To the Gentleman in the Back
Alicia Blade
Chapter Eleven: Friday Night Part II
In Which Sparks Fly
"What's the big idea?" Serena said, struggling against Darien's hold.
"Why are you avoiding me?"
She glared up at him, steeling herself against a wave of blushing and stammering. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a very busy girl and there's a lot of drama going on right now. I'm sorry if I can't be around to swoon over your every move, but you know what? The world does not revolve around you."
His head tilted, ebony bangs falling haphazardly over his forehead. "Had you been rehearsing that little speech?"
Adding a little extra ice to her glare, Serena tried to shove her way past him, but he didn't budge. She looked at Mina with panic, but Mina only smiled as if she thought the action was adorable.
"Well there you are! My goodness, Miss Serena, I have been looking for you all evening."
Relief washed over her when she saw Daniel's father, Arthur, come bustling toward them with a martini clasped in his fingers. "I didn't think it would be so easy to elude an old man in a building that is hardly 1500 square feet, but you've proven me wrong."
Blushing, Serena pried herself from Darien's arms. He seemed unhappy to release her, but release her he did.
Straightening her dress, Serena beamed at Arthur. "I've just been busy busy busy."
"I can see that." He winked slyly at Darien, making Serena's blood boil. Refocusing on her, Arthur said, "I only wanted to congratulate on a job well done. It's been a splendid party, everything an exhibition opening should be. None of that stuffiness that always takes over the museum parties."
"I heard that, Arthur."
Glancing over Arthur's shoulder, Serena noticed a man she did not recognize—he was middle-aged but, judging from a shaved head and black goatee, she imagined he had no idea he was getting up there in years.
"Well, it's true," said Arthur. "Even you would have to concur that everything about this night—the food, the music, everything has been exceptional, and for it all to be pulled together in under a week! I am in awe."
"Under a week?" the man said, gaping at Serena in a manner that made her fidget. "You must do this sort of thing for a living."
Serena teetered from foot to foot and tried to look modest. "Not exactly. I mean, my degree was in public relations, but… I haven't had much luck in, you know… the whole job search… thing."
Arthur's eyebrows shot into his gray hairline. Leaning back on his heels, he cast a curious look at the stranger. "Well! Might I introduce you to my old colleague, Mr. Matthew Jacobsen. He's the public relations coordinator for the Met."
"It does sound stuffy when you say it that way, doesn't it?" Mr. Jacobsen said, turning his grin on Serena. "Are you interested in art?"
Before Serena could form a response, Mr. Jacobsen passed over the question with a flick of his wrist. "But of course you must be, having put all this together. You are a colleague of Miss Hino, I presume?"
"We've been best friends since we were kids."
"Is that so? And her passion's rubbed off on you?"
Serena stuttered. "Well… I can't say that I know half as much about art as Raye does, but... I mean… it was a lot of fun planning this party for her."
Nodding, Mr. Jacobsen pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Serena. "Won't you give me a call this week, if you're interested in planning more such parties?" His grin was teasing, as if he knew that such an offer would be impossible for anyone to pass up. "We're always looking for new talent at the museum."
"I'm definitely interested," Serena said, clutching the card with both hands. "Thank you."
"I look forward to hearing from you." He turned to Arthur with a nod. "And with that, I think I'm heading out for the evening."
"Getting too old for the night life?" Arthur joked, and followed him toward the exit, leaving Serena to stare at the business card.
"That was lucky," said Darien. "I've never known anyone to just stumble into things like you do."
Serena smirked and tucked the card into her bodice. "Luck had nothing to do with it. They could clearly see what an asset I would be for any public relations position. Great parties like this don't just happen, you know."
Darien chuckled. "Right. And the 1000 dollar anonymous donation was fortuitous too, wasn't it?"
Serena locked her jaw in a cold grin. "You're right, Darien. I couldn't have done this without you. If you'll excuse me, I should go—"
He gripped her arm. "Not so fast. We are not finished."
"Yes. We are."
"No," he said, dragging her toward the door. "We're not."
"Darien, what are you doing? Don't you realize it's thirty degrees out here?"
"I don't want you making a scene at Raye's party."
"I have nothing to say to you. I do not want to talk to you, or see you, or be in the same room with you ever again, so just leave me alone!"
Ignoring her pleas, Darien didn't release Serena's arm until he'd pulled her into the alley tucked between the gallery and the next-door bakery. The lingering scent of freshly baked breads and pastries stained the air.
"Serena, what is going on with you?" Darien said when he finally released her. She darted a few steps away from him and set to soothing the material of her dress, avoiding eye contact.
"There's nothing going on with me. You're the one acting all crazed and attention-starved."
"Is it really so crazy to expect a little acknowledgment, even a 'hello,' a 'how are you doing,' a 'I had a great time last night'?"
Serena sniffed and crossed her arms.
"After what happened last night, I thought—"
"You thought what?" she snapped. "That a couple of kisses were going to make me forget what a total jerk you are and just come swooning at your feet every time I see you?"
"A couple—?" He growled. "I'll show you a couple kisses."
"I'd rather you didn't," she said, taking a step back and holding up her hands as if to guard herself.
"Why?" Darien smirked and inched toward her, pushing her farther into the shadowed alley. "Afraid you might like it? Because you sure weren't putting up any protests last night."
"You are so full of yourself. For the record, I am so over last night. If you ask me, it didn't even happen. You're not even that great of a kisser."
