The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2) Page 4

  I polish glasses, head down, trying to feel the energy.

  Random thoughts intrude. I think of Ed, my boss at the Pit, and how he’s always calling Maya inappropriate things “because she gets the joke and thinks it’s funny,” which she absolutely doesn’t. I think of Danny, my boss here, and how he had a hit once upon a time, wondering if all fame is ephemeral — or if a smart artist can find a way to parlay, if they plan well enough. I think of Roxanne and how I’d love to quit and never have to see her again, if I could get enough shifts here.

  Or, no, that’s not right. If I’m dreaming, I need to dream big, in the spirit of this hall’s creative energy. You don’t fantasize about better shifts and tips. If I’m going to dream (or I should think of it as planning, not fantasizing), then I should dream bigger.

  Somehow, I’ll finish writing my first book. After starting that first book, probably.

  I’ll publish it, and it’ll become a hit.

  I’ll write a second. And a third. And they’ll be hits, too.

  I try to lose myself in fantasy, but it feels like dreaming about winning the lottery instead of building a sensible future. Ignoring for a minute that I can’t write anything beyond short stories and poems — and that I agonize over every word, paralyzed by analysis — you can’t make a book a hit. I’d have to get lucky. And that, even here and now, is depressing.

  Within seconds, I’m again thinking of Ed. How he yells at me all day.

  I think of Roxanne, how she thinks she rules the roost.

  I wonder if I should have left home after all. Maybe I should have gone to Princeton. I could have become a lawyer or something similarly respectable, making my family proud rather than looking away like I’m a black sheep — a stupid black sheep. I could have gone through with marrying Brian, too. Sure, he was cheating on me with every girl who drew breath around him. But I could have still married him, become a kept woman, and used that free time and his money to realize my dream. If I got itchy, I could always have had an affair.

  It’s so sad that Brian is the only man I’ve ever slept with.

  That’s enough to snap me out of my perverse anti-ambition. I couldn’t have stayed. I couldn’t have been a cog in a machine. I love my family, but my genes are different from theirs, and these stupid freckles under my concealer are proof. My real dad might have been a talented painter. My real mom might have written plays, or sculpted from clay.

  I shouldn’t settle for Brian, or an ordinary life.

  My mind turns to my customer from early today. That’s the kind of man I should be with. It’s absurd, but this is my fantasy and I’m allowed to believe whatever I want. Sure, I could finish a book rather than stumping and producing nothing whenever I try. I could have a beautiful husband. I could roll over in the morning and instead of seeing Brian’s stupid, stiff-lipped face, I could see the man in the booth’s mysterious eyes, his serious brows, his dark stubble, his sculpted cheekbones and strong chin.

  He’s probably got a great body, so I picture it now. I think back to his forearms, which seemed lean but scrappy — a practical body, not a hulk that’s all show and no go. And because it’s the only memory I have to work with, I imagine him where he sat today, in the back booth, only now with his shirt off. Then I move him mentally to my bed. And I imagine that life, and all that would come with it.

  I’ll bet he’s always as funny as he was today.

  I’ll bet he’s always kind, too. You can tell a lot about a guy by how he treats servers. And I watched, too, to see how he treated Tim, who circulates to refill water and coffee. Because maybe he was just flirting with me and is secretly an asshole … but no, he was friendly and talkative with Tim as well.

  He’s probably an amazing man. Nice to animals and the elderly. Gives to charity. Holds his woman close — and of course he’s available, and interested in me. And rich. If I’m going down this rabbit hole, then I’m going to make him rich, too. He tipped me better than he should have, and this after Roxanne (probably in a display of sour grapes) declared him “definitely cheap.” So yes. He’s rich. And creative. And clever. And charming. And —

  “Abigail.”

  I almost jump. I turn to see Dimebag behind me. I hope he won’t ask me to talk to Danny for him. I have zero pull here, but I’ve already watched Dimebag talk to a few others, and the whole thing seems like a political campaign. He figures if enough people demand that he take the stage and lay some phat rhymes on the crowd, Danny might let him. But I’ve seen Dimebag’s set on many a Tuesday and Thursday, and if Danny keeps him off the stage, it’s because he’s doing the guy a favor. Dimebag would be laughed off at best, chased off at worst.

