My fingers move along the frets, their calloused pads pressing down on the strings to form notes. Deep, sweet, soul-stirring notes. Notes no one notices, but everyone hears. Notes that sing through your chest with their vibrancy and resonance. Bass notes. The very best kind.

The stage lights are so bright I can’t see beyond the first few rows of people, but somehow, I feel Adam Sinclair’s presence. I know he’s here. Somewhere. Because the look on his face as I was backing away from him a few hours ago, his hand still on the coffee shop door, told me there was no way in hell he would miss it. I don’t let it change me, though. I play like I always play. With everything I’ve got.

By the time we finish the first set, I’m cleansed. I’ve gotten rid of the toxic buildup of real life.

Jarrod leads us all off the stage to a rousing blend of chatter and applause. We’ll take fifteen to catch our breath and empty a glass, then head back to the stage for our final set. As I step down off the stage stairs and out of the glare of the lights, I see him. Adam’s standing at the end of the bar with his left hand in the pocket of his jeans and his right hand holding a dark beer. He’s wearing a light-blue T-shirt topped with a dark, unzipped hoodie. And he’s looking right at me. He lifts one eyebrow in perfect synchronization with his beer. It’s a freakishly charming double toast, and it makes me glad I exist. Jitter and all. I can’t help but smile at him and lift my own empty hand, now curled around an invisible glass. I dip my head as I offer a mock toast, then I lift the invisible glass to my lips and throw back a nonexistent shot.

The moment my head drops back down, I walk straight into Jarrod’s chest. For some reason, he’s walking toward me, like he’s about to return to the stage instead of going to the back with the rest of us.

“Dude? Watch where you’re going,” he says. I offer Jarrod a quick apology and ask him why he’s going in the wrong direction. “I left my cigarettes on top of Liam’s amp.”

“Oh,” I say, glancing quickly over to Adam. His embarrassed wince and raised shoulders tell me he witnessed the impact. Jarrod must follow my gaze because when I turn back and look up at him, he’s smirking.

“Who’s the guy?”

I wait a long second before offering an answer.

“Mr. ‘Soul to Squeeze.’”

I walk around Jarrod, who is frozen in place, looking out at Adam with narrowed eyes and a now-straight mouth.

“Seriously?” he asks my back as I walk away.

“Seriously.”

Ten minutes later, Jarrod walks into the back room with a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. There’s another guy behind him. A white guy wearing a light blue T-shirt topped with a dark, unzipped hoodie. Everyone is watching them, and I’ve got a not-so-good feeling about what’s about to happen. Stevie hands Jarrod a beer.

“Gentlemen, meet Adam. He’s a friend of K’acy’s. I hear he’s a big fan of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.” Jarrod winks at me and then walks away. I roll my eyes at him before turning to Adam. He looks confused as hell.

“Was that some kind of an inside joke?” he asks.

“Just ignore him. He’s drunk.” Jarrod’s definitely not drunk, but I can’t think of anything else to say. Adam nods in understanding.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’m back here. He just came over and introduced himself, then he asked if I wanted to come see you and say hey. So…hey.”

“Hey.”

I can’t even hear my own thoughts over the freggin’ bass riff currently clogging up my brain. Again. My silence must be too long because he suddenly looks nervous, like he’s ready to bail.

“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll head back out.” He offers a sheepish wave and starts to turn away.

“You don’t have to go.” I put a hand on his shoulder, and he turns back around. “We’ve gotta go back out in a couple of minutes, but you can stick around if you want.” I drop my hand, pick a full beer up off the table and pass it to him. I pick another one up for myself and offer him a real toast this time. We clink glasses and take a sip. He looks comfortable again.

“You guys have a great sound. How long have you been playing together?”

“About six years for Jarrod and I. Five years for everyone else. Except Mark. He’s only been with us for two. Our last keyboard player bowed out due to some family stuff, and Mark jumped on board as a replacement.”

“I’ve never heard live funk before. It’s pretty dope.”

Did he just use the word dope? I wanna laugh, but I’m pretty sure he’s serious.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“To be honest, it isn’t only the music I’ve been enjoying. Jarrod’s got a great ass.” Wait. What did he just say? “I mean, at least that’s what the women out there seem to think. It’s been interesting listening to them swoon over him. I’ve never heard women talk about a man as if he were a piece of meat to be eaten alive. Must be quite a burden for him to bear.” A thick dollop of sarcasm dangles from his last sentence like honey from a spoon. I can’t help but smile.

“He manages just fine.”

