Rockers After Dark: 6 Book Bundle of Sexy Musicians

by Chase, Deanna

“Good times. Well, I suppose I’ll see you Sunday, then.”

  “Yeah, see you Sunday, Jade.”

  Stuffing my phone into my pocket and feeling a whole lot better after only a short conversation with Shane, I head back out to the bar. The bottle I dropped earlier still needs to be cleaned up, but the bar is empty since the show has started. Going to the storage closet, I grab a dustpan and brush and a mop.

  All the doors to the hall are closed, muffling the sound of the music. But then one of my co-workers slips out and hurries off on some errand; the door catches and doesn’t shut properly, so now I can hear the music full throttle.

  Paul Dukas’s “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” streams out, and my heart lifts. Leaving the cleaning for a moment, I close my eyes and listen.

  Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum dee dum…

  Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum dee dum…

  And then comes what I like to call the big extravaganza, that part of a piece where the whole orchestra comes alive and the power of the music feels like it could knock you off your feet. The music goes quiet again, building, building…

  The roll of industrial paper towels on the counter starts to twirl, unwrapping in a long train of blue. It sails to the liquid on the floor, soaking up the spillage, then balls itself up and shoots into the bin. The dustpan I’ve left by the bar moves the tiniest bit. And again. I smile. Both dustpan and brush rise into the air and shuffle toward the broken glass. Sweep, sweep, sweep, empty. Sweep, sweep, sweep, empty.

  Now the mop comes to life from its spot resting against the bar. It shimmies to the site of the accident and twirls in a dance as it cleans away the sticky spot of beer left over. Soon the floor is shiny and clean again.

  “Jade, you can go on your break now,” says my floor manager Ciaran as he approaches the bar.

  “Thanks, Ciaran,” I say, pulling off my half apron and grinning like I know a secret. All the bad feelings from Jason’s unexpected appearance are gone completely.

  I love music. And I love my brain.

  Chapter Twelve

  My Sunday morning Tai Chi class feels like it’s heaven sent. All the stress of a long working week floats out of my body on a sea of calm. I go for coffee with two of the women from the class afterward, and then I head home to throw together a family dinner.

  We don’t always get to eat together, but I try to at least have everyone at the table on a Sunday. I spoke to Pete last night about letting Shane teach him some music stuff, but he adamantly refused to do it. I’ll keep working on him, though. I’m not going to force him, but he could agree to it eventually.

  Evening arrives, and I dress up nicely in a calf-length swishy silver skirt and a cream knitted top. I leave my hair down and put on some natural-look makeup. I know that tonight with Shane isn’t a date, but still, I like to make an effort.

  When I reach the place I told him to meet me at, I see Shane standing by the steps that lead to the front door. He’s tapping on his phone, so he hasn’t noticed me approaching yet. I take the opportunity to study him dressed uncharacteristically casual in denim jeans, a dark grey T-shirt, and a black jacket. He looks good. I mean, really good, so good my breath catches a little.

  Deviously, I sneak up behind him, whispering, “Boo!” into his ear. He jumps, and I break out into riotous laughter before giving him a friendly hug hello. What sounds like the loud yet melodic bang of a cymbal echoes from the house, and you can hear the people boisterously chatting inside even though the door is shut tight. It’s a brown door on a three-storey Georgian building with a red and black ladybird painted on it.

  I lead Shane to the door as he murmurs something about me looking beautiful. He says it so quietly, though, that it’s easy enough for me to pretend I didn’t hear. Taking the knocker into my hand, I bang it once, then three times, then five times fast. A minute later it swings open, and I’m greeted by Mary, a long-haired brunette in her fifties, the resident hostess.

  “Jade! We haven’t seen you in a while. Come in, come in,” she says, welcoming me into the packed hallway. Sitting on each step of the staircase are the members of a folk band playing a dreamy version of “Just like Tom Thumb’s Blues” by Bob Dylan. A bunch of people stand in the hall, holding drinks and swaying to the music.