  “Oh, hey, Will.”

  “Can you make drinks? Or do I have to wait for Terry?”

  I look down the bar. Terry already has a line, and staff rarely tip, so there’s no real motivation to help Dimebag out.

  “I know how to mix rum with ice.”

  “Maybe just a beer then?”

  I turn. There’s a cooler behind me.

  “Corona.”

  I hand Danny the beer, realizing too late that I should pour it into a glass. I don’t mark it down because staff and performers eat and drink for free even if they’re off or not performing. Just one of many reasons Danny is likely to kill his business with kindness.

  “Thanks.”

  Dimebag moves off into the growing crowd. I should get out there, but I’m enjoying the simple, repetitive action of polishing glassware, letting my mind wander wherever it wants to go.

  I try returning to my fantasy of today’s mystery man, but the bubble has popped. Now I can only get a feel for our real-life banter as it actually occurred.

  I wonder if he’ll come back. I didn’t get his name, but I’d be able to spot him from across a busy street. Inferno isn’t huge, so maybe, even if he doesn’t return to the Nosh Pit and sit in my section and ask me to join him before taking my hand and pulling me into a warm embrace … well, maybe I can flag him down. Maybe I can be bold. Maybe, if it turns out he’s not seeing anyone, I can invite him for a cup of coffee. Why not? Mom certainly would.

  Maybe this is a reason to keep my job at the Pit.

  Or maybe, more accurately, it’s a suitable justification for doing so, even though I don’t want to.

  Eventually, Terry breaks my moment and asks me to get back out onto the floor. I spend most of my shift juggling conversation and thoughtful moments alone. Something is definitely happening to me. I can feel it. It must be that creative energy I’ve been wanting. All these wonderful artists. All these singers and musicians, living their dreams while I stifle mine.

  One after another after another. I’m nothing short of inspired. Floating on Cloud Nine, despite some lecherous looks from male customers and a few demands that I bring drinks faster. Nothing can break this mood, it seems.

  There’s a break at 9:30, and someone mentions that the next act is the Overlook’s newest underground sensation, Gavin Adams. As with the kitschy foods and cool chatter I heard about Inferno before moving here, I’ve lately heard a lot about the talents of Mr. Adams. People whisper about him, saying he has a tragic story to match his wonderful soul. I’ve been meaning to get here to see what all the fuss is about, but every other Friday and Saturday night I’ve been working for Ed and fighting Roxanne’s bitchy insults and judgmental stares.

  When the ten o’clock hour comes, a quiet man takes the stage in a simple sweater and an acoustic guitar. The crowd is quiet enough to let his silence feel like a weight.

  He sits in a tall stool and begins to play.

  He’s the same man I served earlier, in my back booth at the Nosh Pit. The man I’ve been daydreaming about ever since, picturing a schoolgirl’s fantasy about seeing him again, somehow, somewhere, and being swept away in his arms.

  CHAPTER 7

  Abigail

  He looks right at me.

  Right at me.

  I couldn’t say why — and I’d never try to expl
ain because I know how it’d make me sound — but his look unhinges something deep within me. My recent thoughts probably make me susceptible because I’d been off in la-la land with this man’s hand in mine, but my heart beats harder the longer the moment lasts.

  It doesn’t last long. It couldn’t even have lasted as long as I’d imagined it did because we’re in a full club, and heads would be turning toward me if the moment was as endless as it feels. The crowd between us — his fans, my customers — has thickened, and I have a lot of work to be doing. But I can’t do anything before our glance shatters.

  His blue eyes below dark brows. The black stubble on his masterpiece of a face. His messy hair, turned deep brown by the overhead light.

  All his attention is on me.

  Heavy.

  Serious.

  Committed and intense.

  Then he’s looking down at his fingers, at his guitar strings.

