Page 11 of For Puck's Sake

I throw my head back and laugh. Oh, we’re back to Mr. Masters now. I tilt my head, is he blushing? I smile, he is definitely blushing. Well, I think Bast has an admirer. “Call me Ridley, Derrick.” I reach out and clap his shoulder with my hand. “Stick with me kid, we’ve got all summer to teach you how to keep those big-boy pants up.”

Derrick smiles tentatively at me. He probably thinks I’ve lost my mind. I don’t blame him. I love shit talking. He will get used to it soon enough. Derrick opens and closes his mouth, then opts to look out at the ice instead. Poor kid doesn’t know how to respond, but Rick saves him when he calls out my name in greeting. The old man stands and waves enthusiastically, keeping one hand on the wheel as he steers our way.

“Ridley Masters, it’s about time you brought your ass back to Lark Bay!” Rick shouts over the noise of the Zamboni.

I extend my hand in greeting. Yes, it’s good to be back.

SIX

BREA

“Five minutes, Brea,” Dean says as he approaches me from beside the stage. The dimple in his right cheek pops as he smiles with his hand outstretched, my requested steaming cup of green tea and honey waiting for me.

Reaching for the to-go cup, I offer him an appreciative smile. “Thanks, D.” Instinctively, I blow into the lid before putting it to my lips and taking a sip. There are only a few things I ask for before I perform. My rider is short in comparison to a lot of the big names in the business. I require my favorite stool, my bespoke vintage mic and mic stand, Bessie, of course, and tea. Green tea and honey to be specific. I am not a diva, I don’t ask for much, even though I know I can. I don’t see a need. Especially here in my hometown. Sure, in bigger venues I would have a band to back me and a more intricate set up, but this is an intimate setting. I want every night here to be exactly that, low key, just me and my guitar.

“Can I get you anything else? Your friend Red wants to know if you need water on hand as well,” he asks as he rolls up the sleeves of his black button-down shirt, exposing the musicalnotes tattooed down his forearms. Tilting my head to the side, I take him in. Dressed in his typical backstage uniform of all black, Dean is model-worthy. His smooth brown skin is flawless, with big brown eyes full of mischief and charm, and, of course, the signature panty melting dimples. Too bad I don’t see him in that light anymore. But for someone else though . . . maybe I could introduce him to one of the girls.

“I can grab water from the bar later,” I reply, inclining my head toward the direction of the bar. At the moment we’re standing behind the same red velour curtain I stood behind all those years ago when I first made an appearance here. I can’t see the people sitting at the tables and booths beyond the stage or the bar bustling with locals demanding their drinks of choice, but I can hear them.

Dean runs his hand over his bottom lip, lost in thought. I don’t miss the look of longing on his face. I know he wants to say more to me, but he refrains. Yes, Haynes, keep it professional. The last thing I want to do is talk about us, when there is no us. Again, I internally berate myself for making things between us so complicated. Dean is a musician in his own right, he plays the piano, and has a voice as smooth as honey. It’s how we first met, playing in some of the same venues in Seattle. But instead of pushing for his own record deal, he opted to be my road manager, performing a duet or two with me on occasion.

Dean clears his throat, pulling me from my thoughts and nods his head in understanding. I guess he realizes this is not the time or the place to talk about whatever is on his mind. I’m sure I have an idea considering what he did this morning at the radio station.

“Have a good show, Brea. My keyboard isn’t set up, so I assume you won’t need me tonight,” he says backing away from me slowly as I shake my head no. The song we usually duet together is not on my set list tonight. Plus, I need to create asmuch space between us as possible. I don’t want to share the stage with him so soon. Singing together used to be easy, but now, the lyrics to the songs we sing sit too heavy on my tongue, and well, they’re too personal.

“Nope. I’m good. I’m going to do something different tonight,” I reply as he gives me an awkward thumbs up, turns and walks away. Okay, well, I expected tonight to be a little off with him. Eventually, things will go back to normal between us. I hope.

