Living Short in Bel Air (Completed 2013)

ChapteЯ 17: Pink. Fluffy. DANGER.

If he weren’t holding me up, my legs probably would have pulled a Bambi.  I mean—c’mon.  Who says that?  Really.  Who has the balls to give such a comment?  Jeff. 

My mind a little fuzzy, I wasn’t sure why I was pulling closer until an abrupt mention of my name came up. 

“Did you find any bacon?” Clint spoke with a toothy grin.  Emerging later was Driz who seemed to have trouble breathing as well.  I mocked a fake smile, and rolled my eyes.  His gaze travelled down to Jeff’s arm around my waist, and a tint of red grew by his cheeks.  “Jeff.  Can I talk to you for a sec?” 

He shrugged and whispered a sweet nothing in my ear before walking to the side with Clint.

“Y-you guys should have at least told us you were leaving,” Driz huffed, sweat breaking down her forehead. 

“Sorry,” I said, sheepishly.  “I was kind of dragged by an idiot.”  Idiot.  Right.  I was supposed to be mad at Jeff.  Why did it have to be so hard? 

A lady dressed in an incredibly ugly white feathered dress stepped onto the stage, her makeup pasty looking and clown-like.  “Hello, Bel Air!”  She gave a short wave.  “Tonight’s performance will star Stacy, Bel Air’s Beauty winner last year.  Please give a round of applause for Miss Stacy!” 

Excited shouts and whistles instantly rang over the crowd, forcing me to clap as well.  (It’s good sportsmanship, okay?) 

“This ought to be interesting,” I whispered to Driz as bright lights began to flash. 

Stacy followed past the hostess and sashayed towards the dead centre of the stage.  Wearing a long red sparkling dress that exposed enough for imagination, she flipped her curled Marilyn Monroe hair style and caught the microphone from the audience. 

At first, I wasn’t sure what she was going to do until she opened her mouth.  Now let me state this in the easiest way possible.  Stacy could sing.  Jazz instruments played live in the background, jogging my memory back a few years when my mom played her first jazz tape.  ‘When a woman loves a man’ by Ella Fitzgerald was the first song on the tape, which was coincidentally the song Stacy was singing. 

No lie.  She sounded exactly like Fitzgerald. 

Driz leaned down, and hissed, “Is she lip-singing?”

I gave a nonchalant shrug.  “No clue.” 

Peeling my eyes off of her, I noted the entire crowd awing at the talented Beauty Queen.  Brooding on the spot, it occurred to me I didn’t stand a chance.

“You can do this,” whispered Jeff, apparently back from his little chat. 

A sudden rush of anger took hold of me and I slapped his arm.  “I can’t do this!  I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing!” 

“Take a chill,” he said, laughing.  “I got this covered.”  Jeff headed towards the sound booth, leaving my misery to sulk alone. 

“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled.  The song nearly ending, a familiar presence came behind, and I turned to see Clint with a hardened expression.  I nudged his shoulder, suppressing the concern in my voice.  “What got your goat?”

“You don’t have to do it,” he spoke, bending down.  There was a hint of annoyance on his face, and I wondered if he was pretty much saying, ‘Don’t do it.’ “It’s your choice, Ly-a,” he added. 

Uncertainty had me take a step back, and I eyed him carefully.  “What happened to the ‘My-way-or-the-highway’ Clint?  Or ‘Do-as-I-say’ Clint?  Or ‘Listen-or-I’ll-hit-you-with-a-bagel’ Clint?”