  “I’ve been busy with the family,” I say to Mary. “This is my friend, Shane. It’s his first time here.”

  Mary’s eyes light up as she smiles and shakes Shane’s hand. “Wonderful! Welcome to Ladybirds, Shane. I hope you enjoy yourself.” And with that she saunters off to take care of other guests.

  “What is this place?” Shane asks excitedly, keeping close to my side as I lead him out to the back garden.

  “Hmm, do you want the straightforward answer or the urban legend?” I reply.

  “Both, I guess.”

  We reach the garden, which is lit up with glowing white fairy lights and Chinese lanterns. There are people all around chatting and drinking, and on the grass a woman is standing on some plastic sheeting while a guy paints her entire naked body in silver and gold. Shane raises an eyebrow and suppresses what I’m thinking is an embarrassed grin. We sit down on a bench to talk.

  “Well, the straight answer is that it’s an artist’s club. It’s open to all, and you can use the rooms for practice space. On the weekends they throw big shindigs like this one. The urban legend says that the house was bought by a homeless street performer in the late eighties. A guy named Bob Farrell who used to sit on O’Connell Street with his dog and play guitar for passers-by. One day after finishing up, he looked in his hat to find the usual bits of change, but there was also a crumpled piece of paper that turned out to be a lottery ticket. Can you see where I’m going with this?”

  Shane’s golden-brown eyes dance in the darkening light. “Sort of.”

  “So Bob goes to check the numbers, and lo and behold, he’s won the jackpot. Keep in mind this was the late eighties and the jackpot was probably only a couple hundred thousand at the time. Still, he managed to afford to buy this house smack dab in the middle of the city and opened it up to his fellow struggling artists. When he came to view it for the first time, he found two little ladybirds on the windowsill in a room on the second floor. From there on out he christened the place ‘Ladybirds,’ and it’s been a haven for art ever since.”

  “That’s some story. Where’s Bob now?”

  “He’s still here. He lives upstairs, but he’s pretty old, so you don’t see him around all that much. Sometimes, though, he’ll make an appearance and play a few songs on his guitar.”

  “Is he any good?”

  I nod, remembering the first time I’d heard him sing and how it gave me goose bumps all over. “He’s got one of those Tom Waits character voices. Sometimes an out-of-key singing voice feels more real to me than a perfect one, especially if the emotions are raw.”

  “I’d love to meet him sometime. What he’s done here is amazing.”

  “You haven’t even seen half the inside yet. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  I take his hand in mine, tingles shooting through my skin with the contact as I feel his trademark hardened fingertips. Musician’s fingers. They’re not callused, but they’re slightly leathery from the friction of constantly pressing on strings.

  I lead him upstairs to the first floor, where there’s a big open room. Every year Bob hires someone to paint it entirely white, making it a new canvas, and encourages guests to paint pictures on the walls. Since it’s late in the year, there’s not much white left now. The room is a riot of colour; some parts of the walls look like they were done by master painters, while others are more amateurish. I glance to the spot over one of the windows where I painted a blue sparrow flapping its wings as though trying to break free of its two-dimensional concrete prison and fly out into the sky.

  I know, sparrows again.

  Everybody’s got a theme, I guess,
and those birds are mine.

  Shane walks into the room, running his hand over the gigantic mural of a woman’s face, tears streaming down from her sad, dark eyes. Then he glances up. A couple of months ago a group got together to paint the ceiling indigo and glue scrunched-up pieces of tin foil to the plaster to look like stars. They twinkle and shimmer against the lights, giving off a magical effect.

  “This place must be the best-kept secret in Dublin,” he says, coming to stand in front of me.

  “Yep,” I reply, tapping the side of my nose conspiratorially. “You’ve got to know the right people to get in. Luckily, you met me.”

  He breathes out slowly. “That was lucky.”

  We eye each other for a long minute before Ben’s recognisable voice calls, “Jade, Shane, over here.”

  Shaking myself out of the tension, I turn and put on a smile for my friend. Ben and Clark are sitting on a red heart-shaped love seat in the corner. I hadn’t known they were coming tonight, but I’ll admit I’m relieved they’re here.

