Page 32 of Expressionate
I pause before answering. "I don't know," Iadmit.
He hums. "Well, then," he holds a hand out, "want to come with us? We could use another hand with setup."
I hesitate to take his hand. It feels like every time I turn around, he's right there. That hand held out for me. I'm not sure I trust it or those eyes of his. Eyes filled with the sea, a rocky sea, flanked by rough edges and cliffs. Sure enough, I know I'll find myself diving off one of those cliffs and landing on the spiky rocksbelow.
Even with that image in my mind, even with that knowledge, I have nowhere else to be, nowhere else to go. So, I take his hand. I let him lead me into the stairwell and out into the warm August night. I’d let him lead me straight into the fire, I think, if all he did was smile at me and promise a reprieve from my owndarkness.
* * *
The band is playing somewherenew tonight. I thought they had a contract with City Limits, but Cross is the one that informs me that their contracts are limited. They can play at other places if there's preplanned entertainment at the bar that they usually play. Apparently tonight there's a wedding reception and the wedding party requested a DJ rather than aband.
I'm unfamiliar with the idea of anyone wanting to host their wedding reception at a bar of all places. It seems a little backwoods and redneck, but I suppose if that's what a couple wants, then they should have whatever makes them happy. Fuck what anyone else says. There is already too little happiness in the world. Let them dance the night away surrounded by cigarette smoke and the scratch of countrymusic.
The new place is a bar even smaller than City Limits called the Key Hole. We arrive, and I help them set up. It's done rather quickly; other than carrying a few speakers and microphones into the building, I don't do much of anything. It's barely 10pm and they're already set and ready to go, simply waiting for the go-ahead from the barowner.
"Why don't you go sit at the bar?" Tax suggests. "We get a fifteen-minute break in about an hour and a half. Think you can wait thatlong?"
I nod. "I'll be fine," I assure him, fingering the hurricane I've ordered for myself. I don't normally drink them, but I'm branching outtonight.
Tax takes a moment to look me over as if trying to decide if I truly am as okay as I tell him I am. But he doesn't really have much time to determine his own answer before the guys are calling him to the stage. I suck back another quarter of my drink as he starts out by talking to the crowd. Despite the quaint interior, there are a number of people. Almost every seat is filled – I was lucky enough to get a single barstool on the end near the front door – and there are even a few peoplestanding.
The first time I heard Tax sing, his voice hit me like a freight train. Since then, I somehow managed to convince myself that it wasn't as powerful. But when he opens his mouth tonight and I hear him sing again, I know I was only fooling myself. I close my eyes, the alcohol buzzing through my system as his voice hits me once more. The low vocal tones are like a drug that makes everything in the room hazy. The sound of people talking, of glasses clinking together, of the ice machine in the corner rumbling – it all disappears. But I hear every sound – every syllable – out of Tax's mouth. The accompanying drums and guitar feel more or less like background noise as well – just really well-played background noise. It serves to heighten the experience of this particulardrug.
Baby, alone andbroken.
The blood frozen in yourveins
needs to be lit fromwithin
without turning you toflames.
Does he even know?I wonder absently. How much of a weapon his voice is? Shivers skate along the ridges of my spine. When the first song breaks and ends, I rise to the surface of my little Tax induced bubble. Heat slides along my spine. My drink is almost gone. I didn’t even realize. I quickly finish it and order another before Tax can start up his next song. This time, I order my classic, all-time favorite – ascrewdriver.
Too scorched tomove,
call me to yourside.
I’ll come at any hourand
Let you cry in my arms,until
we’re just two damagedsouls
holding each othertogether
The lyrics aren’t complete. They filter into my mind like bubbles that need to be trapped and popped or else I won’t understand what they mean. I reach for a napkin and pull out a pen from my purse. More lyrics flow from my mind to the ink in my hands. Sometimes the pen malfunctions and splatters on the bar top or the corner of the napkin – staining the surfaces. I can't stop now, though. I'm tired of trying to fight this. As Tax sings, I write. Words flow from my fingertips and I know if Tax sings them, they will be reborn and made into somethingnew.
It's hard to reconcile the idea of Tax – the cage fighter, the dark harbinger of the storms in his eyes – as this…entertainer. Because he's not an entertainer to me. He's not just a voice. He's a God amongmen.
When the set finally ends and the guys wave to the clapping crowd, descending from the stage to get away for a bit, I've had another few drinks and there is a pile of notes and lyrics on napkins at my side. Before Tax or one of the others can see anything, I stuff them into my purse. Cross passes me and finds a pretty redhead toward the other end of the bar. I watch as he strides over, a man confident in his sexuality, and hungry for satisfaction. The redhead stands nochance.
Blake, the quiet one, reaches for a beer the bartender hands him and then says something quietly to Tax before stepping outside. Then, finally, it's just me and Tax. Well, me and Tax and a couple dozen other people, but in this corner; we have as much privacy as a crowded barallows.
The bartender hands Tax a beer as the older man next to me slaps on his hat and vacates his seat, a wad of bills to pay his tab left on the countertop. Tax pushes the money toward the bartender and sits on the barstool. How fortuitous, Ithink.
I watch as a bead of sweat drips down the side of his face. "Hard work?" Iask.
He takes a long drink from the brown bottle in his hand, his throat working. "I suppose," he says. Tax turns to me, eyes traveling over me again. He does that a lot. Just looks at me. I find it both unnerving and...seductive. I wonder if he's doing it on purpose. "You having fun?" heasks.
