SOMETIME LATER, I saunter into the hotel’s bar feeling pretty awesome. The two blondes were fun, and the real, non-moving shower in my hotel suite was perfect. I sit down on the stool next to Jeffrey.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
He gets the bartender’s attention and orders me a beer. After Jeffrey hands the bottle to me, I tap it against his. “To Phoenix.” Once I chug about half of it, I look around. At least fifty people are crammed into the tiny bar area. Club music is pounding.
With a lopsided grin, Jeffrey asks, “So, enjoy the ride over here?”
“What do you think?” Winking, I take another swallow.
“Man, those blondes were smokin’ hot.” He looks around. “Where are they?”
“They were too tired to come into the hotel. I had the MPB take them back to their car.”
He takes another swig. “The Magical Pussy Bus strikes again. Sweet.”
Smiling, I ask, “Where did the brunette go?”
Jeffrey wiggles his finger at the chick, who floats over to him. She giggles and extends her hand, palm down, to me. “I’m Melissa.”
It’s obvious what she wants, so I kiss her hand. “Nice to meet you, Melissa.”
“I just love your music, Cole.”
“Why, thank you darlin’. Jeffrey here keeps me on beat with his wicked sticks. You got a good one.” She smiles at me and turns her attention to him. It’s nice to be a wingman.
“See you later, man,” I say to the back of Jeffrey’s head as he starts kissing the brunette.
I get another beer from the bar and walk toward the makeshift dance floor area. Roadies, band members, and groupies are grinding against one another. My keyboardist seems to have acquired a red-headed accessory. My gaze lands on a petite woman with long black hair standing to the side, all by herself. She’s swaying with the music, not really dancing. Such a gorgeous woman shouldn’t be alone, so why is she? Something about her intrigues me, but instead of making a beeline for her, I circle around the dance floor, keeping one eye on her.
The crowd roars a collective “Whoa!” Some chick went down, spraying her drink all over. Helping hands bring her upright. Judging by her laughter, she’s feeling no pain.
I continue my walk around the dance floor, carefully skirting the wet floor. A drunk girl stumbles into my path, and I grab her by the arms. “Cole, you were fantastic tonight! Can I get your autograph?”
“Why, thanks darlin’. What would you like me to sign?”
“How about these?” She asks while lifting her shirt up and over her head.
Grinning, I grab a marker from my back pocket. Rose Morgan, my PR account rep with the Greta VonStein PR Agency, insists that I always carry some of these with me. They sure do come in handy. “Why, I’d be delighted.”
Unfocused eyes look up at me with a mixture of lust and adoration. She wiggles out of her bra, presenting her chest to me. Not as impressive as Miss Boobs from earlier, but still a nice rack. Opening up the marker, I scribble my name across her tits and seal it with a flick of her nipple.
“I’m never going to wash the girls again,” she gushes.
My eyebrows raise. “Oh, darlin,’ just find me when it disappears and I’ll sign them again for you.” I leave her standing there, half-naked, mouth open.
When I scan the crowd, the dark-haired beauty’s gone. From the bar, a bunch of people chant “Shot! Shot! Shot!”. Although I don’t have a shot, I take a long drag on my beer in solidarity. I finish walking around, stopping twice more to have beer shots with the group, but the woman seems to have disappeared.
Some dude with a comb-over and a poorly fitting suit strides up to the bar, places his hands to his mouth and yells, “Could you please keep it down in here!”. No one pays him any attention, and the group nearest to him orders another round of shots. Glass breaks somewhere on the dance floor, followed by laughter. Everyone is blowing off steam and Mr. Comb-Over is trying to put a damper on our evening.
Turning my back on him, I head out to the large balcony for a smoke. A few tables are scattered about, punctuated by enormous potted palms. One other person has braved the Arizona heat, still impressive at this hour of the evening—or, more accurately, early morning. She sits with her back to me at a corner table underneath a tiki torch.
I approach the table. “May I join you?”
My mystery woman swivels in her chair and looks up at me. A slow smile spreads across my face. She gestures toward an empty chair.
Taking my seat, I say, “Hi, I’m Cole.”
Dark eyes look at me. She’s older than I originally thought, I’d say a few years older than my twenty-eight. “I’m Nicole.”
“Nice to meet you, Nicole. So, did you come to the show tonight?”
“Yeah. My friend is a huge fan.”
That explains it. She’s here because of her friend. This clearly isn’t her scene. “I hope I made a fan out of you tonight as well.”
“You were,” she pauses, “surprisingly entertaining.”
Not a ringing endorsement. Certainly not what I’m used to hearing, but it’s a nice break from the usual fare of flattery and fawning. I’m intrigued. I reach into my back pocket and pull out a pack of cigarettes and my lighter. Nicole accepts a cigarette when I hold out the pack, and we both light up. I notice a wedding ring. “So, what type of music do you like?”
“Classical. I’m in an orchestra.”
“Impressive. What do you play?”
“Violin.”
I take a drag on my cigarette. “Nice.”
“You play the guitar very well, but your piano is superb. I honestly enjoyed it when you did your solos at the baby grand.”
“Thank you. Piano’s my first love. I didn’t pick up the guitar until college.” I love discussing all types of music, and before long we’re talking about our distinct musical genres and the ins and outs of live performances. Our conversation is halted by a loud crashing noise from the bar.
“Your friends are a rowdy bunch.”
My body stiffens. I will always defend my crew. “They’re letting off some steam. We’ve been on the road for months, and this is one of only a handful of hotels that we’ve stayed in. The MPB is great, but it’s nice to get off of the tour bus.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you’ve been on tour for so long,” she says in a low tone, and takes a drag on the cigarette.
