The Other P-Word Page 5

  A chorus of claps, whistles and sighs followed him as he walked toward the bar. Then the owners of those sounds literally followed him, taking up every vacant seat at the bar.

  “What’s going on?” I asked a girl next to me. I understood gushing but this seemed ridiculous.

  “Evan in intermission is almost as good as the show,” she replied.

  Evan hadn’t seen me yet. How could he? I was suddenly wedged between thirty girls. He threw a bottle in the air and caught it before filling three shot glasses and sliding them down the bar.

  “How many bottles have you broken doing that?” I asked.

  He turned to me, his look of surprise quickly replaced by a large grin. “Too many to count. It’s good to see you, Billie.”

  I’d been hoping he’d remember me, but our talk was so brief, I hadn’t counted on it. “It’s good to be here, Evan.”

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Vodka.”

  “No mixer? No chaser?”

  I shrugged. “Why dilute it?”

  He chuckled. “You’re talking my language.” He reached for a bottle under the counter.

  “The Grey Goose, please.”

  He let out a low whistle before reaching for the frosted bottle. “Top shelf… Nice.”

  “Why settle?”

  “Indeed.” He set the drink in front of me and poured one for himself. “Did you come to see me?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Are you going to tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

  “Would you believe I got on the wrong bus?”

  “Sometimes you can get on the wrong bus and still manage to get off at the right stop.”

  “That’s very philosophical.”

  “I have my moments.” He clinked his shot glass against mine. “Here’s to chance meetings.”

  “And great music,” I said, lifting my glass.

  “So you stopped by for the music?” he asked.

  “And the company. And to return this.” I tossed the penny to him. He caught it in mid-air. “I’m sorry, I must have put it in my pocket that day.”

  “You came all this way to return it?”

  “Plus, I really needed a stiff drink…or ten.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You ever have one of those days when you thought your life was going in a certain direction and the rug gets pulled from under you?”

  “I’ve had my share.”

  I swallowed hard, realizing the stupidity of my statement. “I…ah—”

  He cut me off. “Billie, don’t be afraid to say things in front of me. I don’t tell people about my past because they tend to edit themselves around me.”

  “Why did you tell me then?”

  “You asked the question, and I thought you wouldn’t be one of those people. Don’t disappoint me. Tell me what happened.” He frowned, taking in my face. “Have you been crying?”

  I swiped my face, even though that didn’t do anything to make the puffiness in my eyes disappear.

  A girl called from the end of the counter, “Evan, can you pour me a drink or a shot, or better yet, a body shot?” It wasn’t the first of these calls since he’d been talking to me, but she was by far the most obnoxious.

  “I don’t want to take up anymore of your time. It looks like you’re very busy.”

  He looked down the length of the bar as if he hadn’t noticed all the girls lined up there. There were three other bartenders getting drinks but the fangirls were all competing for his attention.

  “I’m off the clock, darling. I don’t bartend tonight. I was just getting myself a drink.” He turned back to me.

  “I bet you could have your pick of any girl here,” I said.

  He leaned closer to me, his mouth hovering right above my ear. “Why settle?”

  A shiver coursed through me. He took our glasses in one hand and the bottle. “Follow me.”

  The bar felt intimate but it was actually quite large. He led me to a carved bench with a few cushions against a wall. I traced the intricate pattern of the wood that formed the sweeping branches of a tree.

  “This is beautiful.”

  “Thanks. I made it.”

  “You did?” The craftsmanship spoke clearly of his skill, proving that his artistic talents weren’t limited to music.

  “We needed more seating, but a sofa isn’t practical. People spill too many drinks around here.”

  “That makes sense.”

  He pushed up the sleeve of his shirt. On the back of his forearm, inked in neat tiny black script, were words. God, I loved words. I soaked them up like the sweetest champagne, and the taste stayed with me long after the bottles ran empty. These particular words, strung together with such fierce beauty, meant a great deal to me.

  Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  “Dylan Thomas,” I whispered.

  He followed my gaze toward his tattoo. “My favorite poem.”

  “Mine too.” I swallowed, trying to wrap my head around the fact that Evan and I shared an appreciation for this romantic poem. My fingers trembled to stroke those words.

  I tipped back another drink, drowning the fantasy, slashing it before it took shape. Girl up, Billie.

  “What happened, Price? Obviously, you had a bad day.”

  “Thank you, Daniel Powter.”

  He chuckled. “You always try to avoid questions with a joke?”

  Yes, I did, because the space between us was both claustrophobic and magnetic at the same time. “I lost my job today.”

  “I thought you were writing a book.”

  “I am. That’s my dream, but it doesn’t exactly pay the bills. I had a day job too. Or at least I did, writing for this magazine.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “No.” The lack of hesitation in my voice surprised me.

  “Were you thinking about quitting?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then the way I see it, this worked out for the best. Sometimes we all need a little kick in the ass. Maybe this was yours.”

  “I didn’t think about it like that.”