  He begins to play.

  I’m fixed in place. I can hear someone yelling at me to get back to something, but I can’t. I have to hear this chord progression, then the next. I have to hear if there are lyrics. The melody is familiar — not radio familiar, but maybe locally familiar. Maybe underground familiar. The kind of thing cool friends know. I don’t know why, but I feel like I’ve been here before.

  Like I know this song.

  Like I know the story of this song — and oh yes, there is a story.

  “Abigail.”

  My head flicks toward the voice. I feel strangely embarrassed, as if the speaker has caught me touching myself. I feel my cheeks flush, and I’m glad I’m in a relatively dark room, where my emotions won’t be as obvious as I’m sure they must be.

  What’s wrong with me? Why have I been so fuzzy with thoughts today? I’m normally a feet-on-the-ground sort of girl. I’m well organized. I’m grounded. I do my work and keep my dreams where they belong. But right now, I feel as if I might fall. As if I might float away.

  It’s Danny beside me, wearing his version of reproach. Which is to say that he looks concerned, as if he’s somehow inconvenienced the girl who’s slacking at her job, or as if there’s something wrong with her and he wants to know how he can help.

  “You doing okay?”

  “Oh, sure.” I blink and brush my hands down my front. Danny doesn’t make us wear uniforms, so I’m brushing my own shirt and jeans. It’s a terrible system, because nobody knows who to ask for drinks, and everyone seems gun shy lest they ask another customer to hop-to and grab them a beer. I usually wear an apron just because, but surprise surprise, it seems I’ve forgotten in the hurly-burly of getting my panties wet over tonight’s big act.

  “You were just standing there.”

  I appreciate Danny’s concern, but I wish he’d go away. I can feel Gavin’s soul in the piece he’s playing. It’s trying to take me somewhere else — somewhere desperately sad, where a kind waitress soothes his pain — but I can’t focus with my boss implying I should do my job.

  “I was just listening. He’s so … ” I trail off, but Danny nods.

  “Thought that the first time I heard him play solo. Literally that: ‘He’s so … ’ There’s really no good adjective, but it’s definitely something.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “I can tell you later.” Danny points. “Oh, hey, look. I think those people want your attention.”

  I blink. “I’m sorry.”

  I head away, leaving before Danny can apologize for troubling me. He’s the opposite of Ed. If I insisted on staying right where I was while my customers grew irate and complained, I’m sure he’d let me.

  Enough people walk all over Danny. I refuse to be one, so I drag myself away from the music and toward my table. I let the back of my mind listen — and, because it’s late and no one can see, and frankly because I deserve it — I allow my body’s response.

  I let the fantasy deepen. Now and then, he seems to find me in the crowd and meet my eyes, and it’s like he’s playing only for me. Of course, that’s a lot of the reason for his appeal; as I circulate during the rest of Gavin’s set, I see several other women whose faces seem as smitten as mine. He’s making all of them feel the same way, and all without singing. I’ve heard that Gavin Adams’s set varies. He sometimes plays electric, sometimes acoustic; he sometimes plays solo and sometimes has mild accompaniment; there are songs — newer songs, never the old ones, people say — where lyrics accompany his guitar. But tonight, it’s all instrumental. He has only three tools to enrapture the crowd: his strumming, his voice, and his unflinching gaze. Everyone, it seems, is touched by them all.

  The watching women make me feel jealous. I ask if they want refills when they clearly don’t need them, just to break their concentration. I slip them checks even when I know they’re running a tab. I stand in front of the prettiest girls while waiting on other tables, so they won’t be able to see when he looks at them and he won’t be able to see how brightly their looks outshine mine.

  The set finally ends. There must be another break because some of the crowd moves forward to talk to him. This deeply annoys me; I’d been making my rounds closer and closer to the stage as I sensed the set coming to a close, just so I could waylay him for long enough to exchange a few words — maybe ask him to find me later, when I’m on break or done with my shift, when he has time. I’m usually timid, but he and I had a bond today, and I need my foot in his door. The way these other women are looking at him, they need to see that we have history.

