Page 26 of Poetry By Dead Men
He lowers the page and looks at me. Looksintome in the way only he can.
“Is this about anyone in particular?” he asks, searching my face. His eyes move from mine to my nose, my lips, then my hands.
My entire body heats as I blush again, and I wonder if there’s some sort of surgery I can have that will make my blood vessels stop betraying me. “Nope. Just a song.” My throat squeezes uncomfortably around the lie. I’m falling back into my old patterns, not brave enough to go after what I want, and I hope that he can’t see right through me. Bobby’s expression shifts, a flash of something akin to disappointment flickering in his eyes before he goes back to read the song again.
"Do you have another copy of it?" he finally asks.
"It’s typed on my computer. I have to submit it tonight."
"Don't change a word," he says, reading it one more time, his eyes sparkling. Bobby folds it back up almost reverently and takes his wallet out of his back pocket, sliding my song in next to his driver's license.
"What are you doing?" I ask, grabbing at his arm, but he pulls the wallet out of my reach.
"No way. I’m keeping it," he says, as if the matter is decided.
And it is.
Because Bobby could ask me to do just about anything, and I think I'd have no choice but to agree.
I don’t ask how Bobby got me a fake ID, or let myself look nervous as the enormous, tattooed bouncer checks it. With barely a glance, he hands it back to me, and I walk into Baby’s All Right, looking for a place to hang out until Bobby’s set starts. I've never been anywhere like this before, and even without using my ID to order a drink, I feel intoxicated.
There’s something bluesy playing, a rhythm that makes me want to sway my hips. Instead, I lean against the stage, watching as the room starts to fill up.
"Do you think he'll sing "Save You for Last?" the girl next to me asks. At first, I think she's talking to me, but when I turn around, I’m met with a group of girls, all dressed nearly identical in tight black dresses and heels.
The tallest one, a stunner with long blonde hair and bright pink lipstick pulls out her phone. "You can send him a message on Instagram and request it if you want. I already requested 'Captive.' He played it last show, and I swear he looked right at me when he sang it.”
A shorter, but equally beautiful brunette sighs. "I'm not sure he reads the requests. He never responds," she says.
"Kelly. He must get a hundred requests before every show. You think he's going to respond to them all?" the blonde snaps.
"I'm sorry," I interrupt, not knowing the songs they’re talking about. "Is someone playing tonight other than Bobby?"
"Bobby?" The girl called Kelly laughs but stops, her eyes bugging out when she realizes I'm not joking. "Wait, do youknowRobert Beckett?"
"There's no way she knows Robert," a different girl says, her red lips tipping into a smirk as her eyes drag up my jeans and black t-shirt. Suddenly, I’m self-conscious. I felt good when I left the house this evening. A little sexy even, with jeans that hug my legs like a second skin and a slightly cropped shirt. My hair is half up, the ends curled into loose waves.
"Excuse me," I force a smile and turn around, ignoring them as I try not to let their jab bother me. Idoknow Bobby. And so far, I haven't needed a skintight black mini dress to get his attention.
Except, you are firmly in the friend zone,that annoying little voice in my head reminds me.
The lights dim, and I take a final look around. This place is packed. To-the-brim packed, mostly with women.
Bobby talks about his songwriting a lot. About his music. But he doesn’t talk about his performances very often. Sometimes, he’ll tell me about changing a word on the fly, or when he feels like he made a mistake. Iknowhe can sing, because sometimes, when our heads are hovering over his notebook dissecting a lyric, he quietly sings the melody along with the words to give me a better picture of what the song is like.
But this? This isinsane. So much bigger and more thrilling than anything I've ever pictured.
The house music quiets, and the lights dim. An older man with obviously dyed hair saunters across the stage. There’s no preamble, no long-winded introduction.
"Robert Beckett, everybody," he says, and the audience goes wild. It’s exhilarating, and I can’t help but join in.
Bobby walks out on stage and beams at me. Actuallybeamsat me, and I know my expression is an echo of his. Pride swells in my chest as he grabs the microphone stand. The crowd cheers again, and he waves confidently. Bobby has found himself quite the following here in New York, and I am so happy for him I feel like I could explode.
"Good evening!" It’s Bobby’s voice coming through the speakers, the same voice as the boy I share coffee with every day, butmore. It's commanding, vibrant, and so incredibly sexy, it makes my toes tingle. My core clenches, and I feel myself morphing into another fan-girl. But tonight, I'm okay with it. Iamfan-girling.
"Thank you all for being here." He strums a chord on his guitar——then quickly adjusts the second to last knob, tuning it before continuing. It's easily the sexiest thing I've ever seen. I squeeze my legs together, unable to look away from his strong, callused fingers.
"We’re gonna start with a new song tonight." The crowd quiets down, their anticipation palpable. "This one’s called 'TheApplication.'"
