Page 6 of Elusion

Benji gets in on it, shaking his head. “That’s exactly the problem, man. He’s not being challenged.”

Oh, great. Here they go.

“He needs to do something new.”

“Or someone new.”

“No, he does that every week.”

“Maybe he needs a hobby.”

“Something he commits to for once would be good.”

“Let’s not get carried away, boys. We’re talking about Jordan here.”

Jesus. Throw a blonde wig on Gavin and add a few comments about how I’m a disappointment, and we’re at a family dinner at my parents’ house.

I get to my feet and go to the door. “Can you guys decide what I need in my life in any other room of this house?”

They stare at me for a second before picking up their conversation again. I walk out and down the stairs to the living room. The merry band of misfits has successfully driven me out of my own room. They do this—talk about me like I’m not there and sort through all the parts of my life they deem need fixing. I collapse on the couch to wait them out.

A new addition to our wardrobe for the night sits on the coffee table. The color shows through the translucent plastic bag, catching my eye. I reach in and pull out a pink hat. And another. And another. And one more. All are identical to Callie’s, but none smell like coconut. Three of them go back in the bag, but I stick the fourth down in the couch cushions. I’m over the color pink, hats, and beautiful cult-leading serial killers who want nothing to do with me. More importantly, I’m done letting it put me in a mood.

Once my roommates recommend that I buy a pet rabbit to solve all my problems, we load up Gavin’s van and drive over to the frat house. We carry in our equipment and start setting up on a small stage in the corner of the living room. Most of the time, we perform on the floor, so an actual performance space impresses me.

Gavin brings over one of my cables. “What will it take for you to finish setting up for me?”

I think it over for a second and say, “You tear down for me.”

“Done.” He jumps off the stage, sights set on two girls giggling in a corner.

One of them came by the house over the weekend. A hard-to-get girl who insists on getting to know him before she sleeps with him. He spent an hour complaining about her the other night and swore up and down that he was done with her. Not so much.

Sound check goes quick, and Johnny’s shirt peels off earlier than expected. He entertains a group at the keg while we all get a beer. The only female in combat boots strikes up a conversation with Benji. She “really digs” his neck tattoo but refers to it as a quarter note instead of an eighth note, so he loses interest fast.

When the four of us reconvene on the stage, they groan over my sabotage of the cute group costume. I ignore them. They don’t need me to participate. Dozens of other people are walking around the party, wearing pink hats. The damn things are unavoidable.

Benji gives his introduction, and Johnny counts us in to start our first of two sets. Gavin’s girl hovers near the corner of the stage, and his focus stays on her. During the second song, Johnny stands up to get a better view of his options. He smirks, sitting back down once he picks out which girl he wants. Soon after, a black skirt and green jacket gain Benji’s attention.

I concentrate on the music for a few more minutes before I spot a petite blonde. Notapetite blonde.Thepetite blonde whose eyes said yes until I blew it. She smiles, indicating forgiveness for yesterday’s blunder. Man, am I glad she’s not wearing a pink hat.

Eye contact? Check. Head nod? Check. Now, I just need to entertain her until I put my guitar down.

All of us make better performers when we show off for someone. Benji exercises more range with his vocals. I throw a little creativity into my riffs. Stick tosses become a part of Johnny’s routine. Gavin does … well, whatever the hell a bass player does to look more impressive.

Petite Blonde moves farther back in the crowd with a friend, and I reposition onstage to see her. When I find her, my gaze wanders right over her head to the red coat walking into the house.

Callie.

Petite Blonde who?

The friend, Felicia, grabs Callie’s hand and leads her up the stairs. A few minutes later, they bounce down with another girl in tow and quickly disappear into the kitchen. They return with red beer cups, and when they stop in the middle of the room, Callie looks to the stage.

My eyes drop to the fretboard on my guitar. Why? I have no excuse other than she surprised me. She must not frequent frat parties or I would have noticed her before now. Especially if she’d worn a tight top and ass-highlighting jeans like she is tonight. By the time I casually glance up, she is no longer standing where I left her. Her blue sweater moves toward the front door, and then out she goes. Since she neglects to take her coat, I don’t worry about her leaving for long.

Over the next two songs, I practice what to say when I accidentally bump into her later. It’s Callie, right? What are you doing here? Are you stalking me?

Questions only. Anything to keep her talking.

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