The guitar wasn't his – it belonged to a middle aged woman with big hair and an even bigger hat who made him swear six ways to Sunday that he wouldn't hurt it. Any other day, he would have refused, argued he needed his own guitar and that was that. But he was beginning to realize the pushy chick who had sidled up to him at the bar was a force of nature and wouldn't take no for an answer. Resigned, he grabbed a chair near the stage and sat down, figuring he should at least tune the thing before he made a fool out of himself on stage.
XxXxXxXxXx
He was concentrating so hard his teeth were biting into his bottom lip. He had a guitar lesson book propped open on his desk – Evelyn bought it for him at a used bookstore that afternoon and he'd run upstairs the second they got home to try it out. The song was supposed to be easy – a piece of cake – shit, there was a girl on the front of the book and she probably wasn't on the verge of tears because the chords were a mess.
Frustrated, he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He was stupid. He didn't know what made him think he could do it – he couldn't do anything – he was dumb and nothing was ever going to change that.
"Jack," Evelyn said softly and he looked up. She was standing in the doorway, he wasn't sure how long she'd been there and he felt his cheeks grow hot at the thought of her seeing him screw up so badly.
She came into the room and knelt down next to him. Reaching out, she rubbed his knee and for a minute everything was silent and he just focused on the feeling of her touching him and how he didn't feel like running away or throwing up or any of the dozen other things he usually felt when an adult touched him. He hadn't realized that had stopped – that feeling that twisted up his insides until he couldn't breathe.
"Honey," she said finally and he pulled his legs up underneath him so he was sitting Indian style, making her drop her hand from his knee. He may not feel like running away anymore, but he still hated confrontation, still hated to talk about stuff. "Jackie," she said and he took a breath. She always called him that when she wanted him to listen and feel safe and calm. He wanted to tell her he was fine – that he was just going to admit he sucked and quit trying to learn. He wasn't fooling anyone, anyway.
"When I was thirteen, I baked my mom a cake. It was her birthday and it was a surprise. My father wanted to just pick up one from the bakery, but I insisted. It was crooked and the icing slid off one side and I think I forgot to add the sugar to the flour because it tasted like sawdust. Do you know what happened?"
Well, that was certainly not what he was expecting. Cake and icing didn't have much to do with butchering the hell out of a Beatles song, but he shook his head anyway, kind of hoping this was leading to her offering him a piece of cake.
She grinned and he wondered if she could hear his thoughts – she got creepy like that sometimes, like she could hear the weird shit that tumbled around in his brain. "We each took one bite and then spit it out."
"Um … okay," he said, absentmindedly running his fingers over the guitar strings, pretty sure she'd just admitted he sucked.
"Then I went back into the kitchen the next day and tried it again and …"
"It came out perfect?"
She shook her head. "Nope, but I remembered the sugar that time. Eventually I made my own version, experimented a little, until it came out the way I wanted – not perfect, but better. Does that make sense?"
He shrugged and she took the guitar from him and propped it on her hip, placing her fingers like she was about to play. "Music is like that – the mistakes are what make it beautiful. You can't worry about being perfect. Perfect is boring."
She grabbed the book and studied the song Jack was trying to learn and she suddenly laughed. "Jackie, this one is tough. Why did you pick this one to start with?"
He pulled his cuffs of his shirt over his hands and tugged on the ends even though Evelyn was always telling him not to. "I dunno. I guess … well, I mean you like it. I remember you singing it once and I figured …" His voice trailed off and he kept his eyes trained on his lap.
"How about I help you? We can learn it together?" She got up and went over to the bed, probably wanting a softer seat than the hard floor. Jack followed and flopped on the bed, scooting back until he could lean against the wall and his feet stuck out over the edge of the mattress, the toes of his socks drooping because he stole them from Bobby's laundry and they were too big.
"Okay, let's see how this goes." She strummed a little and hummed under her breath – he realized she was barely looking at the book and playing from memory. A strange note tripped her up and she laughed. "Well, George Harrison can sleep soundly. His job is safe."
