“This is…” Sarah scratched the back of her head. “This is not what I expected.”
Colt smiled proudly. “I know.” He gestured for her to enter the dive bar with no name, no signage, that was painted black inside—walls, floor, ceiling—and reeked of decade-old cigarettes.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” she asked. “Because I’ve reached my lifetime quota for getting shot.”
“Safest place in LA.”
“If you say so.” But the goose bumps on her skin told her this was the sort of establishment one went to find hookers and hookahs.
She popped her head through the saloon-style doors and took another peek. Artsy-looking people—multicolored hair, tats, nose rings, and cowboy hats—crowded around small tables, drinking beer, laughing, or engaged with their smart phones. Framed posters of the Ramones, Killers, and the Stones covered the walls. More musician-slash-Bohemian types crowded along the long bar opposite a small stage with one lonely spotlight, a wobbly-looking barstool, and a mic.
“What is this place?” Sarah stepped all the way inside, following Colt.
“My home away from home. It’s where I was discovered.” He pointed to an empty round table, a tall one with no chairs in the corner. “Let’s get you a real drink.”
As they walked over, the bartender—a young woman with black hair, black lipstick and tats on her neck—jerked her head at Colt in salutation.
“So they know you here.” Sarah put her small purse on top of the table and continued taking in the room. A giant whiteboard behind the bar had names of people, what they did—singer, guitar, drums, etc.—and the date of their “fuck-yeahs.” Sarah assumed they used it to keep score of their patrons who’d “made it” because she spotted Colt’s name right in the middle. On another wall, flyers for upcoming gigs and want ads for musicians covered a giant corkboard.
This is a rock star incubator.
“I was discovered here on open mic night,” Colt elaborated. “After I landed a record deal, I came every week to try out new material. It’s also a cool place to hear new sounds and listen to fresh voices.”
“Don’t they bother you?”
“I’m just another musician. No better or worse than anyone else who loves music.”
“Hey, you. Long time no see.” A waitress with spiked blue hair came over and plunked down two pint glasses filled with fizzing, chocolatey brown syrup.
“Thanks, Darla.” Colt went for his wallet and threw a hundred down on her tray. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, Colt! Hey—when do we get to hear some new stuff?”
“Soon. Real soon. What about you? Anything new going on?” he asked.
“Just my broken heart. Our singer left us for another band. Rap. Can you believe that shit?”
Colt crinkled his handsome face. “No. Buddy could barely form a sentence.”
“Exactly. And now he thinks he can rap? Idiot.” Darla shrugged. “His loss. We just put out a single, and it’s in the top one hundred on iTunes.”
“Nice. I’ll buy a copy.”
“Thanks, babe.” She turned away and started taking orders at another table.
Colt grabbed his glass and lifted it for a toast. “Well, Sarah, here’s to you and having fun.”
She raised her cold pint and sipped. It tasted spicy and sweet, but had a thick rich texture. “What is this?”
“Their famous chocolate stout. Can’t buy it anywhere but here—they microbrew in the basement.”
“It tastes fattening. I think it’s my favorite new drink.”
Colt licked some foam off his sexy plump lips, and she couldn’t help staring. And feeling jealous of his tongue. God, she so wanted to kiss him again.
“So…this is where it all started, huh?” she asked, trying to take her mind off his lips. And dry humping him. Okay, just humping him.
“Yeah. Me and a couple hundred other musicians. You know the guitarist for the Holly Hops?”
“They’re awesome.” They sounded like Pink, only they were a band, not a singer.
“The guitarist got her start here. On any given night, you can find either a famous musician in the making or one who’s already made it.”
Sarah beamed at him. “Tonight, that person is you.” She lifted her glass and tapped it against his. “It’s an honor, Colt.” He’d let her inside his private world and allowed her a glimpse of the real him. Not that she hadn’t seen pieces already, but music was his life. This was special.
“I’m glad you consider this fun.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked.
“There are no adoring masses or DJs.”
Music did play in the background, but it came from a jukebox in the corner. “Such a shame. I wish someone here could play real live music.” She’d totally said that hoping she might urge him to take the stage. Of course, given his lack of musicality lately, she shouldn’t hold her breath.
