hours upon hours of hard work honing my skill. If I want it to be so, Melissa will wake up with a very big smile on her face. You don’t have to worry about that.”
He’d just called her Beauty. At first it was Sleeping Beauty or Aurora, but never Alice. My jaw dropped open. Before I could decide whether Adam was being his normal looney-tunes or actually coming on to my best friend while his date sat across the table, the music stopped and a spot light came on.
With the music off, all eyes turned to the stage. The restless crowd chattered curiously, trying to figure out what was happening. Then Jackson stepped forward from behind the curtain. A few appreciative whistles pierced the room as he dragged a stool to the microphone in the middle of the stage. He took a seat, propping a guitar on his leg before looking out at the crowd. His turquoise eyes shined like iridescent beacons, drawing attention to the perfection of his face. His fingers gently caressed the strings of the guitar, like he was trying to acclimate himself with an old friend. Damn, he was breath taking all in black, cradling the guitar in his arms. It was like watching a hot guy holding a baby.
“How’s everyone doing tonight?” Jackson boomed into the microphone? The crowd went wild and a sexy smirk graced his lips. “My name’s Jackson and since this is my club, I hope you’re having a good fucking time. If it’s all right with you all, I’d like to sing you a song.”
Once again, the crowd roared. I could feel the vaginas quivering left and right, mine included. Now I understood what Scott and Will were talking about. If he sang like Donald Duck, I don’t think it would matter one bit; not to me or any other woman here. He could continue to talk, bust out in a gansta rap or interpretive dance, and I would still be mesmerized.
Jackson strummed a cord before speaking again. “It’s been a while since I’ve performed, so please be gentle with me,” he teased. The women erupted in a screaming frenzy, probably imaging all the ways they could be with him, gentle or otherwise. After thirty seconds, it was already clear Jackson was a natural on stage. He had that thing all stars have: charisma, magnetism, the inexplicable star quality that grabs your interest and doesn’t let go. The lights loved him. The crowd loved him. Fuck . . . I loved him.
Finally everyone settled down, and Jackson said, “I’m going to start with something familiar to get warmed up. This is ‘Hurt’ by Johnny Cash.” Then he looked up at the VIP section and although it had to be impossible to see clearly through the spotlight, it felt like his eyes were focused on me. “I hope you like it.”
Looking back down at the guitar, he played the opening of the song. I recognized the melody, having heard my mom play it a time or two. Then he began to sing, and my world once again flipped on its axis. Jackson got lost in the lyrics, and I got lost in him. The sexy rasp of his voice blended perfectly with the soulful melody of his guitar. It wasn’t just the words coming out of his mouth, but the way he sang them. It was in the taut lines of his body curled around the guitar. He was telling his story, just using someone else’s words. This was another side to someone I thought I knew inside and out. How could that be? All sorts of questions began to float inside my head. What the hell had he been doing for the last ten years? How did he get so good? When did that happen? And what, or even worse who, made it possible for his voice to enthrall a room full of people with his pain? Jackson made me feel everything, and it left me craving more. I was panting after a stranger. A talented, haunting stranger disguised as the man I love.
Jackson crooned the last riff and then the music faded until there was nothing but silence. We were all frozen, completely mesmerized, until the first person clapped and then everyone else enthusiastically joined in. The noise catapulted me back
He’d just called her Beauty. At first it was Sleeping Beauty or Aurora, but never Alice. My jaw dropped open. Before I could decide whether Adam was being his normal looney-tunes or actually coming on to my best friend while his date sat across the table, the music stopped and a spot light came on.
With the music off, all eyes turned to the stage. The restless crowd chattered curiously, trying to figure out what was happening. Then Jackson stepped forward from behind the curtain. A few appreciative whistles pierced the room as he dragged a stool to the microphone in the middle of the stage. He took a seat, propping a guitar on his leg before looking out at the crowd. His turquoise eyes shined like iridescent beacons, drawing attention to the perfection of his face. His fingers gently caressed the strings of the guitar, like he was trying to acclimate himself with an old friend. Damn, he was breath taking all in black, cradling the guitar in his arms. It was like watching a hot guy holding a baby.
“How’s everyone doing tonight?” Jackson boomed into the microphone? The crowd went wild and a sexy smirk graced his lips. “My name’s Jackson and since this is my club, I hope you’re having a good fucking time. If it’s all right with you all, I’d like to sing you a song.”
Once again, the crowd roared. I could feel the vaginas quivering left and right, mine included. Now I understood what Scott and Will were talking about. If he sang like Donald Duck, I don’t think it would matter one bit; not to me or any other woman here. He could continue to talk, bust out in a gansta rap or interpretive dance, and I would still be mesmerized.
Jackson strummed a cord before speaking again. “It’s been a while since I’ve performed, so please be gentle with me,” he teased. The women erupted in a screaming frenzy, probably imaging all the ways they could be with him, gentle or otherwise. After thirty seconds, it was already clear Jackson was a natural on stage. He had that thing all stars have: charisma, magnetism, the inexplicable star quality that grabs your interest and doesn’t let go. The lights loved him. The crowd loved him. Fuck . . . I loved him.
Finally everyone settled down, and Jackson said, “I’m going to start with something familiar to get warmed up. This is ‘Hurt’ by Johnny Cash.” Then he looked up at the VIP section and although it had to be impossible to see clearly through the spotlight, it felt like his eyes were focused on me. “I hope you like it.”
Looking back down at the guitar, he played the opening of the song. I recognized the melody, having heard my mom play it a time or two. Then he began to sing, and my world once again flipped on its axis. Jackson got lost in the lyrics, and I got lost in him. The sexy rasp of his voice blended perfectly with the soulful melody of his guitar. It wasn’t just the words coming out of his mouth, but the way he sang them. It was in the taut lines of his body curled around the guitar. He was telling his story, just using someone else’s words. This was another side to someone I thought I knew inside and out. How could that be? All sorts of questions began to float inside my head. What the hell had he been doing for the last ten years? How did he get so good? When did that happen? And what, or even worse who, made it possible for his voice to enthrall a room full of people with his pain? Jackson made me feel everything, and it left me craving more. I was panting after a stranger. A talented, haunting stranger disguised as the man I love.
Jackson crooned the last riff and then the music faded until there was nothing but silence. We were all frozen, completely mesmerized, until the first person clapped and then everyone else enthusiastically joined in. The noise catapulted me back
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