Page 11 of Expressionate
"What?"
He frowns. "I said, what are you doing here? But I guess that’s a dumb question. You're here for the band, aren't you? Groupie?" heasks.
I shake my head and direct my gaze back to the stage. "Nope. Just here with afriend."
"I don't see your friend anywhere," he says as the bartender sets his Old Fashioned down in front ofhim.
"She's the groupie," I clarify, nodding toward the crowd surrounding the stage as Tax steps up to the microphone stand and taps it twice. When the distinct thumps of his fingers hitting the microphone echo out of the speakers on either side of the stage, he grips it and stepscloser.
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Glad you could all make it down here to City Limits to see usperform."
Several women up front scream in excitement. I distinctly hear Beverly's call to Cross, the one with the flat sweep of blond hair and a wicked grin as he moves his long fingers down the neck of a guitar. His tattoos look even darker under the stage lights. All three of the band members have tattoos, Irealize.
"I've never been here," the guy to my side says. "First time hearing these guys, though, I've heard goodthings."
I shrug again. "I wouldn'tknow."
"For those of you who don't know us, we're known as The Sound and we look forward to playing for you tonight. You ready?" His ending question seems to be more of a transition than a question because in the next beat, I see the blond – Cross – slide his fingers down his guitar and a loud ricochet of sound erupts from the speakers as more womenscream.
"You're not really interested in talking, are you?" the guy next to measks.
I lean my head back and look at him out of the corner of my eye. "No," I say before refocusing my attention. I'm curious to know if this new neighborisany good. Thosearea lot of women screaming for hisattention.
Old Fashioned guy continues to stare at me for several moments and when I don't say anything else, he mutters, "Bitch," before taking his drink and disappearing into the crowd, leaving a shitty tip for the bartender, if the bartender’s grunt is anything to go by when he picks up the man's receipt and money. I wonder if he felt like I should have apologized for myhonesty.
Tired of the countertop digging into my back, I turn around to sit properly on my stool and move to reach for my Long Island when my hand stops, hovering midair. A hauntingly beautiful voice echoes through the bar accompanied by the music at my back. I glance up to the mirror behind the wall of liquor bottles. In the reflection, I see Tax's dark eyes closed and his face strained as his mouth hangs open on the long note that started his song. Full of life and death and pain and suffering, the sound shoots through my ears and deep into my core. My hand drops to the bar and clenches into afist.
I’m tempted to put my hands over my ears to stop the heartbreaking sound of his voice. The raw note still reverberates through me as he sings. It's not his song. It's something modern – a popular indie rock song I've heard somewhere before, perhaps on the radio. What he does to it, though, is sodifferent.
His eyes open and he looks out over the crowd. People are dancing and grinding. The music is loud and hard edged, but the lyrics and his voice, are melancholy. It hits me like a shot in my veins, burning through my blood and making my skin ache. I turn back to my drink and the amber fluid reflects the lights behind me. I grab the glass and suck until the straw squeezes together and the liquid is gone. The bartender appears and takes it away, not bothering to ask me if I want another before making me a new one and sliding it my way. I take it and sip it slowly this time. My head starts to spin from how quickly I drank thefirst.
I'm breathing hard and shivering as Tax's voice drifts above the noise of the crowd. The reality of it is the potency of his voice is probably muted because of the speakers, but that only makes me imagine what if it were just him and me. And he was singing solely to me. Of course, that's likely what makes him so enticing to the women down in front of the stage. It’s what makes him good as a rock star.Is he a rock star?I ask myself. Sure, the music is rock-esque, but his voice is so much more. Something damning and different, water sliding over strings colliding with a deeply sexualedge.
I find myself gripping the edge of the bar and drinking more the longer his set goes on. My eyes are glued to the mirror because I can't bring myself to turn around and see him directly with my own eyes. Tax’s face surprises me when he tilts his chin down and I realize he's staring at me as he sings. At least, I think heis.
His eyes are a little too clouded for me to know if he is really focusing on anything at all. His voice is deep and rich and enchanting. He shakes his hair out of his face before starting another song and bends down, picking up a guitar. He reaches up to the microphone and belts out a long-lasting note once more. His face is hard, harder than I think a musician’s should be. His nose is slightly crooked like it’s been broken before – perhaps a few times. The song is beautiful, and his voice is melting and effortless, but the lyrics don’t match his face. He doesn’t look like he cares much for the words he’s singing, and I wonder what kind of song would fit himbetter.
Beverly hasn't returned, and her second Merlot remains full. It isn't until another band replaces Tax and his bandmates that I realize how tightly I'm holding onto the bar and I release, flexing the muscles of myhand.
Beverly bounds up to me, sweaty, and smelling like men’s cologne. "Oh my God!" she screams. "Can you believe that?! They weresogood! God, the things I'm going to do to Crosstonight."
I grimace and push my empty glass away. Beverly sees her Merlot and grabs it, downing it like the last one. It's so confusing to watch someone drink wine like a shot of whiskey. I look to the bartender as he stops by and hands me a receipt, then slaps one down in front of Beverly. I hand him my card and ask him for a pen. He yanks one out of his pocket and hands it over before moving down to his computer station with my card in hand while Beverly rifles through her bra for her owncard.
I grab one of the small, square napkins nearby and glance behind me before I turn and start writing, remembering Tax's voice. The words are different than the ones he sang; the meaning is different. My hand is shaking as I grip the pen in my fist, heartbeat thrumming in my ribcage like I’m about to leap off a building. I can almost feel the cheap dollar store pen under my hand cracking as I dive into thewords.
How is it that someone so distant, someone I hardly know, with just the sound of his voice makes me feel more than the man I’ve had sex with dozens of times everdid?
4
Tax
I'm on a music high. It’s hitting me harder than usual tonight. I'm flying. The addiction I have to it is probably unhealthy, but there are worse ways to sink myself. The choking feeling in my throat as I sing doesn't reach my voice. It never does. It's all in my head. It's there when the music begins to flow, and it doesn't leave until the last note fades. Blake's at my back, his hands deftly twirling his drumsticks as he brings them down again and again in an even rhythmic rotation. Even though I'm facing the crowd, I know if I turn around his face would be scrunched in concentration, his eyes shut against the bright lights that he can'tstand.
I'm in a strange head place right now. It's the one I get into when I sing and play long enough. It’s like I’m floating in limbo as the notes and chords mix between us and drown me in the sensations slithering over my skin. Fuck. It’s strong. The only other thing I can compare this to is the fighting, and maybe sex. Sex drowns out my thoughts, but only on occasion does it give me an unbelievable high like the one I’m feeling rightnow.
I open my eyes as the last note of the song ends. We’ve been doing covers all night mixed with the three songs we actually wrote. Our songs are slow, not as happy or upbeat as songs written by professional liars. That’s what we’re aiming for though, to become professional liars, even if we never get famous for it. Maybe fame wouldn’t be so bad, but I doubt it’s what any of uswant.
Cross’ face is just as flushed as mine feels. We say goodbye to the audience and announce the follow-up band before making our way backstage to load up the car. When we head back inside, my eyes search for a certain dark-haired girl I saw sitting at the bar. She's still there, and her bouncing little friend is back aswell.