He leaned in. “I could be persuaded.”
“Really?” She clapped.
“For a price.” He smiled mischievously.
She loved the sound of that. “Name it.” And please tell me it involves tongue?
“You have to sing with me.”
“Here? With all of these musicians? Uh-uh. No way.”
Colt wiggled a brow. “That’s my price. Take it or leave it.”
“Leavin’ it.” She looked away, biting the insides of her cheeks.
“All right. You give me no choice. I’ll have to sing the Sarah song.”
Ohgod. “You wouldn’t.”
“But I would. And all of these very nice people will know it’s about you. You and your gun. And your nakedness.” He chuckled.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll sing a song with you, but it’s your ass since you know I can’t sing.”
“You have charisma. That’s more important than talent.”
Colt grabbed her hand. “Come on.”
Colt knew that Sarah sounded like a drowning cat when she sang, but this place brought back some of his happiest memories. And after living through the worst year of his life, maybe he needed to have a little fun, too. So, for purely selfish reasons, he wanted to make one more happy memory. With her.
He passed by the bar and asked Jor, the bartender, for the guitar they used on open mic night when employees wanted to play or warm up the crowd. He then grabbed Sarah’s clammy hand and led her toward the tiny stage. There were only about sixty people tonight—not the usual standing room only—but Sarah had stage fright written all over her pale face. She looked like she wanted to yack.
Awww…how cute. My little wild woman is frightened for once. He loved it.
They marched up the small flight of steps and stood side by side. Colt gave the mic a tap to get everyone’s attention.
“Hey, guys. Excuse me for interrupting your night of chilling out, but I’ve brought a very special guest tonight.” He looked at Sarah. Those pouty lips. Those big blue eyes. That sweet oval face. She looked absolutely adorable when she felt vulnerable. But if he’d learned one thing about Sarah over these past weeks: she rallied in the face of fear. She’d rescued him from public humiliation at the Wade Charity Ball, she’d faced Mary the shooter, and she’d turned her current legal issues into an opportunity to explore a neglected corner of her soul. Even at the party they’d just been to, Sarah took one look at the A-list crowd and said, “Fuck it! I wanna dance!” when most people would be crapping themselves.
But that was the secret sauce that made Sarah special. Resilience. Bravery. Passion. She refused to let fear control her.
“Everyone give it up for Judge Alma.” Colt threw his hands in the air and prompted a round of applause. “This woman changed my life, and because of it, she’s facing ten years in prison.”
Sarah frowned and her lips formed a flat line. The people in the room booed and made thumbs-downs, which made her smile again.
“I know. Fucking tragedy,” said Colt. “But we’re all going to show Sarah a great time tonight. Tonight, she’s my wing-woman. And she’s going to help me sing my new song.”
The audience applauded, and Sarah’s smile stretched from ear to ear.
There we go. Nothing in this world compared to her smile.
Colt took a seat on the barstool in front of the mic, placed the guitar across his lap, and began to strum. The vibration of the strings and the music humming through his hands felt like home. Having Sarah at his side only made it sweeter.
She’s so real. So beautiful. So hot.
“Okay, Sexy Sarah.” He cracked a smile and looked at her. “When I point to you, you’re going to sing the words ‘So hard. It’s sooo hard.’ Got it?”
Her eyes dropped to his cock. “What? Uh-uh. I’m not going to sing about that.”
Colt looked at the audience for support. “I think she needs some encouragement, guys!” He began to chant, “Sexy Sarah. Sexy Sarah,” and they followed along.
Sarah stood her ground for ten entire seconds before giving in. “Fine!” She held her hands in the air. “So hard! It’s sooo hard!”
The audience cheered.
Colt gave her a nod, acknowledging his triumph.
“Come on, bad boy, let’s get this over with.” She shook her head.
“As you wish, Your Honor.” Colt began strumming an upbeat tempo, trying his best not to crack up. But the expression on Sarah’s face was priceless—grinning, pissed, and embarrassed all at once. But she still stood there, ready to do this.