  “People have a tendency not to fight for their own happiness.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Did I do good? Are you all cheered up now?”

  “That wasn’t the only bad thing that happened today.”

  “What else?”

  Maybe it was the three shots of vodka or the fact that I wanted to challenge him…or maybe it was just that the wig was burning up my scalp. I took it off, running my fingers through my hair. A few of the patrons next to us gasped. “I got my hair cut.”

  His lips twitched, almost curving into a smile.

  “Don’t humor me and tell me it looks good. I know it doesn’t.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “Then what?”

  He shrugged, his mouth curving in a crooked smile. “Something along the lines of…it’s a good thing hair grows back.”

  I giggled, refilling my glass. “I thought you’d be more shocked.”

  “Honey, I’m from the south. You think I’ve never seen a mullet before?” He leaned closer to me. “The haircut’s awful, but you… Well, there is nothing not right about you, Billie.”

  What could you say to that? “You’re an amazing musician and”—I ran my hands over the bench—“carpenter, but I think you’d do better as a professional cheerer-upper.”

  “Is that an actual job?”

  “If it’s not, it should be.” We were silent for a while. Enough time I was able to silently recite all six stanzas of Dylan Thomas’ inspirational poem. “Why do you think you’re a bad guy, Evan?”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s what you said the other day.”

  “No, it’s not. I said I wasn’t a good guy.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  His jaw tightened. “I’m the kind of guy that leaves. The o
ne you can’t count on. Do you understand?”

  “Are you telling me you’re responsible for a string of broken hearts?”

  “Something like that. You said I could get any girl in here. The truth is, I already have.”

  “I see.” The two words came out strained.

  “And it’s strange because I’m honest about it, and you’d think I’d never get fucked because of it, but just the opposite happens.”

  I cracked a smile. “Because women love a challenge.”

  “And what would the challenge be?”

  “To change you.”

  “That’s a waste of time.”

  “I agree. I bet you have that speech memorized.”

  “What speech?”

  I cleared my throat and tried to deepen my voice to his level. I failed miserably but he got the gist. “I’m sorry, but I’m not a relationship kind of guy. This will never go further than what we have…blah blah blah.”

  He shot me an amused smile. “Is that you doing me?”

  No, Evan, there would be no question if I was doing you. “I got your ticket. It’s something like that right? What you say so if things don’t work out, the girl can’t blame you and you don’t feel any guilt. You gave her fair warning. Am I right?”

  He laughed, toasting his glass against mine. “No… Almost, but no. It’s not if things don’t work out. It’s when things don’t work out. Are you saying I’m a cliché?”

  “You’re not a cliché. The man who is wouldn’t spend this much time trying to make me feel better.”

  He narrowed his eyes, his mouth quirking slightly. “Why do you trust that I don’t have another purpose?”

  “Because I trust my own judgment. And I already know that you can’t expect someone to change for you, and you can’t change for someone else. That’s not the right way to find love.”

  “Why don’t you school me, Price? What is love?”

  “It’s sacrificing for someone else, but they won’t let you because they feel the same way.”

  “Sounds like a losing battle.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And your boyfriend would do this for you?”

  I clasped my hands on my lap. “Maybe I’m not the best person to ask about love after all. We broke up tonight.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, the smirk on his lips not matching the sentiment.

  “I was wrong about him.”

  Now that I thought of it, although I didn’t approve of his lifestyle, at least Evan came equipped with his own warning label. I wish all men did. It would save girls a lot of heartache.

  “At least you figured out you were wrong before it was too late.”

  “It doesn’t make me feel any better. Sometimes I have a great imagination and I make things up in my head. I made us out to be more than we were.”

  “That’s a good trait for a writer.”

  “It’s also my weakness.”

  “Did he cheat on you?”

  “No, not yet. At least I don’t think so.” I made a mental note to get an STD test as soon as possible, just in case.

  “I don’t understand.”

  I took a deep breath, deciding although I didn’t know Evan very well, we were alone in this dark corner of the world where honesty came forth with little regard and great relief. I told him all the sordid details of Preston and his upcoming appearance on Marriage Material.

  “You’re shitting me.” Evan didn’t even try to conceal his laugh.

  “Seriously, I’m stripping my soul and you’re laughing?”

  “It’s just so ridiculous.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m a fool.”

  He took my hands in his, rubbing my wrist. “Not on your part. On his.”

  The friction of that small act caused my pulse to quicken. In the dim light, his eyes appeared almost black, a severe contrast with his lighter hair. His rigid jawline made him look tough. His body, muscular but lean, gave off such incredible heat, diminishing the ample space between us into nothing more than a sliver. The man was so hot, I’d wager ice water would steam right off of him.

  He licked his bottom lip, moving closer to me. A heady scent of fresh soap and sweat drifted toward me. Delicious.

  He shrugged, downing his drink. “You’re lucky. Things could have been so much worse.”

  “How?”

  “What if he did propose to you? Close your eyes. I’m going to paint a picture for you.”