XxXxXxXxXx
People were clapping and Jack narrowed his eyes – he had no idea what they were clapping for. Yay for the weird looking guy with the wet hair and the leather jacket? Bargirl got them pretty riled up with her introduction – now he wasn't just a guy from Detroit who played guitar; no, he was a rock star taking a break from his whirl wind tour and if the fine people of Whereeverinthehelltheywere promised to keep his presence a secret, he'd love to sing a song or two for them. Sure. Whatever. He was beginning to think she might be slightly unhinged anyway and he was wondering why everything that had happened to him since Thanksgiving had been skirting the edge of absurd.
He looked out at the crowd and sighed. If this was a blues bar he could just strum a chord and lament the state of his life.
My life is just fucked up.
Kidnapped by my brother.
Bad guys want to kill me.
So what's fucking new?
Tired of this shit and just want get back home.
Got the Bobby Mercer blues.
He grinned at the thought as he pulled the guitar strap over his shoulder and adjusted the microphone a few hundred times as he stalled. He still had no clue what he was going to sing. Most of the band stuff didn't go with an acoustic guitar and he was so out of practice that anything fast would just be a joke. He rolled his shoulder, wincing at the twinge of pain that was so slight it really didn't warrant a wince. He needed to stop making excuses and jump feet first back into his life or just go home and die on the couch.
This was like a proverbial fork in the road. Right meant taking chances and getting past getting shot and losing his mother and worrying about sticking his neck out and making mistakes. Left meant shadowing his older brother for the rest of his life as he threw away every opportunity and gift Evelyn Mercer had ever placed in his hands while he was growing up.
Jackie, I know you can do this. It's hard, but I'm right here with you. He could remember Evelyn leaning over him as they looked at that book together, trying to work out the confusing parts of the song that really had no place in a beginner's lesson book, at least that was the stance Jack had decided to take. It was the book's fault. Plus, Evelyn agreed with him.
It took two weeks, but they finally figured it out and it was during that second week that she showed him what she meant about not needing to be so worried about screwing up. Together, they added all sorts of new parts to it – changed things up a bit until the three minute song eventually ran on for ten. It was silly and sounded terrible to everyone else in the house and bore little resemblance to the original version of Here Comes the Sun – but to Jack and Evelyn it was perfect.
He hadn't played that song in years, but the opening chords came easily to him, almost like breathing. He grinned as he strummed the familiar tune, trying to add some twang to it to keep the locals happy, not that they mattered. It was sloppy and it was too slow in parts, too fast in others, but it was right. Leaning in, he started to sing and it was like the last few months just fell away and he was back where he needed to be.
XxXxXxXxXx
Bargirl threw herself into his arms and knocked him off balance and he almost didn't catch himself in time – luckily he had already returned the guitar or he'd be in a shitload of trouble if he fell on it. Throwing his arms up, he fought the urge to push her away. "Whoa … you …" he trailed off, realizing he didn't know her name.
Her cheeks were flushed and he couldn't help returning her smile – it was big and bright and completely infectious. "Wow," she said breathlessly.
"Okay," he said.
"No, really. Wow," she persisted and he shrugged. "Encore?"
Shaking his head, he started walking off stage, dragging her along with him. "Nope. No encores tonight."
"But that was so good."
He was starting realize what Angel must feel like chained to Sofi as Bargirl yammered away at him. He was used to East coast girls – the ones who knew what they wanted and didn't bother with the small talk. This felt too much like work.
"Thanks," he mumbled as he limped through the people milling about. He stopped when he reached the bar and ordered another round of beers. He tried to sit on a stool but almost landed on the chick's lap because she'd already beaten him to the seat. She giggled and he rubbed his temples, suddenly feeling a headache coming on.
She looked down and linked her fingers in the chain attached to his belt, twirling it around her fire engine red fingernails. "Well … if you don't want to do an encore here …" She practically purred and he found his headache suddenly easing a bit. He leaned in slightly, his back against the bar, his hand resting on his hip, his fingers brushing hers.
"Yeah, got any requests?" He cringed at the bad pick-up line but she didn't seem to notice. He was rusty at this and he doubted he was going to get any Evelyn wisdom from beyond the grave to help him out. He had a sudden flash of that lawyer guy, Richard, telling him and his brothers about their mother's night things and realized there were easier ways to ruin a mood than a cold shower. He tried to push the image out of his mind – permanently.
"Oh, I can think of a few requests." She stood up and linked her arms around his neck. Balanced on the tips of her toes, she leaned in and her breath was warm on his neck and he could smell cherry lip gloss mixed with beer and he figured there were worse things in life than being bossed around.
