Page 10 of Steady Stroke
Maybe Melody was as lonely as he was.
And that, he decided as he drifted off again, was pretty fucking pathetic.
THREE
Pretty fucking patheticturned out to be pretty fucking awesome. After a fun Saturday night drinking peach wine and snacking on cheese and crackers while making fun of a marathon ofWhat Not to Wearreruns,Lincoln was pretty sure he’d found a friend for life. Her sarcasm level matched his own, they shared a mutual hatred of soy sauce on Chinese food—egg rolls and ketchup were on point!—and she didn’t press him about his hookup the previous night.
She also didn’t try to hug him when she left that night, and he adored her for it, even though he wasn’t entirely sure why the idea of a hug bothered him. He was fine hugging Zelda good-bye in the morning.
Whatever.
He and Melody texted frequently over the next couple of days, not about anything too super important, but she always managed to make his jobless status seem a little less awful.
On Tuesday, she brought over homemade lasagna for dinner, and then stayed to watch TV.Wednesday, Lincoln wowed her with boxed macaroni and cheese with cut-up hotdogs, and the earnest way he served up the meal made her cackle with laughter. By Thursday, Lincoln felt normal enough to give in to her pleas to attend open-mike night at Off Beat.
Walking into the dim bar, shades firmly in place with no questions asked from Melody, made his stomach squirm. So many people, so close together. Not something that used to bother him, and he hated that it bothered him now.
Van waved a greeting from behind the bar. When he was able to take their drink orders, he gave Melody a curious look.
“Switch hitter?” he asked as he scooped ice for Lincoln’s requested Coke.
“New friend,” Lincoln replied. “Can always use more of those.”
“True story.”
Van made quick work of his soda and of Melody’s vodka sour, and Melody insisted on paying. Instead of hanging at the bar, she led him to one of the small round tables in the rear. Lincoln said a silent thank-you. Their position put them pretty far away from the distracting stage lights.
And the bulk of the crowd.
A stagehand was putting together some equipment. Lincoln tracked a second body moving in that direction. Familiar. The guy said something to the stagehand, then turned to face the crowd.
Pale Eyes.
Lincoln’s heart kicked. Even from a distance, the guy was as cute and enticing as last week. He practically scampered across the slowly crowding room to the safety of the bar.
Skittish thing, isn’t he?
Lincoln couldn’t explain his fascination. He didn’t get a chance to pursue it, though, because bar owner Beatrice Westmore stepped up to the center microphone.
“Welcome to another open-mike night, here at Off Beat!” she said.
Lincoln winced at the cheering’s roar level. For a small place, the acoustics were amazing. He could only imagine how spectacular Dominic had sounded last year when he stepped up onstage to play his violin.
“We have a pretty packed schedule for you guys tonight,” Beatrice continued. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that. First up is a homegrown boy from Sixty-first Street who wants to show you what a QChord is all about. Please welcome Ritchie P.”
A fucking QChord? Really?
The electronic synthesizer was a dummy guitar combined with a keyboard, for all intents and purposes. Not even a real instrument that most people played in public. It was meant for learning chords and arrangements before moving on to an actual guitar. Lincoln had seen them advertised but never experienced one in person.
And “boy” was right. The guy couldn’t be older than sixteen. He brought out a folding chair and the oddly shaped, button-covered instrument. After he sat, he placed the QChord across his lap and started fiddling with settings.
Lincoln expected mediocrity.
Ritchie P. started playing, and the room filled with a spot-on version of “Somewhere Only We Know.” He could have been plucking at the strings of a Gibson guitar for the sounds he made on that little thing, without a single actual string. No vibrations. Only gentle movement over the buttons and a flat gray surface.
The more songs Ritchie P. played, the more mesmerized Lincoln became with the instrument.
Maybe I could play guitar again. Maybe.
