Page 10 of OctoBEARfest

CHAPTER 7

GwenlikedBill Torben. She'd only known him a couple of hours, but he was such a big solid lunk of a guy who clearly cared deeply about his family and their business. She wanted him to be able to have his cake and eat it too, and never mind that she wouldn't hate being the cake that was being eaten. Which was a mess of a metaphor, but that didn't matter.

What mattered was the resignation and sadness in the big man's dark eyes, and her desire to do something about it. He'd obviously been shocked at her probably-too-blunt assessment that he was miserable, but Gwen was pretty sure she wasn't wrong.

She wasabsolutelysure she was right about music being a balm for the soul, though. "I am," she confessed as they went into the club, "assuming youlikerock music. Oh, this is nice."

The Harlequin kept its theme going from the enormous, Carnival-bright painted mask on the sign outside to its interior, which was done in reds and golds with white accents, making it vivid and almost bright even with the lights down low. A variety of seating scattered through the space, from a small set of tiered, stadium-style theatre seats to round couches around tables, and other individual or small chairs and sofas. The flooring hadraised areas, and there was an open upstairs with metal railing at about chest-height. Gwen bet it kept drunk people from falling downstairs.

There was a real stage setup at the far end, and the whole space was clearly oriented to focus on that. It had theatrical lights, curtains, a microphone and drum set, and a couple of stools for musicians to use. There was a glimpse of a just-barely-visible backstage area, too, and from the way the back of the building was structured, Gwen thought there were probably dressing rooms and maybe even enough space for setting up back there. Impressed, she said, "This is the real deal. How do you not come here?" before shaking her head. "Silly question. You're busy running the pub."

"And before I was running it I was…" Bill shrugged. "I did a lot around the place."

Gwen bet that meant he'd been running it unofficially for quite a while before he'd started doing it officially. "Well, we're just going to have to figure out some way to make sure you get time of your own, big man. You need down time, too, you know." Ideally spent with her, except she would be gone after the weekend. Gwen didn't mind fly-by-night affairs, but Bill Torben didn't seem like the kind of guy who went for one night stands. Besides, for some reason the idea made her heart ache a little. Even though she'd just met the guy, it was like the idea of stealing just a few days with him wouldn't ever be enough. Which was ridiculous, but hearts were capricious things. Gwen shook herself, pushing the thoughts away to ask, "Doyou like rock music?"

"I don't know any new rock," Bill admitted sheepishly. "I don't hear much of it on the radio."

"No, like I said, it's all pop and hiphop, or at least, a lot of it is. But that implies you know older stuff? And like it?" Gwen asked hopefully.

He grinned. "Yeah. That's me, a wannabe metalhead."

Gwen laughed. "Good. Gonna have to grow your hair out to really thrash it, but we'll work with what we've got." Someone came out on stage, obviously not paying attention to the relatively small number of people scattered through the club, and sat down with their back half to the audience, tuning a guitar and singing under their breath. "Come on, let's go ask if they know who the manager is." She scurried up to the stage, leaning on it in the musician's eyeline until they finished what they were doing and turned to look at her.

They were cute: androgynous, shaggy hair, large eyes, shapeless clothes, and held the guitar like they were comfortable with it. Gwen couldn't help smiling a little wistfully. She would have liked to have spent her own teen years figuring herself out like that, hiding in floppy clothes and wrapped around a guitar. "Hi! I'm Gw?—"

"Gwen Booker," the musician whispered, their eyes getting considerably larger. "Holy shit, you'reGwen Booker! From the Sixty Pix, right? The lead singer? You're—what areyoudoing here?"

A thrill broke from Gwen's throat in a laugh that turned into a beaming smile. She didn't get recognized all that often, and it was still incredibly cool to her when she did. She shot a quick glance at Bill, who looked a bit starstruck himself, just because somebody had recognized her. Still beaming, Gwen turned back to the musician. "Yeah, that's me. I'm playing at the Thunder Bear Brewpub this weekend. What's your name?"

"Ripley. I'm Ripley." Their voice squeaked and they stood up, blushing. "Holy crap, I can't believe I'm talking toGwen Booker!"