Colt took a deep breath and began to sing:
She comes into your life, slicing through the darkness
Wanting everything, but asking for nothing
You give until it hurts, and it’s never enough
You bleed for your love, and breathe for your…life
Colt picked up the tempo for the chorus:
She’s dangerous, she’s wicked, she’s sin in leather pants.
She’s quicksand of the heart.
He pointed to Sarah, whose frown reminded him of a mother who didn’t approve of something.
With one hand on her jutting hip, she rolled her eyes and leaned toward the mic. “It’s hard. It’s soo hard,” she said blandly.
The crowd booed, and Sarah laughed playfully. “What? This song totally sucks.”
They booed her again.
“Traitors.” She stuck her tongue out at everyone.
Colt laughed and continued:
She steps out of your world, leaving nothing but wreckage
Everything you wanted, has no meaning
You bleed until it hurts, and it’s never enough
You need her love, and breathe for your…life
She’s dangerous, she’s wicked, she’s sin in leather pants.
She’s quicksand of the heart.
Colt pointed at Sarah once again. This time she leaned in and sang, “It’s hard. It’s sooo hard.” Her singing voice sounded like a bird with its feet stuck in a blender.
The crowd laughed and booed simultaneously.
Sarah threw out her arms. “Oh, come on! That was great. You guys are the worst.”
Colt almost couldn’t finish the song. Sarah’s little banter with the audience was too damned funny. They loved her. And she clearly didn’t give a shit about looking like a goofball on stage.
Colt sang the last few verses of the song, and at the end, the room chanted, “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!”
She bowed. “Yes. You’re all welcome. Please be sure to pick up a copy of my CD on the way out. And someone bring me more tequila!”
Sarah never ceased to surprise him, and he loved it.
“Okay, everyone,” he said into the mic, “who’s ready for one more?”
Cheers erupted, and Sarah shook her head as if to say, “I don’t know why I put up with this humiliation.”
But little did she know, he hadn’t played for a real audience in over a year. No, these weren’t his old songs, but to him it didn’t matter. He loved music, and getting this piece of himself back meant everything. It felt like having his soul returned. And I have Sarah to thank. He didn’t know how she’d done it; he only knew that she connected with the part of him he’d lost. She was better than any therapy.
Shit. What am I going to do without her? He realized he’d been afraid of getting too attached and losing her, as Sarah pointed out might happen. But now, standing next to her, feeling the warmth in his heart made him realize he was already a lost cause.
I can’t lose her. I can’t. He understood that she didn’t want his help and felt that his intervening in any way would make things worse, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t consult his own lawyers. Yes, Mike was now in jail—where he fucking belonged—but Colt didn’t have the luxury to take a breather. He’d had to retain another firm given the complications of canceling his tour.
I’m going to save you, Sarah, he thought to himself, staring at her beautiful face as she laughed and started trading stupid insults with some guy in the audience.
“You wanna come up here and sing ‘it’s so hard,’ tough guy?” she said.
Colt’s skin tingled, and his heart accelerated. Being ridiculed didn’t scare her. Going after what she wanted didn’t scare her. Her strength came from deep inside and fueled her.
Maybe that was why he felt so attracted to her. He’d had to work hard at being who he was, including his ability to stand on stage and be subjected to the opinion of millions of people. It didn’t come naturally for a man like him, who needed to be in touch with his heart to do what he did. Yet he had to remain strong enough to share his art with the world. It was a strange line to walk.
But Sarah. Sarah. Her conviction came naturally.
Well, I can’t wait to see how she deals with this. It was the song he’d written this morning while he’d been in his car on the phone with her. He didn’t know what it meant—not really—but it had come from his heart, which generally proved smarter than he was.
Colt spoke into the mic. “Okay, everyone.” He strummed his guitar to get their attention and break up the banter. “This next song is written for you, Sarah. It’s called Why I Love Her.” Colt watched Sarah’s face transition from smiling to confused. “Don’t worry; you don’t have to sing. Just listen.”
Sarah’s face turned pale again and she ran.
The room fell into a deathlike silence.
“Well, that was awkward,” said Colt.