Darien barked a laugh. "Oh really?"
"Really. I know you think you're some kind of god's gift to women, and I hate to break it to you, but—"
Swooping forward, Darien grasped her hips and cut her off with a forceful kiss. Her muffled words turned into a frustrated scream as she pushed him away.
"Not a great kisser, huh?"
"No! That was terrible! Your kisses are… are slobbery and you taste like those tuna things Lita was serving."
Darien started laughing and Serena had to bite her tongue to withhold her own laughter—a little impressed with her own quick-witticism. Regaining composure, she pulled on the hem of her dress and again folded her arms, trying not to shiver from the cold.
"Look, I am not going to play these games with you," she continued. "I'm tired of being your easy target."
"My easy target?"
He sounded incredulous, which Serena used to fuel her fire. "Yes. First you think you can tease me mercilessly for three years—"
Darien groaned. "Aren't we past that yet?"
"And now, you think you can just waltz back into my life and wave your checkbook around and expect me to become another one of your groupies. But it's not going to happen. You can't buy me, Darien. Because I see right through you and I know that no matter what anyone else thinks, you're just a cruel, cold-hearted… mean… jerk."
Furrowing his brow, Darien slowly shook his head. "Don't tell me this is about the money."
She opened her mouth, hesitated, and then said, "No. This is about you thinking you can get anything you want without having to put any effort into it. This is about me not being every other girl who is madly in love with you for no reason. And this is about you refusing to take responsibility for all the hurt you caused me and thinking that a few charming lines can just fix everything. It doesn't work like that."
Darien swung away. Tilting his head back, he pulled his fingers roughly through his hair. Serena could see the steam from his breath rise up above him, and then he laughed again—now a stunned, sarcastic sound—and turned back toward her. "You want an apology?"
She blinked, realizing that, yes, an apology would be nice, but she wasn't about to demand one.
"All right," said Darien, approaching her again in quick strides and cupping her face powerfully in both hands. She gasped and moved to pull away, but he wouldn't let her. "I'm sorry."
Serena gulped. The faint light from the streets caught in Darien's dark eyes, and the shadows accentuated the angled lines of his cheekbones and jaw and lips and the random strands of hair dangling over his forehead.
"I'm sorry for every hurtful thing I have ever said to you," he continued, slowly, but loudly, so that the words landed on her heavy and thick and relentless. "I'm sorry for making fun of your hair. I'm sorry for calling you stupid, and klutzy, and selfish. I'm sorry for ever suggesting that you were greedy, or that you could be bought for something as worthless as money. I swear to you, Serena, that if I'd had any idea then how I would feel about you now, I would have acted very differently."
She couldn't breathe and she found that she was shivering uncontrollably.
Darien released her suddenly and turned away. Serena slumped against a brick wall and struggled to catch her breath. She could not take her eyes from him as he stood with one tense hand in his pocket, pulling at his hair with the other, until he spun on her again with the same rapidity.
"And one other thing," he said, practically yelling. She jumped, but still could only stare. "Do you honestly believe that I'm not putting any effort into this? Because what, exactly, do you think has been going on this past week?"
She tied her arms around her waist. "I... I thought this was just a game to you."
"A game?"
"Yes. I thought you were just trying to prove that you… that even I wasn't immune to you. That even I could fall for you."
He looked stunned at first, but then, in an instant, all his vigor drained away. His shoulders slumped, his gaze fell away from her. Unmistakable hurt crossed his features.
"So that's what you think of me? That I'm just some… some womanizer, out to conquer every female in my path?"
It was almost silly when he said it like that, but she couldn't laugh. "I don't know what I think about you anymore."
He sighed. "Don't you get it? I have been trying, honestly trying to fix things between us. Obviously I didn't realize how badly I'd screwed things up when we were teenagers, but now… when I saw you at the auction… I just felt like things were going to be so different. And last night it seemed like maybe we were really getting somewhere. But then to come here and for you to be acting like it hadn't happened, or like maybe things were somehow worse than ever…" He shook his head and spread his hands before her. "I don't know what to do, Serena. I'm honestly trying, but I need you to help me out here."
"Darien," she managed through the heart clogging her throat. "Are you… are you trying to tell me that you might actually… like me?"
"Yes!"
She jumped again.
"Yes, Serena. That is exactly what I'm trying to say. That's what I've been trying to tell you all week, with the auction and the check and the randomly showing up at your place to play video games and watch that awful sap movie, and this painful, irresistible urge to kiss you every time… every time…"
Serena inhaled a shaky breath. She pressed her back into the brick wall as if she were perched on the ledge of a cliff. And then she started to cry. Uncontrollably. Tears and sniffles and shaking and one embarrassed hand coming up to hide her face from him.
"Oh god. Serena—"
She shook her head and sobbed. "I'm okay."
Suddenly there was the sensation of Darien's hands, surprisingly warm, against the bare skin of her arms, rubbing up and down. She allowed herself to slide into his touch, pushing away from the brick wall and pressing her body against him. She wrapped her arms around him, under his wool jacket, and sunk into the embrace, cheek nestled against his sweater.
"I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair. "Here you are without a jacket and I'm keeping you out in this freezing weather."
The tears were already beginning to subside, her breaths stretching out until she could breathe in the scent of his aftershave, the same smell that had so intoxicated her the previous night. The same smell that had plagued her dreams and lingered after her all day.
