Side Trip(17)

No, he looked beyond the audience. And it wasn’t the lighting that made him look sick. He was sick. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and upper lip. Was he nervous? Joy couldn’t imagine him being so. He was Jack Westfield’s son. A hole-in-the-wall gig like this should be a breeze.

Dylan cleared his throat. “Hi . . . I’m Dylan Westfield,” he murmured into the mic, “and I’m going to play for you tonight.”

Murmurs rippled through the bar. Joy caught the name Jack Westfield. She picked up “Westfield Brothers.”

Dylan swallowed, then swallowed again. His hand still shook as his gaze drifted without focus over the sparse audience until it landed on her. His eyes widened, then blinked. Joy smiled and waved. Dylan grinned, a beatific curve of lips that made Joy’s heart flutter. Tension melted from his face. His shoulders relaxed and his hand stopped shaking. He started to play, eyes locked on Joy, and after the first few instrumental measures he began to sing, an acoustical cover of “Driving into You,” a Westfield Brothers’ Grammy-winning song anyone who listened to the radio would recognize.

The audience cheered, realization dawning that tonight’s act was a special treat. Murmurs about Dylan’s parentage floated around her. Unlike his dad’s grunge rasp, Dylan’s voice was haunting, with pop roots and a singer-songwriter vibe. Alluring and heartbreakingly smooth. Joy sat glued to her chair as his voice soared. She was transfixed, and she remained that way for an impressive seventy-minute set, when he closed out his performance with the best rendition of “California Girls” she’d ever heard. Slow and seductive, eyes locked on her. Joy was blushing by the time he finished.

Dylan took a bow and left the stage with his guitar, disappearing through the side door where Lea had gone looking for Dylan earlier. Lea passed Joy’s table and eyed her empty glass. She asked if Joy wanted another beer.

It wasn’t even ten thirty, and she wasn’t ready to turn in. She’d already checked in with Mark and called her parents. The rest of the night belonged to her.

“Yes, please. Sierra Nevada.”

“Make that two.”

Joy smiled up at Dylan. She’d hoped he would come say hi before he left.

“May I sit?” he asked when Lea left with their order.

“Please.” Joy moved her purse off the chair beside her.

Dylan dropped into the seat, stretching out his legs. He raked his hair off his forehead and watched her with a hint of a smile. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m staying at the hotel a block up. It was too early to turn in and I wasn’t tired, so I decided to come. Hope that’s okay.”

His smile broadened. “Totally. Why would you ask?”

“You didn’t invite me. I didn’t think you’d want to see me again.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to come. I’m glad you did, though.”

“Me too. This was by far a better side trip than that museum I dragged you to.”

“Tell me about it,” he said on a short laugh.

They shared a smile and Joy felt a connection. She reasoned it was over a mutual dislike of museums with odd curiosities and a love of music. Lea returned with their drinks. Dylan pulled out his wallet and Lea refused payment. “On the house.”

“Thanks.” He slid his wallet back into his pocket and raised his glass. “What should we toast to?”

“To new friends?” Joy suggested.

“New friends,” he agreed. He took a deep drink and set down the glass. “Speaking of friends, it was cool to see a familiar face in the crowd.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, but she sensed he was downplaying her attendance. He’d seemed relieved when he spotted her, as though she were a lifeline. She didn’t ask about it, concerned she’d make him feel more uncomfortable than he’d first appeared onstage. Instead, she asked about the gigs he had lined up for the rest of his trip. Maybe she could arrange her travel schedule so that she could see him play again.

For the next couple of hours they talked about touring and concerts. Dylan enlightened her with stories about the musical festivals he attended while living on the road with his dad and how his and his cousin Chase’s first paying jobs were to tune their dads’ guitars before every performance. Joy was looking at Jack’s bona fide guitar tech.

“He always told me I had a better ear,” Dylan explained.

“You have a better voice, too.”

“You think so?” He sounded surprised.

“You don’t? You’re so much better. I think the audience thought so, too,” she said, then yawned.

Dylan glanced at his watch. “I’ve been talking your ear off and we both have long drives tomorrow.”

“What time is it?”

“Twelve forty.”

“Wow, already?” It hardly seemed any time at all had passed since Dylan sat down. But he was right: it was late and she wanted to be on the road early. “I should go,” she said, reluctant to leave. This time she’d surely never see him again unless their routes crossed over the next nine days.

“I’ll get my guitar and walk with you.”

“Do you need a ride to your hotel?” she offered, thinking his need of a lift was the reason he wanted to accompany her. From what she’d seen or heard, he hadn’t rented a car yet.