With that settled, at least for now, I take one last sip of my tea and place it down on the little side table. Rolling my shoulders, I smooth my hand over my strapless white handkerchief blouse, the flowing hem hangs loose over my black skinny jeans. I check the buckles of my knee-high boots and test the heel for good measure. I’m usually a little more bohemian on stage but opted to look edgier tonight. This is Lark Bay. I’m sure everyone heard the interview this morning or news spread as soon as I stepped out of my jeep a week ago. The word is out, and I know without a doubt almost everyone in town is waiting behind that curtain to see me. Perhaps even my parents, to the detriment of my peace of mind. But I will cross that rocky bridge if and when it presents itself.

“Ready?” Red asks as she brushes past me and steps out on stage before I can reply. She glances at me for confirmation as I stand behind the stationary curtain shielding me from the audience. I reach down and scoop Bessie up in my arms. It’s all the communication needed between us as she approaches the mic, and the noise of the crowd dies down.

The semi-circle stage is bathed in a soft ambient light from the two spotlights aimed down on my stool and the mic Red now stands behind. She tucks her bar towel into the back pocket of her jeans and begins to speak.

“Lark Bay,” as soon as the name of our town leaves her lips, the audience goes wild. The sound of whistles and shouts of approval fill me with quiet anticipation of what’s to come. Red waves her hands up and down to quiet everyone once more, and like a choir director leading her choir they follow her lead. “I don’t think I really need to introduce one of our own. It’s been a while since she’s been home, but we welcome her back with open arms just the same. Tonight begins the first stop on her national tour, and I can’t tell you how proud and honored I am to host her here for the next couple of weeks. Help me bring her to the stage, Lark Bay,” Red begins to clap, and the cheers turn to hoots and hollers from the audience as they clap with her. “Come on, bestie, come put on a show. Brea Brookes everyone.” Red says, then pulls her bar towel from her back pocket and tosses it over her shoulder. She steps off the stage and weaves through the crowd without a backward glance and heads back to the bar, turning the stage over to me.

I walk out to more applause, taking in the room filled to capacity. Even the balcony is standing room only. I smile at the turnout. I expected it, yes, but it’s moments like this that I will never take for granted. The thrill and exhilaration of an audience, the excitement I feel to sit and play. Pure joy.The room begins to go quiet as I perch on the edge of my stool. Holding Bessie in one hand, I reach out with my other and pull my mic closer.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Brea Brookes,” I introduce myself.

Someone from the balcony shouts, “Welcome home, Brea!”

I glance up, shielding my eyes against the glare of the light just in time to see my friend Tasha from The Flying Saucer Diner leaning over the railing with a beer in hand. She waves manically, beer sloshing over her hand and I, fuck it, I wave back. She is good and properly drunk. I love it. There’s nothinglike coming home. I was wary at first, but no matter what my reservations were, this is home and I’m going to enjoy my time here.

I immediately start to tap my heel on the stage floor, the sound creates a hollow beat echoing through the now quiet bar. Now that I’ve got the audience’s attention, I begin to snap along to the rhythm. “I’m going to need you all to help me with this one,” I say to the crowd as I raise my hand in the air and continue snapping my fingers. “Snap with me.”

I love playing follow the leader, giving the audience a task is one of my favorite things to do. It’s how I know they’re with me. In a venue like this, it adds to the intimacy of the experience. I let the wave of snaps wash over me and begin to rock my body in time with the beat. I let the sound linger for just a little longer, until I stop snapping. The crowd continues as I settle into the stool and begin to play. I throw my head back, happiness fills me as I strum the chords, then I get lost in the lyrics.

Woke up with a smile today,

The weight’s gone, I’m on my way.

Sunshine pouring through my window,

Feel its warmth, let it flow.

No more worries, no more fears.

Just the sound of my happy tears.

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