"I'm sorry," she said between sniffles. "I'm sorry that I thought you were still just a jerk who wanted to hurt me."
There was a long silence between them as the crying stopped and the sounds from the cocktail party began to encroach on their private rendezvous, until finally Darien cleared his throat and asked, "Does that mean you're going to give me another chance to prove that I'm not just a jerk?"
Peeling her face away from his chest, Serena smiled at him through watery eyes. "Maybe one more chance."
He returned the smile, pressing his forehead against hers.
Then he craned his neck and kissed her.
In the office, Lita swiped a sleeve over her damp forehead, grateful that the night was finally coming to an end. Catering was one of her favorite things about being a chef—planning an entire menu and figuring out how to cook and prepare and transport everything while making it all seem like it had been pulled fresh from the oven.
"How's it going in here?" Andrew asked, popping his head in for the third time in the last twenty minutes.
"Oh, fine," Lita said. "Just starting to wrap things up."
"Can I bring you anything? A soda? Some champagne?"
With a sigh, Lita leveled a half-serious glare at Andrew. "Andrew, thank you, but I'm okay. Really. You don't have to keep checking in on me."
He shrugged, though he at least had the decency to look embarrassed. "I just hate to think of you in here all by yourself when your friends are out here having fun."
"I'm happy in here all by myself. I signed up to cater, and you signed up to be a guest."
"I don't recall signing anything."
Lita rounded the desk and tried to push him out the door. "Go mingle!"
"I've been mingling."
"Mingle more. I'm just going to do some quick cleaning up and pack up my stuff and then I'll come join you, okay?"
"Fine, fine," Andrew said and looked out the door into the party, but didn't move. "Sure you don't want any help? I'm a ninja with a broom."
"A ninja?"
"You don't want to take any chances on those dust bunnies."
Smirking, she shook her head. "No, I do not need any help. But thanks for the offer."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I'm fine! Honestly, I think you're more desperate for company than I am."
Andrew chuckled along with her, but when the laughter had died down, an awkward silence persisted. "I think you're probably right about that," he said, then flashed Lita his easiest grin. "But you know, I really appreciate you inviting me to this thing tonight. Between this and Martucci's, I feel like I'm being introduced to a whole new culture. A whole new side of the good life. And all thanks to you."
"You say that, but…"
When she trailed off, Andrew nudged her with his elbow. "But what?"
"Oh come on, we both know you're uncomfortable at these fancy shindigs—why else would you keep coming back to the office the whole time?"
"Because the chef is so darn cute?"
She glared at him, refusing to take the bait. "Plus, you were way happier at the arcade the other day. You can't deny it."
He shrugged, his brown eyes returning to their perusal of the artworks hanging on the wall beyond the office door. Lita followed his gaze, but she didn't see art—she saw Ken Starkman taking a close-up photo of a sculpture. Lowering the lens, he glanced up, catching her stare.
Not noticing the journalist, or pretending not to, Andrew turned back to her. "You're probably right about that, too."
"About what?"
"That I was happier at the arcade."
"Oh. Oh, right. But… that's not necessarily a bad thing," Lita said, realizing that she may have hurt his feelings. "These things can be intimidating. Between having to get all dressed up and feeling like everyone's going to judge you by what you're wearing and which fork you eat your salad with and whether you prefer merlot or chenin blanc…"
"You feel that way too?"
"Well, sure, sometimes. I mean, it's gotten better since I've been working at Martucci's, and of course hanging out with Mina who can pose with the best of them."
"You do fit in at these things. And I mean that in a good way. You were kind of a tomboy in high school, you know."
"Do you think so? I hadn't noticed."
Andrew ignored her sarcasm. Discomfort building up in his shoulders, he looked down at the tile floor between then. "And now you're so beautiful, and sophisticated… and smart. This probably sounds weird, but I guess I kind of admire you."
"You're making me blush," she drawled, glancing out the door again.
Ken's brows were knitted as he watched them, camera forgotten. He raised both hands by his face and burst his fingers at her, mouthing the word: "Sparks?"
"I mean it," said Andrew.
She tore her gaze away, refocused on the man before her. The sweet, gentle, kind man before her. That she had so adored in high school, so worshiped.
Wetting her lips, Lita tipped forward and kissed him.
He hesitated, then kissed her back. He was warm. He was soft. He was not a bad kisser.
But she felt miserable pulling away. She felt like she should blush, but she didn't. After a moment of staring into his softly sparkling eyes, she gulped.
"Andrew…"
"I know." His lips quirked, sadly.
Her stomach twisted—disappointed in something she couldn't pinpoint, guilty for reasons she hated to admit.
"When we were in high school, I had the most gigantic crush on you," she said.
"Had."
Her shoulders sank and a moment later he was chuckling. "It's okay, Lita. We had two dates—and one of them was spent with you railing against that idiot journalist and the other playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It isn't like you're breaking my heart or anything."
"I know, but you spent all that money and everything."
"And I got an excellent meal and two great dates out of it, plus an invitation to a highbrow art exhibition opening. Besides… Darien loaned me half of it."
She snickered. barked a laugh "Well I don't feel so bad now, knowing that you got such a screaming deal on me."
Grinning, Andrew held out hand. "So, friends?"
Lita wiped her hand on her apron and shook. "Friends. And you can give me a call any time you need someone to go play video games with."
