Page 32 of Jace
“So, Tuck, huh? He's hot,” Missy remarks as we get our instruments ready for a brief performance. She points to one of the amplifiers which is decked out with filled shot glasses.
“He's definitely easy on the eyes, but I'm keeping my word and staying clear of any hookups. I think…”
Missy arches an eyebrow. “You're not giving in? Are you sure you can resist?”
“Ha-ha. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Missy hands me one of the shot glasses and I make a face. “Please tell me that’s not Sambuca”
“That’s not Sambuca. Cheers, baby.” I take the shot–yup, it’s Sambuca–and it makes me shudder.
“Oh damn, I always hated that stuff.”
“But it sure is good to clean the pipes,” she replies with a smirk, slinging her hot pink guitar over her shoulder. As Ava and Asher join us on the stage, she offers us another round.
“My pipes are fine, but if you want me to hurl all over the crowd, keep these coming,” I grumble before I’m embracing my stupid side and down that one as well, and getting goosebumps all over. “Sambuca doesn't sit well with me.”
“A tipsy Jace is always a fun Jace,” she counters and pushes me to the mic. “Just do your thing, honey, and make them go wild.”
Well, if that's what she's after, I'm game.
I grab the microphone on wobbly legs, with the biggest smile I can muster despite my stomach's protest, tap it to ensure it's on–wouldn’t be the first time that I made that particular mistake–and belt out a ‘Hello there, Tigers!’
The crowd roars in response. Like a tiger. Funny.
“Hey, all you cool cats and kittens, ready to have a blast?” I ask, pushing my hair back with my free hand, earning another roar, which sparks an awesome idea. I swiftly turn and whisper to Missy, covering the mic.
She grins with excitement; we're ending this small set with a bang.
My adrenaline spikes as Asher kicks off the first song, and I slip into my zone, in my jam. We’ve chosen up-beat covers for this gig, and it doesn’t take me long before I’m standing on the porch railing, giving it my all with my awesome band, while all that fucking Sambuca works its way into my veins.
The Sambuca is probably the reason why I’m on this railing to begin with.
As I clutch the banister, I swerve dangerously while belting out the last notes of the short set. Laughter escapes my lips into the mic as I regain my balance. Various girls stand below, their hands possibly preventing me from falling. Maybe.
I recently spotted Tyler with his trusty ball cap, near the keg with Lamar, and The King is now laughing his ass off, one arm slung over the shoulders of Kaylee, who is gazing at me with stars in her eyes, like always.
I try to brush it off usually, make a joke out of it, and hope it isn’t going to become a problem because I really, really, like the friendship I’m building with Tyler. Who is still laughing, so I give him the finger, which he proceeds to give back. So I give him a blow kiss instead, just being annoying, which of course leads to some high-pitched screams.
“Don't worry, ladies, there's enough of me to go around.” I wink, struggling to stay on the railing. Some girls shriek, and I laugh it off.
“But this one is for all you lovely jocks, for your Tigers, who I’m starting to like way too much. For the hotties that you are.” I groan theatrically, glancing at Tyler. “You asked me yesterday tosing your national anthem, but I think I've found a better song for your Tigers. And it is really really cliche, so it's mighty stupid you didn't come up with this before I showed up.”
I grin at the hollers. “So without further ado,” I continue, glancing at the band, knowing Missy's informed them. They're in tune with me. “Ash? Hit it!”
When the first beats of Katy Perry’s ‘Roar’ hit the speakers and I start to sing, the crowd goes wild, making me almost forget my next lines.
It’s so simple really, to use this song for a team that calls themselves The Tigers. There are probably a couple of dozen other ‘Tiger’ teams all over the world who use this, and really isn't very original, but it sure is a hit, hyping them all up as they sing along.
And sing along they do. As I trot and roar and bellow the words into the mic, they try to outdo me, which makes me sing louder, encouraging them to do it with me.
Maybe all the Sambuca had something to do with it, but I sing my ass off, giving it my fucking everything, thrusting my hips on the beat and waving my arms on the rhythm. Shit, the girls on the first row even give me a damn champagne shower–at least I hope it’s champagne–and when I grab the back of my jersey, pulling it over my head to push the wet fabric in my back pocket, that gets me the most response.
And I fucking love every single second of it. I live for this shit, I really do. There’s nothing like it, like this high that you get when the crowd gets you, when you make them go wild, go crazy, and when I can honestly say that they are entertaining the hell out of themselves.
That’sthelife. That’s what I’m in for. I’m a born entertainer, and Ineedthis.
I need them to love me, because who fucking else does?
When the song ends, we get a massive applause as we thank them, and I’m glad the dj quickly puts the music back up, because my throat is sore from all the growling and screaming.