  Whenever Shane and I are alone together, there’s this palpable tension, like I’m constantly aware of how much distance there is between us and how easy it would be to close it. That brief chance I got to feel his skin the first night we met wasn’t nearly enough, and so even though my brain knows it’s not a good idea to give in, my hormones are raging for me to fail.

  “Shauna’s dance group is starting in a minute,” says Ben excitedly. “Come and sit.”

  Shauna is a friend of Ben’s who teaches interpretive dance classes. Most people roll their eyes at me when I mention the words “interpretive” and “dance” in the same sentence, but this group is really good. It’s not all prancing around. I mean, some of the stuff they can do with their bodies is just incredible.

  The room is packed with people, so aside from the space that’s been cleared for the performance area, there aren’t too many places to sit. Shane tugs on my hand just as the lights are dimmed and the music starts up. Before I can react, he’s pulling me to sit between his legs, my back against his chest, while he leans against the edge of the love seat Ben and Clark are perched on.

  For a moment I fumble, unsure of what to do with my hands. In the end I just rest them in my lap, since that feels like the safer option rather than putting them on Shane’s thighs. Unfortunately, I’m not out of the woods yet, as his arms come casually around my waist and I think I stop breathing for a second.

  His mouth is close to my ear when he bends forward and asks, “Is this okay?”

  I catch Ben’s eye as he watches us with a pleased expression. I don’t want to make a big deal of it, so I simply nod and focus my attention on the dancers. There are six of them in all, and they’ve formed a crouched circle in the centre of the floor. A soft, piano-based instrumental song plays as they slowly rise to stand, then begin twirling in practiced patterns. They’re all dressed in white and remind me of a cloud floating gently across the sky.

  Shane’s hand moves along the cushioned part of my stomach ever so slightly, and if I weren’t so aware of him, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it. He stops for a moment, then moves again. I wonder if he’s aware of how much he’s turning me on. Just the barest brushing of his thumb over the fabric of my top seems to have the ability to completely unravel me.

  I let my body relax deeper into his. I’d been holding myself up a little, wary of getting too close. But now I can’t resist feeling his hard chest press into me. I close my eyes for a second, and I can feel every ridge of muscle. His arms around my waist tighten, and a whoosh of breath leaves me. I turn my head a fraction, and his mouth is right there, hanging slightly open.

  Making the mistake of looking up into his eyes, all I see in them is want. They’ve grown hot and needy from just a minute or two of having me close to him. Christ, is a platonic friendship even possible for us? I feel like the only way I won’t find him attractive is if I go to hypnotherapy or something.

  Which, by the way, doesn’t work. I tried it when I was weaning myself off alcohol. The guy told me I didn’t have a suggestible enough mind, whatever that means. I think he might have been a bit of a charlatan. And there’s a hundred euros I’m never going to see again.

  The dance comes to a close, and the assembled audience claps. Then the group gets into formation for the next routine. This one is completely different from the first; the music is edgy, with drums and electric guitar, and the dance is fast-paced. The lights that have been set up are flashing all different colours. In other words, all of the attention is on the performers, and it feels like I’m in my own private little world with Shane.

  His face moves to my hair as he sucks in a deep breath, scenting me. My hands, which had been resting idly on my lap, go to his thighs, holding on rigidly as though begging him to stop.

  “Shane,” I whisper, but I can’t tell if he hears me over the loud music.

  His hand keeps stroking my belly, bringing all sorts of sensations to life between my legs. I’m aching for him, and when I adjust my body on the hard wooden floor, I feel the stirrings of his erection nudge against my lower back.

  Why is he doing this?

  “I can’t help it,” he breathes into my ear, and I realise I asked the question out loud.

  “Stop.”

  His hand stills, and his arm around my waist loosens. He doesn’t say anything, but at least he’s done as I asked him to. A couple of minutes later the lights come back on, and the performance is over. I practically leap to my feet, mumbling about needing to use the bathroom, and then I hurry from the room, leaving Shane with Ben and Clark.