"It's a deal." He slid his hands back into his pockets. "So… I guess I'll… keep mingling."
She smiled and waited for the moment he turned his back on her to allow her aching gaze to sweep out into the gallery. But Ken Starkman was not where he'd been standing a moment ago. Her heart skipped.
Andrew turned back to her. She molded her face back into a friendly smile.
"Actually, this might be inappropriate, but I was just wondering, um… that model friend of yours?"
"Mina."
"Right. Uh… is she single?"
Lita shook her head, even as a relief thrummed through her. So she hadn't broken his heart after all. "You don't want Mina. She's as high-maintenance as they come."
"Ah," Andrew chuckled uncomfortably, thrusting his hands in his pockets and swaying on his feet.
Lita pursed her lips. "Oh, but hey, Amy's single, too."
"Is she? She's cute."
"Very cute. She's also incredibly smart, and as sweet as they come."
"I remember her being sweet… and smart."
"I'll give her your number."
"Yeah, okay. Cool. Thanks."
Just then, Amy barged into the office, looking flustered. "Lita, I'm leaving."
"What? Amy, it's not even 9:00. Where are you going?"
Clasping a hand to her heart, Amy raised her eyes to the ceiling in what was possibly the most melodramatic expression Lita had ever seen on her. She briefly wondered if maybe Mina was beginning to rub off on the poor girl. "Lita—I know this is going to sound crazy, but… I think I'm falling in love."
Lita's eyes bugged. Yes, Mina was definitely rubbing off on her. "With Joe?"
"What? No, no, not with Joe. It's this other guy I know from school… and I didn't know… I didn't realize… But after seeing Raye with that politician, of all people… oh! And then Serena and Darien,too—"
"Huh? Serena and Darien?"
"I just thought that maybe it isn't so weird after all. I mean, I know it's sudden, what with the whole Joe thing, but… but my goodness, I've never felt this way about anyone in my entire life. And I feel like I have to see him right away or I'll… I'll combust! So I'm leaving. Tell the other girls I said good bye, okay?"
"Uh… okay. Good luck?"
Amy smiled, her face flushed, and rushed out of the office.
An awkward silence followed. Turning to Andrew, Lita shrugged apologetically. "Well… she was single."
Andrew, laughing, rested a hand on Lita's wrist. "It's okay. I'll just keep hitting up the date auctions."
When finally Andrew turned to leave, for real, Lita heaved a sigh. She counted to five before pulling off her apron and draping it over the desk chair. Stepping hesitantly out of the office for the first time all evening, Lita scanned the gallery. The crowd was dispersing. Andrew had met up with Raye and Daniel in one corner. Mina was loitering near the front, twirling a lock of hair around a finger and flirting with three men who had gathered around her. There was no sign of Ken.
She moved slowly through the gallery, checking around all the corners and free standing walls, but seeing only strangers and more strangers.
"Leets? Are you looking for something?"
Spinning, she came face to face with Serena—with Darien's arm draped over her shoulder. Serena tittered when Lita's eyebrow shot up, and gave a slight "who knew?" shrug.
"Actually," said Lita, tugging down the hem of her chef coat, "I was looking for that journalist."
"Ken?" asked Darien.
"Um, yes," she said, not caring enough to ask how he and Darien were on a first-name basis.
"He didn't say anything, did he?" said Serena, fists clenching.
"No, no, I just… wanted to ask what he thought of the chocolate truffles."
Serena's eyes widened. "There were truffles?" She turned to Darien. "How did I miss the truffles?"
Rolling his eyes, Darien pocketed his free hand. "Ken just left," he said. "I saw him walk out not five minutes ago."
Lita could feel her nerves collapsing in on each other. Five minutes. About the time she'd been breaking up with her non-boyfriend.
"Don't worry, Leets," said Serena. "The food was fantastic. There was nothing that could have disappointed him tonight."
"Thanks," she said, picking her smile back up. "I'm sure you're right."
Except, Lita was actually sure she was wrong.
Amy had been expecting the Sunrise Café to be a shabby hole-in-the-wall dive of a restaurant, with obnoxious music blaring through the walls and the smell of booze and cigarettes hanging in the air, and burly men with tattoos blocking the doorway. After all, that's the sort of place rock bands play at, right?
But as it turned out, the Sunrise Café was nothing like that. From the sidewalk, Amy gawked up at the sign that hung over the café's large front window to make sure she hadn't mistaken the place—but if the big white letters that spelled out a solitary "Sunrise" didn't confirm her suspicions, there was also a blown-up poster taped up in the window that matched the flier Scott had given her—the one that depicted the small blue chair and toy instruments. The date of the show had been scribbled out and replaced, in giant red marker, with "TONIGHT."
Through the window, Amy could make out a grouping of tables in dim lighting. Some patrons sat leaning in toward each other, quietly chattering while they sipped at their wine or beer or coffee. But the majority of the people sitting around the café, that Amy could see, were silently tapping their feet and nodding their heads and staring into some corner that the window did not allow a view of. Amy assumed they were watching the band. The Blue Chairs. Scott.
Her throat was dry and her stomach had long since tied itself into knots, but after having so abruptly left Raye's party and spent twenty minutes on a near-empty city bus and dreamed of all the things she might say to Scott when she came face-to-face with him again, she did not allow herself the option of turning around and walking away. And so, sliding the small cardstock flier into her purse, she inhaled deeply and headed toward the door.
