Rock Chick Reckoning (Rock Chick #6)(49)

magnetic.”

“Stop.”

“You could light up arenas.”

I closed my eyes tight.

“Stop,” I whispered.

I felt him get even closer, the heat from his body hitting mine.

It felt good. It felt safe. It felt right.

“What you’re not is black.”

My eyes flew open but even so, there was only time to see him melt into the crowd.

Effing, bloody, f**king hell.

* * * * *

I knew I was going to do it, right after our never-say-die, always-upon-always, burning-down-the-house, gig-ending, band-defining version of “Ghostriders in the Sky”. I knew I was going to do it, break precedent, maybe even shift the entire center of the band, maybe even pound a crack in our foundation just in order to do it.

Because I had to do it.

Mace had to get it.

If he didn’t get it, I was lost. I already felt myself veering off the path.

And I’d just found my way again.

I wasn’t going back.

I couldn’t.

Nunh-unh.

No way.

It was the end of the night, the crowd was screaming for an encore that the regulars knew they were never going to get. They knew this because they never got it.

Never.

No matter how much they screamed and clapped and stomped their feet, after we sang “Ghostriders”, The Gypsies were, without fail, done.

Until tonight.

The band had had their fil of applause, saying “thank you” into their mics, raising their hands to the crowd and feeling the love. They were turned away and getting ready to pack it in. The house lights were already up. The crowd was just beginning to come to the realization that they’d have to climb down from the high where we’d taken them. I felt the desperate urgency sift out of the applause as it downshifted to appreciation.

That’s when I started strumming my guitar.

Buzz’s head jerked toward me and I felt Floyd’s eyes on me. I noticed Leo glancing around in confusion. Hugo froze to the spot, his eyes on the strumming fingers of my right hand, the contorted fingers of my left pressing the frets.

I didn’t even look at Pong.

I ignored them al as I strummed.

Then I stepped up to the mic.

I gave a soft, “oh yeah,” into it, letting it snake into the quieting crowd, listening to the hum die as I played the chords.

As if rehearsed, Buzz, Leo and Pong came in right on time which it most definitely was not rehearsed, it was a song I played at home, alone, but never al owed myself to sing, never al owed the band to play, a song so deep in my soul, I couldn’t sing it, I was afraid I wouldn’t do it justice.

By that time, the crowd was total y stil , deathly silent and staring in fascination toward the stage.

I was known for never changing lyrics, never changing the words of a song sung by a man to fit it to myself as a woman. This gave me a subtle edge because lesbians thought I was one of them when I sang about women and that was my code to tel them I was a member of the club.

This didn’t affect me, I was happy for the additional fans and lesbians always gave a good vibe at a gig.

They didn’t know that I didn’t change lyrics because they weren’t my lyrics to change. In my head, a song was a solid thing, rendered from marble by its maker and it wasn’t up to me, Stel a Gunn, to take my unqualified chisel to it for my own purposes.

But tonight, I was going to make another unprecedented exception.

I was going to change Vedder’s lyrics, fit them to myself and Mace.

My eyes found him. He wasn’t hard to find, throughout the last two sets, I always knew where he was.

Just like before we broke up, when I always but always knew where he was at a gig.

He was standing head and shoulders above the crowd, five feet from the bar, his eyes on me.

Our gazes locked.

That’s when I sang to Mace.

Yes, again.

And I felt it as the crowd pul ed in their breath.

And then, through giving it to Mace, I gave them Pearl Jam’s epical y beautiful bal ad, “Black”.

After I finished the lyrics, I held out the “be” and shouted my “yeah” just as Mace came unstuck from my spel and started to push through the crowd, making his way toward the stage.

The band played behind me with a power and certainty that made it sound as if we’d played the song mil ions of times rather than just this once. The chords I played sounded angry, as if sliced from my guitar. Floyd’s fingers were pounding out the notes on the piano, notes to a song I didn’t even know he knew.

The crowd was stil silent, stunned, watching, enthral ed.

I let the final words to the song rush out of me, hoarse and fil ed with scratching despair, just like it rushed out of Eddie Vedder on Pearl Jam’s world-rocking, genre-defining album “Ten”.

As I sang, Mace was nearly at the stage when I closed my eyes to shut him out as if closing my eyes could shut him out of my life forever.

Stil playing, my head dropped and I rested my forehead on the mic, the vision of Mace, eyes never leaving me, pushing through the crowd toward me, was burned on the backs of my eyelids.

I played lead, Floyd’s piano thundering around me, matching the same notes that came from my guitar. The band began singing their “da-do-do-do, do-do-do’s” and before my fingers could strum the angry riff and I could shout my anguish like Vedder, I was pul ed roughly from the mic.