Willis lowered his roughened voice—made gravelly by years of smoking and drinking and laughing too loud—and squinted at me until his pupils were barely visible. “Musicians are like lightbulbs, they burn hot and bright, but can’t be screwed more than once. If you two need to get it out of your system, that’s fine. But you’re a great kid, real goddamn talented, pretty, look good on stage. But Fitzy is also pretty and will be hard to replace—you get my meaning?”
“I think so. You don’t care if Fitzy and I get together, but you don’t want it to impact the dynamic of the band. Right?”
He nodded, looking irritated. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Yes, absolutely. I understand loud and clear. Not dating bandmates is one of my life rules.”
What I didn’t vocalize was that Willis didn’t need to worry. Although Fitzy was super hot, super nice, and super talented, I felt no attraction to him beyond the surface of his skin and the attractiveness of his voice. This was because Fitzy wasn’t very bright.
If he were an actual lightbulb he’d be a twenty watt fluorescent. Hard to look at—because he was so pretty—but too dim to make a noticeable difference in any given room.
Abram the bassist, however, was a completely different story. His face wasn’t classically good-looking—with his long brown hair, hazel eyes, big jaw, and hook nose—nor was he book smart. But he was tall and broad and manly-handsome. As well he was shrewd, and wicked sharp. He had a razor wit and twisted sense of humor.
He also always had one or two women in the audience who waited for him after our sets. It didn’t matter if we played a country club wedding outside New Haven, a dive bar in Queens, or a high-rise in Manhattan. Without fail, he never went home alone. As well, at times his jokes were shaded with bitterness; it was easy to see he was jaded.
I was undoubtedly attracted to Abram—the talented, witty, sexy bassist. But I wasn’t attracted to Abram—the serial dating king of the bitterness squad.
I’d come to the conclusion that intelligence was my catnip, followed closely by charisma. And, thanks to my romantic history, I’d realized that just because a person was intelligent and charismatic didn’t mean they were good for me. The brighter the brain, the greater the gravitational pull, the more wary I was.
Therefore, Fitzy was harmless.
And furthermore, I was careful to stay out of Abram’s orbit.
What I needed was a nice guy who understood my jokes. Someone who was friendly rather than charismatic. Someone who was bright, but wasn’t so brilliant he was blinding.
“Get on your perch, lady bird. It’s almost time.” Willis walked past me to his place behind the drums.
I grabbed my bottle of water and followed Willis to the stage. Avoiding Abram’s level stare, I gave Janet a friendly head nod and waved at Fitzy. He waved back, giving me a big, white, perfect smile.
Tonight we were playing a Christmas party at a New York City location we knew well. It was a converted fire station, now a moderately sized concert venue—very popular spot for weddings and office parties. I liked it because the interior was original red brick with cool Norwegian-looking tapestries lining the walls, likely placed purposefully to help with acoustics.
Also, the stage was set back from the dance floor. Though I’d been playing publicly for several months, being close to or surrounded by the audience still felt overwhelming. I liked being in the back, with the piano between me and the audience.
The set started with the basic cocktail hour fare: heavy on the piano, vocals, and saxophone; light on the drums. We would play five sets, each growing progressively louder and edgier as the older crowd left, leaving the young people who wanted to dance.
Nothing was special about this event. I had no expectations, indications, or signs from above (or below) that this event would be any different from the dozens of other office parties I’d played over the last several months. I was cool. I was collected. I was fine. I was doing my thing and wondering if I still had bacon in the fridge, because I had a severe hankering for a BLT.
Then, amidst my bacon preoccupation, my ponytail holder snapped during the fourth set and the bobby pins I’d placed to fasten my bun were no match for the weight of my hair. I was forced to perform the remainder of the set with curls in my face.
It was irritating and distracting. As well, and inexplicably, the snapped ponytail holder was the catalyst for an intense and abrupt wave of self-consciousness. The sensation started with a nagging tingle on the back of my neck. I ignored it. It persisted.
I lifted my gaze to Abram and found him watching me with a smirk. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to my fingers as they flew over the keys, writing off the tingle as Abram-related. A moment later I glanced back at Abram, feeling irritated I could still feel his stare, but he wasn’t looking at me.