Inside, the air was warm and filled with the sounds of a thrumming guitar solo that had been impossible to detect from outside. If it was indeed Scott on stage playing, as she supposed it must be, it sounded nothing like what Amy had expected. Something more like a ballad, haunting and rich, than the obnoxious, clanging noise she typically associated with "rock" music. Afraid that she might still change her mind and decide to leave, she headed toward the tables.
"Hey, miss!"
Startled, Amy spun around to see a man that she hadn't noticed standing behind a small podium, his chin cupped in one palm and a jar full of dollar bills beside him.
"Yes?" she asked, timidly skirting back toward him and wishing he hadn't been so loud in calling her.
"There's a seven dollar cover," he said, pointing to a piece of paper taped to the front of the podium that said simply "7 dollars."
Amy gasped and rifled through her purse, wondering if the flier Scott had given her had mentioned the cover and she simply hadn't noticed. In her wallet, she discovered a five dollar bill, but nothing else. Glancing pitifully up at the bouncer, she held it toward him. "I'm sorry, this is all I have."
He frowned and Amy could feel her cheeks reddening. From around the corner, the guitar solo was greeted by a rolling drum and the spark of a cymbal and then a baseline joined in as the song's tempo increased.
"But I'm with the band?" Amy said, an awkward thrill rushing through her as she said it. Certainly they were words she'd never dreamt she might say.
The man's frown turned suspicious.
"It's true," she continued. "I know Scott."
"Did he name the band after you?"
"Pardon?"
A smirk crossing his lips, the man nodded at her. "Blue chairs, blue hair…"
"Oh…" She laughed uncomfortably. "I… I don't think so." Because that would be really weird.
"Fine, this'll do," he said, taking her money and shoving it into the jar. "You did miss most of the show anyway. There are only a few more songs in this set."
Disappointment mixed with her giddy anxiety as Amy turned away from him and once again headed toward the tables. She was afraid to look toward the stage while the music continued and instead spent a moment seeking out a chair, discovering a small empty table near the back corner. Clutching her purse against her side, she reached it with her head down and gladly sank into one of the wooden seats. There, feeling strangely as though she'd reached safe harbor, now that to get up and leave would be even more embarrassing than to sit there and stay, she took in a slow, deep breath and allowed herself to look up.
Her eyes instantly attached to Scott, who stood at the front of the stage with an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, strumming the chords with his eyes closed. In the café's honey-colored spotlight, his brown hair looked almost to have streaks of red in it, and the bruise surrounding his eye was yet more pronounced. His day-to-day outfit had not changed and she recognized the same jeans and T-shirt he'd been wearing that morning—yet another band that Amy had never heard of.
A microphone stood a foot in front of him, and to his right was another man on the bass, and behind them the drummer, all seemingly lost in the groove of their own music. Her heart thudded as she felt the baseline reverberating in her chest and Scott's tangy notes dancing over her skin, each one hovering like a spirit in the air before fading away to the next.
The music continued to build in tempo and intensity until it reached a crescendo. Then the bass fell abruptly out of the mix and the drumbeat died down to a steady ricochet against the cymbal and Scott's guitar chords hummed nearly alone in the heavy air, and he stepped toward the microphone.
Amy didn't realize she was holding her breath as he began to sing. Though his voice didn't come close to the classic singers she was familiar with—but then, who could compete with Frank Sinatra?—she found in it a melancholy warmth that she felt deep within her chest and all the way to the tips of her fingers. As the song continued, the bass guitar joined in again, thrumming and weeping, and when the song once again built to a crescendo and Scott's gentle voice became filled with power and heartache and agony, Amy felt peculiar tears pricking at her eyes and had to remind herself to breathe.
When the song ended a moment later with a few hushed chords of the acoustic guitar dying away, Amy realized that she hadn't heard a single word of the lyrics—she'd been too swept away by the intensity of the music and the aching in Scott's voice to pay attention to what the song might actually be about.
She spent a moment imagining that it had been a love ballad written about her, but when the small audience's applause died down and Scott announced that the previous song had been written by the bass player, she quickly whisked that thought away.
Scott paused to take a drink of water from a glass on the stage and Amy felt her heart clamp with sudden nerves. She grasped her hands together in her lap, not realizing that she still clutched the handles of her purse, and gazed at Scott with such intensity that she almost imagined he would feel her watching him. That he would look up at the crowd and it would be as though there were a spotlight on her. But then he set the water down and turned to converse with his band members. A waitress came by and asked Amy if she wanted to order a drink, but she only shook her head with a muttered "thank you," afraid to take her eyes off Scott even for a moment.
The on-stage conversation ending, Scott turned back to the audience and smiled at them as he absentmindedly adjusted the guitar strings. Though he seemed composed in front of the crowd—a feat that Amy found remarkably admirable—he still exuded some of that shyness she had noted in the library, when he'd first talked to her, and when he'd invited her to come see the show. The slightly ducked head. The eyes that danced across the room as if afraid to land on any one person.
Until they landed on her.
His fingers paused over the strings.
Amy shrank into her seat.
His gaze held hers for a moment before dropping to the stage. She watched him lick his lips and lean in toward the microphone, eyes still firmly glued to the ground. "We have one more song for tonight," he said into the microphone, sounding much more uncomfortable than he'd sounded mere moments ago, and Amy began to doubt her reasoning for showing up at all. Had she really thought he would still want her there after everything that had happened? Had she really believed that she might have the nerve to tell him that perhaps she'd been wrong? That perhaps he was exactly her type after all?
