Free Red Hot Blues by Rachel Dunning Page B

up here,
two leads, one vocalist.
    Max says it’s cool. He doesn’t smile or
anything, because he’s always a little stressed out on Open Jam
night. It’s hard to match people up and keep it all rolling on
schedule.
    I call up to Ace with my hand. He looks over
at Max as if for approval, but Max is too busy looking down at the
notepad, organizing the acts that are still coming up.
    Ace gets up, and the roars of the crowd get
even louder. Some of the folks here were also here last week. They
remember us.
    Ace is so tall next to me. So tall!
And hard, and solid.
    I suddenly realize how out of my league I am.
But it doesn’t bother me right now. Right now, nothing bothers me.
Right now, I’m in the moment.
    We hit it.
    And. We. Rock. The. House.
    They ask for an encore.
    And another.
    When we finally walk off stage, people are
clapping and flinging crumpled-up dollar bills our way (again!)
    Max tries to get us all off stage as quickly
as possible. He looks even more stressed out. We’ve delayed the
evening’s schedule.
    Ace and I sit down, next to each other, not
even thinking about it.
    He puts his hand on my leg—
    For a moment everything stops. I have that
very female reaction again, a sting, a burn, a warmth. And there’s
nothing. A sense that I can’t breathe. No sound. Just my breath.
And heat .
    —and then the sound returns to the room and I
see him smiling. People pat his shoulders. A girl screams out,
“Ace, you’re so sexy!” ( Bitch. ) He laughs.
    And then I see the cut, and the bruise, just
under his left eye. I’d been right. I didn’t see it on stage
because I was on the other side of him. It looks fresh, like he got
it tonight, or last night...
    I get worried.
    I see him grimace a little, and the smile
fades eventually.
    I say nothing, but we stay sitting together
there for at least the next set. I offer him a drink but he ends up
paying for it himself, and for mine. He buys me another one.
    As a joke I say, “You trying to get me
drunk?”
    He laughs, and sings, “ Quick. Shot.
Boooooooze. ”
    That just makes me laugh so much my stomach
eventually hurts.
    I accept the drink; we toast. He keeps it
light, keeps laughing, but every now and then I see the light
grimace of pain. I suddenly want to rub away that pain. I want to
put my hand over it and spread salve on it. I want to hold it close
to my bosom and make it all go away.
    I know the feeling of pain. And I know the
need to have someone wash it away.
    I watch the rest of the set, but suddenly I
feel like Ace and I have shared a moment. One where nothing is said
but everything is said.
    Like last week.
    I know, right now, that I’m starting to like
him. I know. I know. It’s dumb. I hardly know him. And maybe it’s
because he’s the only dude who’s ever approached me at this bar
that doesn’t seem to want to get into my pants and who seems
genuinely interested in just hanging out with me. That makes me
comfortable around him.
    But it doesn’t change the facts.
    There are perceptions that go beyond the
eyes, the ears, the nose, touch, taste. There are moments when
things are understood, appreciated, grasped. Without words.
    This is one of those moments.
    And I want to know what’s hurting him.
    It’s an all-engulfing thought right now.
    It’s all I want to know.
-29-
    At the end of the set, he grabs my elbow and
starts getting up. He says, “Come outside with me.”
    His eyes quiver. They shake. There’s an
intensity in the way he asks (commands?) me to do it and I find
myself complying immediately.
    But there’s no fear on my side. Only a
burning to find out what’s behind those eyes tonight. Last week as
well. I knew there’d been something there! This week it’s
more pronounced. Black, hurting eyes. A dark, stormy look.
    And the cut...
    His tee is shorter this time. His arms bulge
snugly under it. And I can make out a little more of the tat. It
seems like the bottom of a shield. And the tip of a sword? A
dress?
    When we get