantel is thinking about giving up the drums and pursuing singing.”
If his tactic was to drive Dawn’s attention away from Kellen, he succeeded.
“But you love the drums!” Dawn said.
“A front man—or woman—needs to be out front,” Chantel said. “Drummers shouldn’t sing.”
“Phil Collins probably wouldn’t agree with that,” Kellen said.
“That’s one success story.” Chantel lifted one finger in the air. “One!”
“There are others. Don Henley. Uh . . . David Grohl.” Kellen struggled for more names. There really weren’t many successful drummer singers.
“David Grohl doesn’t play drums anymore,” Chantel said.
“I don’t even know who David Grohl is.” Dawn cringed when Chantel gasped.
“Heads the Foo Fighters?”
Dawn shook her head.
“Originally the drummer for Nirvana?”
Dawn brightened. “I’ve heard of Nirvana. They did ‘Smells Like Teen Spearmint,’ right?”
Kellen snorted on a laugh but didn’t correct her.
“We tried to get her to live in the twenty-first century,” Jimmy said, shaking his head, “but she insists on staying in the sixteenth.”
“Sheesh. I’m not that old-fashioned.” Dawn slugged Jimmy in the arm. “There were some greats in the Baroque period—like Bach and Vivaldi—but I’m much more into the late eighteenth or early nineteenth centuries.”
Kellen snorted on another laugh and hugged her tight. Nope, the eighteenth century wasn’t old school at all.
“So you forget what’s usual and become the next Phil Collins,” Dawn said to Chantel. “Sing from behind your drums.”
“But jazz,” Jimmy added.
“It will have to be pop.” Chantel released a deep sigh. “No one listens to jazz anymore. Like I said, I have to broaden my horizons. Or narrow them.”
“No one listens to classical either,” Dawn said. “You have to make your own niche, girl. Get out there. Let your soul shine.”
Chantel squeezed Dawn’s hand. “I’ve missed this. Missed you. You always did make me believe I was capable of anything.”
“Because you are.”
Apparently his Dawn wasn’t just the beacon in his darkness. Her light shone brightly on all those she touched.
Chapter Four
“Road trip!” Dawn shouted as she climbed into the car beside Kellen the next morning. She’d been in a great mood since she’d woken to find Kellen watching her sleep as if she were the world’s greatest treasure. And then it occurred to her that they got to spend the entire day alone together, and she doubted anything could knock her out of the clouds and back to earth.
Stifling his yawn with a laugh—Chantel and Jimmy had kept them out late even by rock star standards—he started the car. “We need snacks,” he said.
“And good tunes.”
“I’m not sure our ideas of good tunes are the same.”
So the stuff she listened to wasn’t last decade or even last century. As far as she was concerned, excellent music was timeless.
“What kind of music do you listen to in the car?” she asked.
“Classic rock mostly. And you?”
She lifted an eyebrow at him. “You have to ask?”
“A different type of classic,” he guessed.
“We should share our favorite playlists,” she said. “I can listen to some of your favorites and you can do the same with mine. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun? I’m pretty sure classical music will put me to sleep while I’m driving.”
She slapped at his arm playfully. “It will not. It will stir your soul.”
“And classic rock will stir . . .” He grinned. “Something else.”
“I’m game for all sorts of stirring.”
He laughed and pulled into a gas station that had a convenience store. “Snacks first. Get all your favorites and we’ll share.”
This was fun, she decided as she hunted for pizza-flavored Combos, a corn dog that had been rolling on a heating plate for at least seven or eight days, and her favorite Starbursts. Few knew of her addiction to any of those things. She also got a bottle of cranberry juice and a second of orange juice, and then picked out a travel mug in which to mix the two.
Kellen had already checked out, his food treasures hidden in a concealing bag. She tried blocking her own purchases from his sight so she could surprise him with her finds as well.
When they reached the car, she mixed her orange and cranberry juices and offered him a sip.
“That’s actually really good,” he said.
“And healthier than whatever soda you pulled off the shelf. Wait, let me guess . . .” She closed one eye and assessed him as if reading his mind. “Mountain Dew?”
He pulled out a bottle of peach-flavored sparkling water. “Do not tell the guys I drink this stuff,” he said. “They’ll take my man card.”
She laughed and took a taste. “Not bad,” she said. Not good either, but if she were stranded in a desert, she’d drink it. After she ran out of her own urine maybe.
They laughed when they discovered they’d both bought Starbursts, though he’d gotten original flavors and she favored the tropical ones. He was aghast to find she actually liked the lemon chews.
“Gross. I usually throw the yellows away.”
“Save those for me, then.”
She was nibbling on her corn dog after chomping down half of his taquito as she began to compile her playlist on her phone. She really needed to put some lesser-known compositions on the device. Her digital collection couldn’t compare to her at-home collection in either size or diversity. And as a purist,
she preferred vinyl, but she had yet to ride in a car that boasted a turntable.
“So the trip will take, what, six hours?” she asked, offering him a bite of her dried-out corn dog—just the way she liked them.
“About that long,” he said, making a face of disgust and spitting the corn dog into his hand. He dropped it out the window for crows or seagulls or whatever kind of birds scavenged convenience store parking lots in these parts.
She flicked through her list of songs, the title of each composition making her fingers long for a keyboard as each played through her thoughts. “Some of these symphonies are over an hour long.”
“An hour? For one song?”
When she glanced at Kellen, his mouth was turned down and his nose was crinkled up. Okay, so maybe she should stick to shorter pieces for now. She didn’t want to turn him off her genre by overplaying one composer. When he stuck his tongue out and shuddered, she said, “An hour isn’t that bad.”
“Give me another drink of your juice.”
She handed over her travel mug grudgingly. She didn’t usually have to share. Especially not with someone who drank in enormous gulps. When he handed the mug back, her drink was nearly gone. She scowled at the too-light mug.
“Had to wash the taste of ass out of my mouth,” he said.
“Corn dogs do not taste like ass.”
“You sure about that? I’ll run in and get you another drink,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
He grinned. “But I want more. I’m officially changing my favorite beverage to yours.”
“Glad I have a good influence on you. That sparkling water is nasty.”
“Not as nasty as that dried-out dick on a stick,” he said, opening the door again.
So far, their road trip hadn’t put many miles behind them. Not any.
“Get your playlist ready while I’m inside. I already have a list on my phone that has all of my musical influences.”
“Get me another taquito while you’re in there,” she called after him as he shut the door. He gave her a thumbs-up and hurried inside.
She put a lot of thought into assembling her playlist, selecting pieces that weren’t too long or too slow. Ones she hoped he’d like. It would be nice if more people appreciated classical music. Sometimes she felt that she’d been born about three hundred years too late. But women hadn’t really been big in the music business back then. She’d probably have been burned as a witch or something equally horrific for having fast fingers.
Treasure Me (One Night with Sole Regret Book 10) Page 6