Especially when, the longer she sat watching him—his slender fingers expertly dancing along the strings, his brown hair falling carelessly into his eyes, the confidence he must have had to display himself and his talent in this room full of strangers—the more she began to feel that there was no way she could possibly be his type.
"Thanks again for coming," Scott continued from the stage, and the audience applauded. "This last song is one that I wrote awhile back…" He hesitated, one hand coming up to scratch behind his ear with the guitar pick, as he raised his eyes to Amy again.
She wanted to smile but found it impossible, so she only stared back, terrified that she'd made a huge mistake in coming to see him.
"It's called 'Big Escape,'" he muttered vaguely, before tearing his gaze away from her and nodding at the bass player.
Amy was sure that her heart had stopped when the drummer counted off the beats. The room filled with music again. The sound was as whimsical as the last song had been, even more melodious and patient, as Scott stepped toward the microphone and began to sing.
She was out in the rain*
On an autumn Saturday
Waiting for a bus to take her away.
Her head in a book
And a solitary look
Was all that it took,
I couldn't escape,
Couldn't escape.
I just think this might be something new today.
The sun is trying to awake.
You know it wants to dry those bluebell curls and say,
Forget the bus and girl, won't you stay?
I couldn't figure out a single word to say,
No reason to approach her in the rain.
I watched her from a tree
And its crying canopy
And thought jealously
Of the words stealing her away.
Away, away, away.
I just think this might be something new today.
The sun is trying to awake.
You know it wants to dry those bluebell curls and say,
Forget the book and girl, won't you stay?
She was out in the rain
On an autumn Saturday.
She didn't need my help to plan her big escape.
By the time the song came to a close, Amy's entire body was trembling with nerves and embarrassment and giddiness. How many times had she stood at the bus stop in front of the library, sun or rain, reading—always reading? And "bluebell curls" could only mean her…clearly. What else could he be referring to? Surely… surely…
Scott had avoided looking at her while he played, though even from her spot at the back of the café, she swore she could see a mild blush on his cheeks. The audience burst into applause and the musicians nodded and bowed, looking self-conscience as they did so. Scott thanked the audience again, carefully sweeping his gaze around the room and attempting to smile, though he did not look at Amy.
She gulped, trying to wish away the color in her cheeks, as she watched the band start to pack up their instruments and talk to each other, though their words were lost in the conversations that sprang up throughout the room. Waiters and waitresses bustled out from the bar to take more drink orders, now that the distraction of the music had ended, and the customers who had come only for the entertainment wasted no time in throwing down their tips and deserting their tables.
Awkwardness overcame Amy as she realized she had nothing better to do than watch Scott chat with his band members and put away his guitar—never had she so desperately wanted to have a book in her hand. Anything, really, to distract her attention from the long wait before Scott determined to acknowledge her presence and claim that the song had been for her and that he still felt that way and that… that…
Dread sunk into Amy's stomach. What proof did she have that the song had been written for her? Surely, if it had, he would have at least looked at her, at least once, while he was singing it? And surely he wouldn't take such a long time in coming to see her, now that the set was through? And surely he wouldn't be ignoring her, as if he was waiting for her to leave so he could avoid another awful confrontation?
There was a lump in her throat and an aching in her heart as these things all suddenly occurred to her, and still Scott had not once glanced in her direction.
Shaking and miserable, she forced herself to her feet, fingers numb from clutching her purse. Even as the sting of rejection was fresh and hot tears were creeping into her eyes, the logical side of her brain was plotting the next few moments—how best to escape the café without notice, how her lack of forethought meant she was stuck either taking public transportation or calling one of the girls to come get her, as she couldn't afford a cab anymore. But at the forefront of her thoughts was the realization that she could never, ever step foot in the library again.
"Are you leaving?"
She jumped at the voice, which intruded upon her sullen reverie before she'd even rounded the corner that would hide her from the stage. Turning, she found herself staring into the eyes that were fast becoming both comforting and upsetting every time she saw them.
"Y-yes. I was just leaving," she said, gesturing half-heartedly to the door.
"Without saying hello?" he asked, his lips quirking upward, though his eyes were worried.
"Oh, I just, um… figured… you were busy and… I didn't think you would want to see me… I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have come."
"No, I'm glad you came. I didn't think you would."
Amy stood silent, wringing her hands and trying to remember just what had possessed her to come see him at all.
"You didn't have to get quite so dressed up…"
Blinking, she glanced down at her knee-length black cocktail dress and then at Scott's jeans and T-shirt and couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, I had this other thing… at this art gallery," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder as if the art gallery was right behind her.
"So that's why you didn't show up until the end?"
"Yes," she said, though it wasn't entirely true. "I really enjoyed it… what I did hear. You're, um… really…"
"I hope I didn't embarrass you."
"I'm sorry?"
"With that last song." If it was possible, Scott suddenly looked even more shy than she felt, his hands thrust into his back pockets as he swayed on his feet. "I mean, we'd had it scheduled on our set list, and I didn't really think you would come… but the guys tend to freak out when I try to change the songs at the last minute so I just thought I'd go with it and—"
"It was about me?"
After a surprised pause, Scott managed, "I guess maybe I shouldn't have told you that."
