Chapter Twenty-Five

Jen

 

A free excuse to try a lot of cake is awesome, especially for a pregnant lady. With a pretty small guest list, we ended up choosing a small-diameter three-tier design with a layer of chocolate, a layer of spiced cake that tasted like Christmas, and the top chocolate for us to take home and freeze and eat on our one-year anniversary. I’d always really liked that tradition.

But then, tasting cookies, too? I felt like I needed to eat greens the rest of the day.

Dylan’s sweet tooth was somehow less overloaded even though he ate more than me.

Maybe a symptom of my pregnancy making me more sensitive to my environment.

We grocery shopped for the week after placing the order, including the forgotten milk, and I made a salad for lunch, then dinner with chicken and wilted greens before we left for the venue to meet our wedding singer.

Bob wasn’t there, yet, but Lincoln was.

The new drummer was a definite looker, with nearly-black hair, eyes more green than my hazel, and a bit of a tan. Lean, of course, per his profession, and taller than average. So far, I’d always seen him wearing a vintage biker jacket, and with his hair long enough in front to flop into his eyes, he radiated sexy bad boy. Not my type, but a whole package plenty of women couldn’t resist. I also knew if Bob hired him, he had to have good character, too.

“You stalking this girl, Linc?” Dylan asked. Teasing.

“What? Why? Someone has to introduce you.”

“Bob’s on his way.”

“Is he? Didn’t get the memo.” His head bobbed as he looked this way and that, scanning the room.

We sat at a table reserved under Bob’s name.

He finally arrived, hurrying toward us. “Sorry,” he said, slightly out of breath.

“Bad traffic?” I asked. Odds were good his fiancée made him late.

Bob was always early. When he turned his head, I caught a better view of the lipstick mark on his neck. Bingo. “Dude, you got a little something…” Dylan said.

Bob swiped at his neck with a cocktail napkin. “Why can’t these music nights ever run on time?” he grumbled. “The first set should’ve started five minutes ago.”

“Bar gigs. You’re lucky the sound guy doesn’t make you sound like a cat in heat,” Lincoln replied. “I guarantee the artist is sweating backstage, doing the pee-pee dance while they wait for management to remember they exist and introduce them. Your share of the pie is shitty, but you gotta pay your dues…and the rent.”

“That’s right, you started out with a band doing the bar circuit,” Dylan said.

Lincoln nodded. “Fresh out of high school. Our hands were stamped everywhere we played and a lot of places would only let us come in the rear, perform, then kick us back out again. Minors in the building made them squirrely. But we thought we were hot shit.”

“You weren’t?” I said.

He laughed and shook his head. “No! We did covers because every time we tried an original song, we got booed. Our guitarist was the songwriter, but he only wrote in the keys he could sing in, which was out of the range of our lead. Poor dude tried his best, but he screeched every time on those high notes and never had the performance charisma to make people not care.”

“That’s a mystical thing, man,” Bob said, resting his forearms on the table. “David Lee Roth can’t hit a clean note to save his ass, but he’s such a showman none of his fans complain.”

Lincoln snapped his fingers. “Exactly. Sammy Hagar is a much better vocalist, but say that around the wrong fan and it’s war.”

I looked to Dylan in confusion. “Van Halen,” he said. Oh. I whispered, “Thanks.”

The house music finally shut off and a man in his fifties came to the microphone.

“Is she the first act?” Dylan asked.

“Don’t know,” Bob replied.

The man said a male name, so, nope. We sat through a fifteen-minute set of a guy trying to do spoken-word poetry while plucking on a bass. The only example of that I’d ever enjoyed was performed by Mike Myers in So I Married An Axe Murderer. This wasn’t that.

There was a spatter of polite applause, then the guy left. Lights on the stage went dim. New footsteps, a chair or stool was moved, then the spotlight brightened on the mic.

“That’s her!” Lincoln said in an excited whisper. Oh yeah, totally smitten.

She adjusted the height of the microphone stand, then said, “Good evening, folks, my name is Michaela Simon.” She settled on the stool, tested her guitar, then started singing.

It was a song about lost love that immediately made me wonder who broke this poor girl’s heart and where was he so I could kick him in the balls. So tender, it made me cry, and that wasn’t just the hormones talking. She was so real.

I grabbed Bob’s arm. “Thank you. She’s amazing.”

“Why doesn’t this girl have a deal?” Dylan murmured on the other side of me.

Lincoln wiped his eye when she finished, then brought his fingers to his mouth to release a loud whistle of approval. Even from the back of the room, I saw her blush.

“This next song brings the mood back up a bit,” she said. We got four songs from her fifteen minutes, two of them Christmas songs, one that got the whole bar singing along. “That’s my time. Thank you, everyone. Merry Christmas.” Then the light dimmed and she left the stage.

“I’ll bring her over,” Lincoln said.

Bob grabbed his shoulder and pushed him down on his chair. “I’ll do it.”

Dylan and I snickered. He gave us a dirty look. I mouthed sorry while Dylan laughed.

“Cockblocking is not cool,” he grumbled.

“You don’t have a shot,” Dylan said.

“What?”

“That girl’s too classy for you, dude, come on. She’s not going for the bad boy.”

“Don’t judge Lincoln for how he dresses,” I said.

“Thank you, Jen.”

“But if you want a chance with her, I suggest you start slow,” I added. “That first song she sang came from her heart. She’s not going to be interested in a hit and run.”

Lincoln straightened in his chair. “Good thing that’s not my style.”

He’d spotted Bob and Miss Simon working their way toward us.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a braid and she wore a Christmas sweater and black jeans. Yeah. The girl that didn’t get all slutty to sing at a bar? She definitely was not the one-night-stand with a rock star type. There was a story in her voice and it made me curious.

We stood when they reached the table and Dylan and I shook her hand.

“This is the soon-to-be-Smiths,” Bob said.

“Thank you for hiring me, assuming you still want me at your wedding?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “You’re amazing.”

“Thanks. It’s not my first wedding gig, so I do have a repertoire to offer, unless you’ve chosen something specific?” She sat next to Dylan while Bob reclaimed his chair next to me.

It put her directly across from Lincoln, who was hilariously trying to play it cool. He kept making eye contact with her, then shying away, obviously having a battle within. It was adorable and confirmed he wasn’t merely a hard-on with legs.

“Not yet,” I replied. “I’ve listened to a lot of samples, but nothing’s jumped out at me as the song, yet.”

“Would it help if I gave you a list of love songs I know?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“I think I might still have one in my car.”

We started to stand and Lincoln blurted out. “If no one has to be somewhere right away, how about we order a drink.”

“Maybe another time, man,” Dylan replied. He helped me into my jacket.

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot?” Miss Simon said. “I have to get my guitar from backstage.”

“Sure,” we replied.

We exited out the front and walked around to the back door. She pushed it open, a purse slung crossbody and guitar case in hand, and led us to a ‘90s Honda Accord with fading paint. Her stuff went in the back seat, then she rooted around in a box.

“Here you go.” A two-sided printout. “That’s all my wedding and anniversary titles and my e-mail and phone number are at the bottom.”

I shook her hand again. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re available on short notice.”

She shrugged. “Hard to turn down a gig any time of year.”

“Drive safe,” Dylan said, and we walked away.

He unlocked the passenger door of his truck and helped me in.

“Look at you, already giving the dad advice.”

He chuckled. “This isn’t the best neighborhood. I’d say it to anyone.” He shut the door and hurried around.

“Uh-huh. See how you start feeling after our appointment tomorrow.”