Page 2 of Bone Dust

I shift my view to the stage. Savannah Grace, huh? It hits me that I don’t recall Sam saying the singer’s name or, for that matter, ever mentioning if it was a girl or a guy. All he said was he wanted me to come to his bar and hear his favorite performer. As I listen to the song, I can see why he likes her so much but am clueless as to why he wants my opinion.

Since I disappeared from the music industry, I’m not sure my thoughts are worth much these days, but she’s good. The song she sings is slow and easy and it compliments her tone well. There’s a seductive quality to her voice. It’s breathy and kind of whispery on this song. She reminds me of Diana Krall or Melody Gardot or even Clare Bowen. The audience is captured. They’re quiet; almost reverent. They probably have no idea how much they’re into her, but I see it, and I get it. It’s all about connecting with those who pay your bills. I know this well from my days with Boundless Hearts.

As lead singer of the hottest band around, and in typical rockstar fashion, I was as lewd on the stage as I could be without getting arrested. This woman attracts an audience much different than the ones we played to. I got away with almost anything then. Women loved when I shoved my crotch in their faces. I was as vulgar as sin and this woman is the total opposite. She sits so pretty and croons so sweetly. She delivers the melody as if she’s giving them a beautifully wrapped gift.

Quietly, I observe the body language of the audience. It speaks volumes. Some people are leaning in toward the stage, while others are so relaxed, they recline easily in their chairs with legs stretched out comfortably in front of them. Whether Savannah Grace realizes it or not, she’s working them well, and that means money in the bank for Sam.

“You want to start a tab?” The barmaid suspends my drink in mid-air as she flips a coaster down on the bar. I reach into my front pocket and toss a twenty-dollar bill at her.

“I don’t need a tab. Keep the change.”

She eyes the bill, then retrieves it. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I answer. What’s your name?”

The flirty smile is back, and it lights up her eyes. “Jeri.”

“Short for Geraldine?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “Jerilyn—but only my mother and grandmother call me that. What about you?”

“Ian.” I stretch out my arm and extend my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Ian.” Jeri takes it and gives a featherlight shake. “Is this your first time at Mad Dog? I don’t remember seeing you here before.”

I nod. “Yep. I’m supposed to meet Sam.”

Jeri glances at the clock on the wall. “He should be here anytime now. Let me know if you need anything.” She pauses, leans in, and bats her long, fake lashes at me like they’re butterfly wings. “And I won’t say anything to anyone that I recognize who you are.”

My eyes widen slightly as I search her face. Her expression is playful, as if she enjoys having this little secret between us. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

She gives a quick nod as she moves away from me toward the other customers, and I set my attention elsewhere.

The air is thick, causing a quick melt of the frosted mug. A circle of sweat beads roll to the bottom, and as I lift the glass, it sticks to the cardboard coaster. Almost instantly the coaster falls and rattles against the bar top. I pick it up, hold it, and inspect it. Again, Mad Dog.

I couldn’t read the writing on Jeri’s shirt but can clearly see the bar’s tagline on this piece. In a semi-circle above the dog’s head are the words: Where the music kicks ass and Mad Dogs Run.

A smile plays on my lips. This bulldog is Sam; tough, cigar-smoking, and sunglass-wearing.

I glance at the clock on the wall then reach into my back pocket. When I pull out my cell phone, I check the screen. No missed calls. Where the hell is he?

“You all are familiar with this next song.” Savannah’s voice diverts my attention. “When I begin, I dare you not to think about puppies.” She gives a little laugh and a wink.

Puppies?

I’m perplexed and my brows pull together but as soon as she strums the first few chords, I grin. There isn’t anyone who hasn’t heard Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel”. The song is played ad nauseam, but the most popular use has been for a public service commercial as an appeal to animal lovers. As pitifully mistreated dogs and cats pull at heartstrings with their sad, silver-dollar-sized eyes, it plays in the background—and it hits the mark for the charity.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” The deep, coffee-rich baritone hits my ear just as a heavy-handed slap connects with my back. “How you doing, Amigo?”

I lean back. “Where the fuck have you been?”

His eyes snap wide as he pulls back. “Who are you, my mother?” Sam scoffs, then smiles. I draw my spine against the wooden chair back as he leans into me. “So, what do you think? Getting your fill of our Savannah Grace?”

“I am. She’s pretty good.” I nod.

“Damn straight, she’s good. She wouldn’t be singing’ at my bar if she weren’t.” He looks over my shoulder. “I see Jerilyn took care of you. Good.”

My brow pinches. “She told me only her mother and grandmother call her Jerilyn.”

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