RoomHate(13)

I stopped wiping the table I’d been cleaning and walked over to him. “What are you doing here?”

He lifted his guitar from around his neck. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“I thought you went to New York with Jade.”

“She’s not going to be gone very long. And I already committed to this...gig.” He’d said it almost scornfully.

“I thought you were against playing here. I overheard you telling Jade that you’d rather perform at a prison than a lowly beach hut.”

“Yeah. Well, I guess she showed your boss some footage of me, and he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“How long will you be playing here?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks. Until we leave.”

“You’re not staying the whole summer?”

“No. That was never the plan.”

Disappointment set in. I should have been happy that he was leaving soon, but hearing that news had the opposite effect on me.

“Wow. Okay. Well…do you need me to show you around?”

“I’m good,” he said before walking away from me, heading toward the back of the restaurant.

Justin disappeared for at least an hour. He was scheduled to perform at eight, so he had about twenty minutes to go before show time.

My curiosity got the best of me as I went in search of him. The door to one of the back rooms was cracked open, and I could see him downing a bottle of beer and looking stressed. I wondered if he ever got nervous before a show. Even though he considered performing here a joke, he was still going to be putting himself out there.

His eyes darted to the side, and he noticed me standing there. We just stared at each other. It was ironic, but the only times I could ever feel the remnants of our old connection were in fleeting moments of silent eye contact. Sometimes moments of silence spoke the loudest.

I left him alone again, making my way back down the hall and into the restaurant to tend to the customers I’d been ignoring.

Things really started to get busy. Without Jade working tonight, we were short-staffed, and I was having a hard time keeping up with the orders. Sandy’s had indoor and outdoor seating. Normally, I would only be working one section, but tonight I was going back and forth between the two.

It was nice out, so I knew they would have Justin performing outside. I kept glancing over to the small stage to see if he was there. It was past eight, and he hadn’t made an appearance yet.

Sometime close to eight-thirty, I was in the middle of serving a large party of ten when I first heard it: the chilling sound of a soulful voice that was not familiar in the least. He gave no introduction. No warning. He just started to sing out the first few words, followed by the strum of his guitar. The song that Justin had chosen to start with was a cover of Ain’t No Sunshine by Bill Withers.

The entire room soon quieted down, and all eyes were on the stunning blond male specimen with the spotlight shining down on him. Despite the fact that I was carrying a large round tray of dirty dishes, I couldn’t move. The vibration of his thick, smoky singing voice had completely paralyzed me, penetrating my body and soul.

Aside from the lone teardrop that fell the night he lost it on me during steak dinner, I hadn’t shed any more tears—until now. It was all too much. Hearing how different his voice sounded, how he’d trained it over the years, was a wake-up call as to how much I had missed. All of the hours of practice that must have gone into honing that beautiful voice, and I wasn’t there for any of it. The guilt, the emotions, the reality of a decade gone…everything started to pummel me at once. Not to mention the song—about a girl leaving. It probably had nothing to do with me, but in my mind, it sure as hell felt like it did.

You had to have true talent to perform solo acoustically. All eyes were on you and nothing else. There were no distractions to take away from a cracked voice or any other screw ups. Justin sang the song flawlessly. The vibration of his voice was like a deep massage to my entire being. My heart filled with pride. Whether he liked it or not, I was so damn proud of him.

At the same time, I felt a rush of antsy excitement, much like a teenager seeing a boy band in concert. Adrenaline was pumping through me. A part of me wanted to just shout, “This is my Justin! I knew him way back when.” Another part of me wanted to rush the stage and wrap my arms around him.

The way his fingers worked the guitar effortlessly almost rivaled the sexiness of his voice. Women were starting to leave their tables, throwing money down at his feet.

Jesus.

Did they think he would start undressing or something if they gave him enough? I’d just never seen anyone throw money around here like that before. They certainly never threw dollar bills at The Ruckus. I guess that was just the type of effect Justin had on women.

By the third song, I needed a breather. Retreating to the bathroom, I splashed water on my face before returning to the tables just in time to hear him finally speak into the microphone in a low and sultry voice.

“I’m Justin Banks from New York City. I’ll be here for the next few weeks. Thanks for coming out tonight.”

Applause and a few whistles rang out. My focus on Justin had prevented me from tending to my customers. A few of them were waving me down, antsy for refills, so I took their orders and made my way over to the bar.

Justin took a sip of beer then spoke through the mic again. “This next song is an original I recently wrote myself. Hope you like it.” He strummed the guitar once and added, “It’s called, She Likes to Watch.”