Flustered, Amy leaned against the wall for support, pressing one hand over her furiously beating heart.
"I mean, I thought I was being pretty obvious." Licking his lips, Scott hunched his shoulders protectively. "So much for not flirting with you, I guess."
Just as a surprised laugh escaped Amy, Scott's drummer snuck up between them and smacked Scott on the shoulder. "We're heading down to Julep. You coming?"
Scott shook his head and Amy was grateful for the brief respite from his attentions, allowing her a moment to appreciate his subtle smile that so well hid his annoyance at the interruption, and the way the shaggy cut of his hair made it appear feather-soft, and how he still stood with his hands tucked into his back pockets like he was trying to look calm and comfortable even though Amy was pretty sure he wasn't.
"No, I think I'm going to hang out here awhile longer."
"That's cool. Maybe we'll see you down there later," the drummer said, with a smile and nod at Amy, which she caught from the corner of her eye and barely had time to respond to before he had turned and walked away, meeting with a group of four or five other college-age peers, including the bass player.
When she returned her gaze to Scott, he was staring at the floor and muttering something about how they usually went to Julep after a gig to unwind and…
"Scott?"
"Mmhmm?"
His soft brown eyes were piercing her again and, with a quick breath, she said, "I apologize if this is candid of me, but I think I may have a gigantic crush on you."
He stared, the period of silence once again igniting that embarrassing heat on Amy's cheeks. But then his confusion turned into a grin and he raised a hand to point at his eye. "It's the black eye, isn't it? I'm told chicks dig this sort of thing."
Relief flooding her overwhelmed nerves, Amy burst into laughter, glad when Scott joined her. "It might have something to do with it," she confessed, to which Scott—still beaming down at her—casually draped an arm over her shoulder. And just like that, her terror vanished, replaced with a simple giddy nervousness that she didn't mind half so much.
"So can I buy you a drink? They're half price after nine."
"Sure," she said, still grinning. "Oh, and I owe that bouncer two dollars. Plus… I sort of don't have money for a cab…"
"Yikes, our first date and you're already eating up my savings."
"I'm sorry, it's just that this was a spur of the moment thing," she said. "Normally I would be better prepared."
"I'm joking, Amy."
She tingled with giddiness at the sound of her name said so tenderly.
"Besides, you get in free when you're with the band," he said, guiding her toward the bar.
"Is that so?"
"Sure. You're VIP now."
She snuggled further into Scott's embrace, enjoying even the feel of his cotton T-shirt against her bare arms. "Do I also get free after-hour tours of the library?"
His grinned, his brown eyes warm and flecked with sparks in the café's dim lighting. "Of course. In fact, I know of this great spot on the third floor…"
Mina heaved the most distressing, pitiful sigh that Lita had ever heard as she dumped the contents of a dustpan into the garbage.
Snapping the last lid of the last box of leftovers into place, Lita looked up at the blonde just as Mina braced herself against the office wall, clutching the broom as if it were the only thing keeping her on her feet.
"This cleaning thing is hard work!" said Mina.
Lita felt a twitch at the corner of her lips. Thus far, she had packed up the food, cleaned the dishes, utensils, and broiler, wiped down all the office surfaces, dumped out the melted ice in the back alley, gathered and wrapped up leftover glasses, and taken out the garbage.
Mina had swept.
Evidently, she was not a ninja with a broom.
"You're doing well, Mina. Keep up the good work."
Mina batted her lashes at the flattery and proceeded to lean the broom against the wall and make her way to the desk, where she opened the recently closed box and snacked on a few leftover potstickers. "Mmhmm, theshe are good."
Lita stuck her tongue at her. "Are you done sweeping?"
"Uh-huh." Swallowing, Mina hopped onto the desk and sat kicking her legs. "You could eat off that floor."
"I think I'll pass." Lita pulled off her double-breasted chef coat and draped it over the desk, glad to be free of her work uniform for the night.
"I can't believe they all left us here to clean up by ourselves," said Mina, fishing for another potsticker. "Serena and Raye get boyfriends and just go gallivanting off into the sunset. Honestly."
Lita started straightening the stacks of remaining cocktail napkins. "You're saying you wouldn't have done the same if Antonio had offered to carry you away in that cop car of his?" Lita didn't need to turn around to know that a moment of shame was flashing over Mina's face.
Mina, wisely, chose to ignore the question. "And Amy! I don't even know where she ran off to all the sudden. Very unlike her."
Grinning, Lita stacked the napkins alongside the clean utensils, opting not to tell Mina about Amy's unexpected love confession. If everything had gone well, she would tell the other girls in time. "Well, thank you, for staying to help clean up," Lita said, keeping the sarcasm out of her voice.
"What are friends for?" She beat her heels against the desk. "We are done, though, right?"
Lita scanned the office. A pile of linens remained to be folded, piled up on Raye's chair. Some just-washed champagne glasses needed to be dried. It probably wouldn't hurt to sweep one more time.
"Just about," she said. "Why don't you go on home? I think I can handle it from here."
"Are you sure? You don't need help carrying stuff out? I can hail a taxi."
"No, I've got it. I'll be right behind you."
Though Mina tried to hide it, Lita could tell how happy she was to be relieved of her duties. "If you insist," she said, hopping off the desk and pulling on her coat and gloves. "Good party, Leets!" She grabbed one potsticker for the road and danced out of the gallery before Lita could change her mind.