"Hey, Ripley." Gwen felt like her grin was going to split her face as she nodded at the guitar. "You been playing long?"

Ripley looked at the guitar in their hands like they'd never seen it before, although they were holding its neck with a throttlingly tight grip. "Oh. No. I mean, yes, but no? Not, like, not long enough to begoodlike you are."

Gwen lifted her chin, a little encouraging action. "Will you play something for me?"

Ripley, faintly, said, "Oh my God," and sat on their stool again like someone had cut their strings. "Me? Really? For you?"

"Yeah! I'd love to hear you!" Gwen took a couple steps back, spreading her hands, hoping it would encourage Ripley, who ducked their head over the guitar and audibly hyperventilated for a few seconds. Then they nodded and loosened their grip on the guitar, shook their shoulders, and, head still ducked, began to play.

It only took a few notes for Gwen to recognize the song as one of her own. She couldn't help laughing, and with a quick, sort-of apologetic glance at Bill, vaulted up on the stage and went to tap the microphone. It wasn't on, but she grabbed it anyway, theatrically, and when Ripley looked up with a gulp, Gwen nodded encouragingly at them. They lost their fingering for a moment, but she waited, and after another couple measures, they found it again, and took the intro of the song with more confidence. Gwen waited for her cue, lifting the mic to her mouth, and belted it out like she was playing for a crowd.

Ripley's eyes widened further and a smile leaped across their face. Before Gwen reached the end of the second line, the guitarist's confidence had soared, fingers dancing across the strings like they'd been playing with Gwen their whole life. By the end of the verse, Gwen was forehead to forehead with Ripley, both of them singing their hearts out as they grinned wildly at each other.

Halfway through the chorus, the mic turned on. Gwen's voice boomed across the club and she laughed into the microphone,pulling it a little farther away from her mouth now that it was live, and took half a step back from Ripley so the guitar's sound wouldn't distort. The crowd, such as it was at mid-afternoon, all came up to stand at the stage's edge, clapping and dancing and cheering. Bill stood thunderstruck in the middle of it, gazing up at Gwen like he'd just seen a star ignite. By then they clearly had to finish the song, so she and Ripley did, ending with a laugh and a bow first toward each other, then toward the little audience they'd gathered. Gwen, into the mic, said, "I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you here today," and got another laugh. "Is there a manager in the house?"

"Yeah." A slender man whom Gwen would call tall if he hadn't been standing next to Bill, waved. He was silver-haired, a little craggy, dressed in soft clothing and bright colors, like he'd been a music producer in the 80s and never got over dressing like one. "I'm Mike Piccolo, and you're Gwen Booker. That was terrific. And I see you've met our resident genius, Ripley. What are you doing in town, Ms. Booker?"

Gwen went over to crouch at the edge of the stage and offered her hand to the manager. "I'm playing at the Thunder Bear this weekend, but I thought I'd come check out the local scene. Nice to meet you, Mr. Piccolo."

"Call me Mike, Mr. Piccolo is my father, et cetera," Piccolo said easily. "If you've got any spare time and want to come play the Harlequin, Ms. Booker…"

"Well, now." Gwen smiled and stood so she could put the mic back in its stand, then returned to the edge of the stage to hop down. Instead, Bill stepped forward, raising his hands.

Gwen could think of a list of people she would let help her down from a stage by putting their hands on her waist and lifting her to the floor, and up until that very moment, that list had had exactly zero people on it. But Bill Torben's big hands slid around her waist with absolute confidence, and she had no fear at allas he moved her effortlessly to the floor. She ended up with her hand against his chest, somehow. He was warm and huge and she felt completely safe, looking up into his eyes. They crinkled a little with a smile, fine lines around them, and for a heart-stopping moment Gwen thought—hoped!—he was going to kiss her.

Instead he let her go and stepped back, expression sheepish again. Gwen wanted to heap reassurances on him: that had not only been okay, it had beenwonderfuland she wanted him to do it again and again and again. And also to see how many other circumstances he could lift her so easily in.

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