  But I don’t come close to making it. Within seconds, Gavin’s surrounded. The house lights come up, and I watch as the huddle forms right there on the stage. It has the feel of something that happens nightly, and I find myself wondering if this new break, with the house lights up, is deliberate: Gavin will be surrounded by hot chicks no matter what, so we might as well plan for it.

  I wait for Gavin to notice me. I was helping someone at a table, but she’s scampered toward the stage with her perky college girl ass twitching and leaving me momentarily free.

  He did see me, right?

  I’m sure he did. As the set began, he looked right at me. There was a definite moment of surprise, followed by pleased acknowledgment. We shared a few seconds of connection that these other Jenny-come-latelies around him now didn’t. I knew, in that gaze, that he’d been thinking about me like I’d been thinking about him. And I knew, once his set was over, that our time together would continue.

  Or maybe not.

  Because he hasn’t looked up at me once. Not even once since the onslaught of groupies began. He’s completely forgotten I’m here, if he even saw me. Which, as time drains with the lights up, I have to admit he might never have. I was in the light by the bar, yes, but even if he recognized me, who am I to him? Who am I really? I brought him a cheeseburger and left him a check. So what? He must have encounters like that all the time. Just about every dumb little girl who runs into him must fall for those deep-blue eyes, then fawn all over themselves to please him. He probably barely notices it anymore. He probably thinks every guy gets excellent customer service. He probably thinks that every guy gets stuff for free.

  I feel so stupid.

  Here I’d been, feeling like he was playing those songs just for me. Picturing myself on a beach, after sunset, with a fire blazing. The two of us under blankets. His eyes on mine, singing me love songs. Hurting, as I’d felt him hurting onstage. And knowing that because he’d chosen to share with me, I could help him to heal, and make him happy again.

  Jesus. I’m so transparent. I snatch a glass off the table just so I’ll stop looking at The Great Gavin with doe eyes and no one will see how obvious I am. Danny already saw it: the way I was standing slack-jawed, practically drooling, ready to do whatever Gavin might ask of me. What must Danny think? What must any of these people think of me right now?

  I’m not a groupie.

  I’m not that gullible. I don’t believe a man’s words or eyes just because he’s nice to look at. My fiancé, Br
ian, was nice to look at, too, so I’ve been through this. I believed Brian the whole time because he’d take me by the hands, look into my eyes, and tell me I was the only one. Just like Gavin probably does to all the women he surely sleeps with.

  “Excuse me?” says a voice.

  “What?” I snap.

  It’s a customer — the brother, maybe, of the girl who ran off to see Gavin onstage like an idiot lemming. He looks taken aback and says, “Nothing.”

  Obviously, he didn’t want nothing if he called for my attention, but I don’t feel like trying to make amends with my customer like I absolutely should. I ignore him, figuring he’s too timid to complain, and make my way back to the bar with my hands full of glassware that the table’s occupants may or may not have been done with. I slam it down too hard then look self-consciously toward Terry, who doesn’t seem to notice.

  I look toward Gavin from behind the bar. He still hasn’t looked in my direction. He’s surrounded by fans, mostly young women, and he’s wearing a mile-wide smile.

  Oh, I get it.

  It’s all an act.

  He’s not sad at all. All that I heard in his music, it was bullshit. A seduction script, designed to get him maximum ass. And it’s working because all these stupid, whorish women rushed right over, probably popping their tits out so he can sign them like a proper rock star. I can see them now, surrounding his idiotic smiling face, his eyes no longer thoughtful pits but instead giving the wide, pleased look of a man who got just what he wanted … and is about to get even more.

  He won’t look up. Won’t meet my eyes. Probably because he knows I’m not fooled by his act. I can see right through Gavin Adams, phony, sappy, talentless asshole that he is. Wanna-be local celebrity that he isn’t, glad-handing up there among all the girls as if he thinks he’s king shit.

  I want to see if he’ll look, though. Just so I can see how big of a phony he is.