Placing his hands on her waist he titled his head forward, his breath mingling with hers. "Oh, you can, can you?" he murmured.
"Mmhmm," she answered as she tightened her arms around his neck and lunged a little, covering that last millimeter of distance and crushing her lips against his. He realized the cherry was actually cotton candy and that Midwest girls made him forget himself just as skillfully as East coast girls did.
A Tim McGraw song was playing on the jukebox in the corner – something lazy and slow – and he swayed slightly, his hand trailing up the small of her back, skimming beneath the fabric of her plaid shirt, tracing lazy circles against her skin. She groaned deep in the back of her throat and leaned against him. It was supposed to be seductive and hot, but the extra weight bore down on his knee and he stumbled forward, catching himself with one hand braced against the stool and the other still wrapped around her back.
"Sorry," he muttered, embarrassed as hell.
She grinned. "Aw, ya just fell for me is all."
A thrown beer bottle saved him from having to think of a response. It smashed into the mirror behind the bar, sending shards of glass showering over the array of liquor bottles on display beneath it.
"What the hell?" He pushed himself up so that he could get a better look. A crowd was forming near the far edge of the dance floor. Another bottle went flying, followed by a chair and then … Jack squinted …
"Shit," he groaned, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.
"Who's the little guy?" the girl asked. She took a couple of steps toward the action, straining to see over the big guys lining the perimeter like they were watching a boxing match or something. Jack caught occasional glimpses of the guys who were fighting, circling each other and screaming insults and assorted shit at one another. He wasn't surprised in the least to see who seemed to be landing the most punches, after all he was the one who taught Jack how to box when he was eleven.
"The little guy is my brother," he said, rolling his eyes. He couldn't decide if he was tired or annoyed and just decided to settle with both.
A siren chirped outside and he glanced out the window, the telltale red and blue lights flashing against the glass. A cheer erupted from the crowed and Jack looked back – Bobby was picking himself up off the ground, wiping his bloody lip on the sleeve of his shirt.
Jack took a step forward. "Bobby," he yelled even though he had no hope of being heard over the crowd. His brother didn't hear him and literally launched himself into the stomach of the guy who punched him. Bobby wasn't going to give up until the police hauled his ass to jail. He knew what Bobby was like when he got into a fight - either the guy he was fighting passed out cold and Bobby could declare victory, or the jailhouse doors closed behind him as he spent the night in a holding cell.
The cops strolled in. Not in any particular hurry, but Jack had a feeling not much happened in that town in a hurry. They nodded at the bartender who pointed to the fight, like the cops couldn't figure that one out for themselves. Well, with cops you never did know – they weren't all like Green, with a brain behind the badge.
He slumped into a nearby chair. This was going to take all night – paperwork and waiting around. Shit he shouldn't be doing when he had a pretty girl perfectly willing to spend the night. God forbid Bobby keep his mouth shut and just enjoy a drink in peace and quiet.
Bargirl came up behind him and leaned over, her mouth next to his ear. "Raincheck?" she asked and he could hear the disappointment in that single word.
He watched as the cops entered the fray, one guy had his hand on Bobby's arm, wrestling it behind his back as his other hand reached for the cuffs. Long fucking night.
Jack turned in his chair and studied her for a moment – the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose intrigued him and he still needed to find out her name and follow through on all the promise that was in that kiss. He could hear Bobby shouting his name – it was slurred and he was drunk. The cops would make him sleep it off regardless of whether or not Jack showed up to claim the jackass. He'd go to the station, or whatever passed for a station around here, and make a case for letting him out early but it would fall on deaf ears – his brother was a menace to society until he sobered up and calmed down. If they were lucky, no charges would be filed - Bobby had dodged a lot of jail time in the past because cops just got tired of him running his mouth and figured overnight in a cell taught him his lesson. Right. That was one lesson Bobby Mercer was never going to learn because he didn't want to.
The girl was absentmindedly running her hand over the back of his chair, frowning and chewing on her bottom lip. He trailed a finger over her forearm and took her hand in his, guiding her gently until she was sitting on his lap. "Who said anything about rainchecks?" He grinned as he laced his fingers in her hair and pulled her toward him for another kiss.
One thing was certain – Bobby was going to kick his ass in the morning.