Lita knew she could have felt irritated at how all her roommates had abandoned her to the hard work, but instead, all she felt was satisfaction. Satisfaction that the night had been a success. Satisfaction that no disasters had occurred. Satisfaction that her friends had all been too caught up in their own dramas to suspect her of hiding something.
Well, there was also a little guilt for not liking Andrew like they all thought she did.
And mounting giddiness that Ken Starkman—the idiot journalist with no taste—had most certainly been flirting with her.
But then there was also a good deal of disappointment that he'd left before she could do anything about it.
Mina stepped into the freezing night, still pulling on her gloves. How nice to be in the fresh air for a change. Even the fact that she was, against all odds, still alone at the end of the evening, she had a peculiar glee inside her.
Serena and Raye were falling in love, and they had Mina and her brilliant ideas to thank for it.
She had done well. Not even the fact that her own auction date had been a flop and Antonio had been unfortunately pre-claimed could sully that fact.
She paused on the sidewalk, not four steps from the gallery door.
A man was sitting on the bench against the building, hands tucked into the pockets of a black pea coat, shoulders hunched to ward off the cold.
He looked up at her.
Mina gaped at him, noting only that he was handsome and that she knew him from somewhere. Recognition took its time, but a minute later it settled down around her. "You're the guy from the paper," she said. And then a thought—a lovely, delicious little thought. "Are you waiting for me?"
His brow drew down in mild confusion. "Actually… I'm waiting for Miss Kino. She hasn't left yet, has she?"
Mina's excitement splattered on the concrete. Raising her eyes skyward, Mina huffed. "Silly me. Of course you're waiting for Lita. After all, I'm only the model."
The journalist squinted suspiciously at her. "Sorry?"
"Yeah, whatever," she said and knocked her thumb back toward the gallery. "She's still in there. Go on."
Thoroughly encouraged, he jumped off the bench. A barely restrained smile lit up his face, making him even more handsome than before. Mina grumbled internally at the unfairness of the world.
"We have rules, by the way," she said, stopping him as he passed her.
"Rules?"
"Yes. Very important, structured, not-to-be-tampered-with rules for dating my roommates."
He waited.
She sighed. "Lucky for you, I'm way too tired to go over them right now. But oh boy, next we meet there is going to be some heavy-duty rule setting, you catch my drift?" She pointed two fingers from her eyes to his and back. "I'm watching you."
"Uh—"
"Now what are you waiting for? Get in there." Mina flashed a wink and a thumbs-up. "And good luck!"
Lita heard the bell as she folded the last tablecloth. "Mina?" she called out to the gallery. When there was no answer, she turned just as Ken appeared in the office doorway.
Her heart jolted.
Ken leaned against the frame, looking perplexed. "You," he said after a hesitant silence, "have weird friends."
Lita laughed and set the tablecloth down on the pile of linens. "You have no idea," she said, failing miserably at taming a giddy smile.
Ken met her grin for grin as he removed the camera from his neck and set it down on the stack of coolers by the door.
"I thought you left," said Lita. "Hours ago."
"I've just been outside. It was starting to feel awfully crowded in here." He glanced around the office—returned nearly to its original state. "If I'd known you were going to take your sweet time cleaning up I would have come back in sooner."
Lita ran a hand over her ponytail, wondering if she looked as disheveled as she felt after a night of work. At least her tank top wasn't covered in grease stains like her apron had been. She cleared her throat. "Did you get everything you needed? For your feature?"
"Yeah, I did. Lots of great tidbits about the artist. And Miss Hino, of course. I think my editor's going to like it."
"Good."
"I should be able to email a little blurb for tomorrow's paper if I get home in time," he said. "And then the full feature on Sunday, of course."
"Great. Raye will be thrilled."
Ken pulled his hands from his pockets and mindlessly rubbed them together for warmth. "I decided not to mention the meatballs, by the way. Figured I could just let them slide."
Glowering, Lita rounded the desk and perched herself against it, gripping the edge behind her with both hands. "How thoughtful."
His dimples creased, a wicked glimmer in his eyes.
"Okay," said Lita, taking in a deep breath. She rolled her shoulders, gave a firm nod, and tilted her head up. "Kiss me."
Ken stopped rubbing his hands. The teasing smile faltered. "Excuse me?"
"That's why you're here, isn't it? To see if we—" She released the desk and flashed her fingers next to her face. "—spark?"
Ken abandoned the doorframe to stand straighter, but otherwise made no move toward her. "Oh, we spark," he said. "We practically burned down my apartment when you punched me the other day."
She didn't fight a smug grin. "Well a girl needs stronger evidence than that. So come on." She beckoned with both hands. "Let's see what you've got."
His gaze dipped to her mouth.
She dropped her hands to the desk again and crossed one ankle casually over the other.
He eyed her, the air crackling with suspicion.
She patiently tapped her nails against the wood.
It took him two strides to reach her. His hands cupped her face, fingers lost in the hair behind her ears. Even expecting it, Lita still gasped against him, startled by the heat of the kiss, the crackling of desire. She wrapped her arms around his neck, glad for the desk as her knees faltered.
Lucky for her, Raye would never have to know how they almost burned her gallery down.
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* The lyrics to "Big Escape" were written by me and put to music by my wonderful friend Angie. You can hear her playing and singing it on her myspace page: myspace . com/angieyohn.