Yet, I felt eyes on me. I felt watched. It was a weight, like a hand, and I couldn’t shake the impression. My heart thudded uncomfortably in my chest as I scanned my bandmates. I found them all focused on their instruments.
I told myself I was being silly, but the feeling persisted. It was unnerving, like walking down a dark hallway and hearing the echo of footsteps.
When the set was finally over, I twisted my hair over my shoulder and out of my face. I glanced at the audience as I stood from the piano, scanning the crowd for the source of my discomfort, half expecting to find nothing.
But I did find something.
I found blue-green eyes on a familiar face, dressed in an immaculately tailored suit, with a tall brunette on his arm, a drink in his hand, and his penetrating gaze firmly anchored to mine.
CHAPTER 1
Resonance Structures
“I’m sorry, Willis. I need a minute…I don’t feel well.” I was sitting on an upturned bucket backstage, my hands on my knees. My voice was weak and I truly, truly did not feel well.
Janet was rubbing my back and Fitzy hovered nearby with a plate of food. Abram was leaning against the far wall, his feet crossed at the ankles, his hands shoved in his pockets as he watched me.
Seeing Martin again—just seeing him across a crowded room—had been so much more flustering and mind-bending than I could have predicted. My thoughts on repeat were:
He’s here.
He’s here with someone.
I kind of still hate him.
But I hope he doesn’t hate me.
I think I’m still infatuated with him…
Surprisingly, the loudest and most pressing thought: He’s seen me naked.
Martin, plus my dad—when I was an infant—were the only two men in the entire world who had seen me naked. Really, only Martin actually counted, because I didn’t have boobs or pubic hair or a girl shape when my dad used to give me raspberries on my tummy. Plus, he was my dad.
Only Martin…
That pressing thought served to confuse me and increase the potency of my awkward feels. Perhaps I needed to fix that. Perhaps I needed to find another guy and show him my girl stuff, widen my audience, so that being in the same room with Martin didn’t turn me into a skeevy, nudity-obsessed wacko.
Perhaps diluting the meaningfulness of intimacy would lessen the impact of his presence. Then I could look at him and think, Hey, you’re one of the guys who has seen me naked. So what? Who hasn’t seen me naked?
“Do you think you can play? It’s just one more set,” Janet asked softly, pulling me from my thoughts. She was a nice girl, very maternal, with a heart entirely too soft. A direct contradiction to the image she projected with her dyed black hair, pale skin, icicle eyes, and copious piercings.
I nodded and closed my eyes. I could play. I would play. I just needed a minute to stop my hands from shaking.
I wondered if there was a broom closet nearby where I could chill out for five minutes. I wouldn’t hide all night, just until it was safe. Maybe Fitzy could join me and I could show him my boobs.
“Jarring, unsettling, startling, alarming, disconcerting, distressing, disquieting.”
A pause followed my mumbling, and then Willis asked, “What are you doing?”
“She’s chanting synonyms.” Abram’s voice carried from across the room. I opened my eyes and met his gaze. He was watching me with interest. “It calms you down, yes?”
I nodded, frowning. He was entirely too shrewd.
Willis grunted. “Well, okay. That’s…as weird as a loan shark with debt. But we got another ten minutes before rodeo time.”
I held Abram’s gaze for a moment longer, then stood—a little wobbly on my feet—and turned to Willis. “I think I’ll take a short walk.”
Fitzy leaned forward and began to volunteer, “I’ll go—”
But Abram lifted his voice and talked over him, “I’ll walk with you. Come on. Let’s go.”
The tall bassist pushed away from the wall and crossed to me, wrapped his hand around my arm just above the elbow, and pulled me out the back door.
“Be back in five minutes!” Willis called after us.
“We’ll be back in seven,” Abram countered, steering me down the alley to the street and away from the stink of the dumpster.
I pulled out of his grip when we reached the sidewalk and folded my arms over my chest, not really feeling the cold of the last November evening because my mind was racing, trying to keep pace with my heart. I was definitely not going to show Abram my boobs. That would be like jumping from the frying pan into the beer batter, then back in the frying pan.