  There’s a small bathroom just down the hall, and it’s mercifully unoccupied as I step inside and close the door tight behind me. Walking to the sink, I turn on the tap and splash some water on my face, hoping to cool the redness of my cheeks. What just happened in there with Shane was too much, provoked too many sensations.

  What the fuck do I think I’m doing, being friends with him?

  Playing with fire, that’s what I’m doing. But the pain of cutting him out of my life would be worse than the agony I go through when I’m with him, the willpower I have to expend in order to keep things in neutral. It’s not my fault he has this subtle way of pushing things into high gear.

  When I return from the bathroom, I find Shane still with Ben and Clark, but they’re talking to a thin blond guy I’ve seen around before but have never met. He’s wearing a long white shirt, open to display his pale, scrawny chest. His hair is long and hangs down below his shoulders. On his chest somebody has scrawled the word “Happy,” which immediately informs me he’s something of a character.

  Perhaps he used a mirror and wrote it on himself.

  “This is Keith,” says Ben, introducing us. “He wants to know if we’ll take part in his interactive art installation.”

  “Ah,” I reply, folding my arms and going to stand by Shane. “And what does it entail?”

  I can’t hide the sceptical note in my voice. An interactive art installation usually equals embarrassment in some form or another. It could be anything from sitting on a stack of mattresses while people throw basketballs over your head to stripping naked and frolicking about like a nudist on a tropical beach while a choir sings the lyrics to “Over the Rainbow.”

  Not that I’ve done either of those things. Ahem.

  Keith starts to explain excitedly. “You partner up with someone, but it has to be someone you know personally, and you use a non-permanent marker to draw the first words that come into your head when you look at different parts of their body on that particular body part. I call it ‘Words and Skins.’ There’ll be a small audience watching. It’s all about opening up and losing your inhibitions.”

  Christ, I knew it was going to involve nudity. Didn’t I just say it was going to involve getting naked? Sometimes I think these “installation artists” are simply perverts w
ho spend their time coming up with ways to see a few tits and arses.

  “So we have to strip for this?” I question, my cynical eyebrow almost hitting the ceiling.

  “Just down to bras and knicks,” Ben puts in with a cheeky wink.

  “Bras and knicks, you say? In that case, I hope you wore your good ones tonight. Otherwise your date might be unimpressed,” I quip, nodding to Clark.

  “Actually, I went shopping in Ann Summers this week. The word ‘crotchless’ was involved,” Ben shoots back.

  I nearly choke on my laughter when he says it, which puts me in a good enough mood to turn to Keith with a grin and reply, “Okay, I’m in. How about everyone else?” Then, turning back to Ben, “Also, Ann Summers? You classless swine. Get thee to Brown Thomas the next time, or I’ll refuse to have any further associations with you!”

  Ben looks to Clark, who’s sputtering a laugh.

  “Have you been teaching her how to speak like a dandy again?” he asks him, hands on hips.

  “I might have been,” Clark manages to get out past his laughter.

  Ten minutes later, we’re in a different room to the rear of the building. There’s a large stage set up, and about twenty people are sitting on bean bags on the floor. The audience, I presume. I watch Shane as he chews on his lip, and I place a hand lightly on his arm.

  “Nervous?” I ask with a touch of a smile.

  “I have no idea how I managed to be talked into this,” he replies, letting out a quick breath.

  “It was probably the prospect of seeing Ben in his crotchless lingerie that got you going,” I joke, and he gives me a little amused scowl.

  “But seriously, you can back out. This night is supposed to be fun. However, I will remind you that you wanted me to teach you how to live, and this, my friend, is living,” I say, gesturing around the room.

  He gives me a confused look. “Stripping off in front of a bunch of strangers and baring your feelings is living?”

  “It’s all about throwing away your inhibitions and putting your trust in other human beings. Believe me, letting this bunch see me in my unmentionables isn’t something I’m comfortable with, but I want to push my boundaries, see how fearless I can be.”