Page 41 of Under His Sheets
I laughed. “Thanks, but I’m fine. I don’t mind. It wouldn’t do for me to get rusty, now would it?”
Ivan finished up in the stall and met me at the sink.
“That was some bullshit today, huh?” he asked, shaking his head. “We’ve had enough nationalism nonsense at home, am I right?”
“Is that what you think it is? Some sort of nationalist sentiment? Or do you think the Catalonians are right to want to leave Spain?”
Ivan looked around to make sure we were alone and he leaned in close. “I wouldn’t be discussing it out in the open, feel me? There’s a lot of upset people. The Spaniards don’t want to lose a fifth of their economy. The Catalonians don’t want to pay more than their fair share. There’s a lot of history here, and it ain’t good. You saw what happened today? You saw those people out marching in the streets? This situation is a powder keg. I just hope it doesn’t explode in our faces.”
“Me either,” I murmured, rubbing my arms, a chill breaking my skin out in goose bumps. My fingers ran over the stitching job Alonso had done in my favorite cardigan. I didn’t want him to get hurt either. Whatever his assignment was, I hoped it was over with soon.
“You better get out there,” Ivan said with a laugh. “Don’t want to disappoint your fans.”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe next time we can do a duet?”
He nodded and his lips turned down at the corner. “I can see that. Let’s see how you do tonight, though. I can’t be singing with no amateur.” He rubbed a finger across each eyebrow and wiggled his head. “I got a rep to protect.”
I pushed him out the door. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”
I went back up to the stage and had one song to figure out what the hell I was going to sing. I was delighted to see the selections were vast, and the perfect song was available.
The DJ for the night called me up and gave me that funny look people get when they recognize you but aren’t sure why all while my colleagues continued to cheer ridiculously loud for me.
“Senyores i senyors, aquest és el nord-americà, Randall Sutter.”
I looked for Alonso, only letting my gaze land on him for a split second before the music started. I’d chosen Jeff Buckley’s “Last Goodbye,” and if he liked Buckley’s music half as much as I did, this song would make him swoon.
My French pals squealed and the three of them pushed their way through the crowded bar to the dance floor, where they began to sway and dance to the sultry beat of the song. I took it easy on the first verse, but once I hit the chorus, I let the full power of my voice, my entire range, out to play and attempted all the dips and swerves of Buckley’s incredibly vocal prowess. I kept my hands resting on the mic stand, but I couldn’t keep from being moved by the lyrics.Kiss me, please kiss me.
My first band used to cover this song, and it was a little weird to not be playing guitar, but I didn’t mind. I felt free. It was just me, no weight of a band behind me that caused me nothing but stress.
I snuck a glance at Alonso, and he was smiling broadly, his head bobbing to the music, and I wished we were alone. I pictured us lying together in his bed back in his childhood roomand it gave the words more power. I didn’t want that night to have been our last embrace.
The whole bar was in my thrall, and I loved it. This was why I’d become a performer in the first place. There was nothing more powerful than a rapt audience. But then Ferrer’s words came back to me.
“Is this what you want? To be a music teacher?”The last words said in a tone just short of disgust.
As I looked around at my colleagues—my people—who I knew had my back, who were cheering me on, I thought, yes, right now, this is what I want.
And that was when all of the glass shattered along the front of the bar.
Screams broke out and everyone fell to the floor. Loud bangs and shouts filled the room and there was so much chaos, I froze in place, bright light blinding me. A whooshing sound filled my ears and my face grew hot, and then he was there.
“Randall, we have to move!”
Alonso grabbed my hand and dragged me into a flow of people trying to exit out the back door. I was jostled and smashed. I tripped and fell against him, but he never lost his footing. Something wet landing on my cheek, and I wiped at it. My hand came away with blood and my vasovagal response went to work, and by the time the cool night air hit my face, the edges of my vision had gone fuzzy and my skin was clammy.
“Randall?” Alonso was speaking, I knew he was, but my ears were plugged as if I had on noise-canceling headphones. He held my head in his hands and I reached up to grab his arms.
“What’s happening?”
He frowned and he gestured for Ivan, speaking to him in Spanish. Ivan nodded and took over holding something against my forehead as Alonso ran back inside.
“Hold still, Randall.” Ivan’s voice was quiet too. Why couldn’t I hear anything?
A moment later, Alonso came running back out with Lara and Josette. It appeared the whole crew from Frederick Douglass was sitting together in the parking lot behind the bar, but I didn’t trust my own observation.
“Aquí. Ahora. Ayúdame.”