  I stared at him suspiciously.

  “Trust me.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to relax. His deep, gravelly voice whispered in a trance-inducing cadence, “Imagine ten years from now you’re married to this guy. You live in a beautiful house and drive around in a Beemer. You have eight kids.”

  “Eight? Are you crazy?” I asked, sitting up.

  He stroked my arm. My skin prickled in response. “Yeah, eight. Just go with me here. Anyway, you have everything you want, yet nothing you need. You’re unhappy but what can you do? Your life is quicksand.”

  “Quicksand?”

  “You can’t move forward, and you slowly sink lower with each passing year. The asshole makes little innuendos about your body.”

  “My body?”

  “Yeah well, you’ve gained some weight on account of those eight kids and all. You wonder if he was always a dickhead and you never noticed it before, or if he became that way as time passed. Somehow, you pray that it was the second one. Your life lacks passion and promise. But you’re a fighter, and you want to do anything to keep your marriage alive because you believe in love. No sacrifice is too small.”

  “You’re using my words against me.”

  “I’m trying to be accurate. As I was saying, one day you decide you’re going to rock his world again. You surprise him at the office, wearing nothing but a trench coat and a beautiful smile. Except, when you get there, he’s already occupied…with his secretary.”

  “Ugh, this is an awful story.”

  “Yes and thankfully, you will never have to live it because he told you now. And you know what else?”

  “What?”

  “A guy like that…? Well, he’d probably never even pay you child support for all those eight kids either.”

  “You’re very dangerously good at this.”

  I blinked my eyes open. Evan stared at me so intensely I almost snapped them shut again.

  “Does this work on all the girls?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Nope, not falling for it, but I do admire your technique.”

  He bowed his head. “As long as I made you feel better.”

  “You did. Thank you.”

  “There’s something else I can do. My ultimate goal is to see a big smile and I haven’t gotten that yet, but I’ve got your cure.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m gonna sing you a song and it’s going to make you laugh.”

  “As much as I love music, I don’t think there is any song that has the power to do that right now.”

  “You leave that to me, Price. This is the kind of song a man sings to a woman to let her know his true feelings.” He jerked his head toward the stage. “When I’m up there, I’ll be singing to you.”

  He sauntered with a slow, confident stride back to the stage area. I poured myself another shot. I couldn’t imagine what song could do all of the things he promised.

  “Hello, everyone,” he said, adjusting the microphone.

  The gaggle of girls swiftly made their way back to the stage area. His band mates all took up their instruments. He whispered something to the drummer and they both shared a chuckle.

  “I’m dedicating this song to a very special girl, who’s having a bad day.” He looked in my direction, and I slid lower on the seat, wishing I hadn’t taken the wig off. “It’s a song which conveys how deep my emotions run, while having the power to show my true affections.”

  The beat was familiar, except he sang it with a rhyth
m and blues vibe. The crowd went crazy, their rowdiness reaching a new level. Some girls jumped on tables, swinging their bodies to the beat while others did the same thing with the guys, clinging against them like extra appendages. Hot in Herre by Nelly was the perfect song—perhaps the only one that could have made me laugh. But then he did the grunt. Oh God, that grunt radiated masculinity—low, feral and animalistic. Did he sound like that when he climaxed?

  A girl started to take off her shirt, but Tilla managed to pull her off the table before she did, casting a stern glance at her.

  Evan played a few more songs before they called for last round. I glanced at my watch, shocked how fast the time had disappeared.

  I walked over to the bar to pay my bill, but Tilla told me Evan had taken care of it. I thanked him for it, but before he responded, Tilla smacked him on the back.

  “I warned you not to play that song.”

  “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “And you,” she said, turning her gaze toward Mike. “You only encourage him. You’re turning our bar into a strip club, and I’m trying to keep things classy around here.”

  Mike was almost as tall as Evan, with cropped black hair and a rugby player’s build. He strode over to her with swift strides until he stood behind her. He embraced her, kissing her temple. “Baby, as long as you’re here, we are classy.”

  “Mike, Tilla, this is my friend, Billie,” Evan said, placing his hand on my shoulder.

  “I’ve met Tilla. You guys play great together,” I said to Mike.

  “Thanks,” Mike said, shaking my hand.

  “I really loved that Warren Zevon song at the end.”

  “Werewolves of London,” Evan said.

  “No, the other one. My Shit’s Fucked Up.”

  “You recognized it?” Mike asked. He turned to Evan, letting out a low whistle. “That’s impressive. No one ever knows that song.”

  “Eh, I have a mullet. Of course I’d recognize an obscure song from the seventies.”

  They all exchanged glances before cracking up. “It’s kind of cool, in a blonde Joan Jett kind of way,” Tilla offered.

  “Thanks, but Joan Jett I am not. I may love music but I can’t rock a mullet.”

  “When did you hear that song?” Mike asked.

  “My mom. She’s a music lover. The trait passed to us. In fact, it’s even in my name.”