Wanting to return to a more neutral topic, I ask, “So, where is your friend who brought you to my concert?”
Nicole exhales a long stream of smoke and grimaces, pointing toward the bar with her head. “She’s in there. I think she’s with your keyboardist.”
“Ah. The redhead.”
She sighs. “That’s her. I tried to stop her, but she really wants to meet you.”
“Then why is she with my band mate?”
Her cheeks pinken. “You were, erm, indisposed. She thinks she’ll get her chance with you sooner or later. I tried to talk some sense into her, but she’s determined.”
I take Nicole’s left hand and play with her wedding rings. “You’re a good friend, Nicole. The girls we party with know the deal. We’re in Phoenix tonight, but we’re heading to Palm Springs tomorrow, and then back to Los Angeles. Your friend is a big girl.”
“I hate seeing her like this. She’s going to get hurt.”
“Then she’s lucky to have you in her corner.”
She gives me a dazzling smile. “You’re not like how I figured you’d be.”
“And how’s that?”
“You’re nice.”
“Thanks. I think.” I wink at her to let her know I’m not insulted.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “The way Libby goes on and on about your every move, I thought you’d be a real jerk. But you’re not.”
“Nicole, I know that I’m a lucky guy. I love making music and being on tour. I never take anything for granted.” For some reason it feels important for her to know that.
“Libby’s going to hate me when she finds out we were talking.”
As if on cue, the balcony doors burst open, and my keyboardist and Nicole’s redheaded friend walk out, pawing each other. I glance at Nicole and tilt my head toward the bar. Maybe we can escape the balcony without drawing their attention. Quietly, we stub out our cigarettes and stand up. We sneak around the potted plants and slither into the bar via another door, leaving the two lovebirds alone on the balcony.
“That was close,” I say into Nicole’s ear.
She looks up at me, smiles, and says, “Thank you. Libby’s my best friend and all, but there are certain things I don’t want to see.”
“Let me get you a refill. What are you drinking?”
“Diet Coke.” My eyebrows rise, and she continues, “I’m the designated driver.”
Shaking my head, I reply, “You really got the short end of the stick tonight, didn’t you?”
“If you’d said that about half an hour ago, I would have agreed. But now, let’s just say I think I’m a newly-minted Cole Manchester fan.”
I give her a big smile, knowing that my dimple is showing. “You just made my night, Nicole. Wait here, I’ll get your drink.”
At the bar, I order another beer and her soda. While I’m waiting for the bartender, I take in the scene. The music is still blasting and people are getting hot and heavy on the dance floor. Some chairs have been knocked over and a couple of hi-top tables look out of place. Guess that’s what made all the noise a little while ago. After a wait, the frazzled bartender hands me the drinks, and I return to Nicole’s side.
“Here you go, Nicole. Cheers to my newest fan.” We clink glasses. It’s stimulating to simply talk with this woman, no expectations or agendas on either side. It’s something that doesn’t happen all that often anymore. Most of the women I meet want me for one thing, and I’m usually happy to oblige, but…it’s nice to indulge in a simple conversation. Besides, after the blonde chicks on the bus, I’m not interested in another hook up tonight.
Curious, I lean down and ask, “What did your husband say when you told him you were coming here tonight?”
To be heard, she stands on her tiptoes and responds directly into my ear. “He said to keep an eye on Libby and enjoy myself.”
“Sounds like you have a great marriage. That’s something my dad would say to my mom.” I mean that all that way…but it’s nothing I’m ready for. Not by a long shot. Thoughts of the blondes on the MPB flash through my mind.
“Thanks. He’s a keeper.”
While we’re chatting, Mr. Comb-Over comes up to me and shouts in my ear. “Cole Manchester?”
I nod. What does this guy want with me? I see his lips moving, but I can’t make out a word he’s saying. I motion for him to precede me to a nearby alcove. Turning to Nicole, I indicate that I’ll be right back.
Upon closer inspection, I see that Mr. Comb-Over is wearing a hotel nametag. This can’t be good news. “I’m going to have to ask that you and your party vacate the bar,” he says. “It’s two hours past closing and your group is making too much noise. We’ve stopped the police from coming in here twice, and we’ve had several complaints from other hotel guests.”
Crap. The last thing I need is to create this sort of problem, especially since Platinum arranged for our hotel stay. I immediately revise my opinion about the guy—he’s done me a solid, though nothing good can be said about his suit or his hair. “Thanks for keeping the police away. We’ll take it up to my suite.” While I’m talking, another crash sounds from the dance floor area. “And put the damage on my incidentals tab.”
Slumping his shoulders as if a big weight has just been lifted from them, he whispers, “Thank you.”
Rubbing the back of my neck, I walk back to Nicole. “We’re going to have to move this party upstairs to my room. It’s after closing time.”
“I thought it was pretty late for this bar to be open. Need any help rounding up your friends?”
“Nah, I got this.” I pause. “Nicole, I’ve really enjoyed talking with you. Will you join us upstairs for a little while?”
She nods. “Let me find Libby. She’ll kill me if I don’t introduce her to you.” She walks off toward the balcony.
Now, to round everyone up and get them upstairs. Moving to the center of the bar, I whistle. Immediately, all talking stops and everyone looks at me. This is the power of being the headliner, and I have to admit it still hasn’t gotten old. “It seems that we’ve closed down the bar. Grab your drinks and your gear, and let’s move the party to my suite.”