“I’m sure he does. And how about you? How do you manage?” I’m not quite sure what he means. “Seems like you’ve got your fair share of swooners out there, too.” I listen for the sarcasm but there isn’t so much as a drop, let alone a thick dollop. He can’t be serious.

“Since when does one define a fair share?” And by one, I mean him. I hope, anyway. Adam tilts his head to the side and examines my face very carefully, as if he can’t believe what I just said.

“Oh, there’s more than one. Trust me. Every guy out there has his eyes on you and only you. I’ve been watching them almost as much as I’ve been watching you. Do you really not see it? You’re amazing up there. Like some kind of funk-infused goddess. I’m not alone in my swooning. No way. Despite how much I wish it were true, one is an underestimate of epic proportions.”

Holy Mother of Moses…

What do I say? Think, K’acy, think.

Somewhere in the background, I hear the sound guy tell us it’s time to head back out. I catch Jarrod’s stare in my peripheral vision, but I don’t care. He’s the one who brought Adam back here, so I might as well make it worth his effort.

“Even if what you’re saying is true, none of it matters. Because, unlike Jarrod, I only really need one swooner.” I put my half-full beer back onto the table and step closer to Adam, looking him dead in the eyes. I’m glad when I see joy and curiosity there. “And I choose you, Adam Sinclair, to be my lone swooner. That is, if you want to.”

Before Adam can respond, Jarrod’s hand grabs one of mine, and he starts to pull me toward the door. Marquis and Bryson have passed us and are already up on the stage. When I’m halfway up the stage stairs, I hear Adam’s voice behind me.

“I want to.”

I step onto the stage feeling like the funk-infused goddess I apparently am. I pick up my Music Man StingRay for the millionth time and put the leather strap over my shoulder, running my fingertips across the cobweb painted on the pickguard and thinking for a brief second about my father and what he’d say about my swooner. He’d tell me I deserve a perfect life. He’d say I need to take care of myself and watch out for my heart. Then he’d kiss me on the forehead and tell me I’m a smart girl. My heart both rejoices and aches with the thought, remembering how difficult it was to watch him go.

As Jarrod pretends to adjust his mic stand, waking the audience with renewed anticipation, he turns to me and mouths, “He’s hot,” wiggling his eyebrows up and down just like he does every time he leaves a gig with a new girl on his arm. I offer him only a half-smile in return. He doesn’t need any more encouragement.

Bartholomew’s welcomes Crackerjack Townhouse back to the stage with a fresh pulse of love and affection. Jarrod does his thing, standing silently at the mic until the crowd is at a near frenzy. He starts the second half of the show the same way he starts the first: with as much sweet expectancy as possible. He waits for them to need him. Then he inhales a sharp breath, and it’s game on.

* * *

We finish the show with “Ecce Homo,” just like always, and with his last words, “I am no man. I am dynamite,” Jarrod throws his arms out to his sides as if he’s Jesus himself, preparing for crucifixion. A bit overdramatic if you ask me, especially since the only thing getting nailed tonight is the brunette he’s been eyeing since before Calvin’s drum solo in “Break It Out,” but the crowd must love it because they whoop it up long and hard. Jarrod eats up every moment, even as we leave the stage.

After the audience clears and we each down a celebratory shot and a beer, we head back to the stage to pack up the gear. The houselights are up, and I’m surprised to see Adam is still here, standing at the end of the bar, this time with both of his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

The whole time we’re tearing down the equipment, Ms. Sinclair’s grandson is watching me. When we’re finished, I take my sweaty self over to where he’s standing.

“I offered to help, but the sound guy told me to fuck off,” he says.

“He’s a little protective of everyone’s gear. Doesn’t want anything broken or stolen, I guess.”

“No worries. I just thought maybe I could be a makeshift roadie and help you guys out.”

“Swooners can’t be roadies. It’s against the rules.” He looks surprised that I would say such a thing. And, frankly, I’m surprised, too.

“Good to know.”

I cross my arms over my chest and wait for one of us to say something else.

“So, can I give you a ride home?” he offers eventually.

“That’d be great. Yeah. Thanks.”

I go up onto the stage one last time and pick up my gig bag, swinging it over my shoulder until it sits comfortably against my back. The familiarity of the StingRay’s weight calms and centers me.

A minute later, Jarrod leaves with his brunette, and I leave with my bed-headed swooner.

* * *

The whole way back to my place, Adam and I talk. He seems genuinely interested in the band and our music, asking me questions about this and that until we’re just a few blocks away from my apartment. Then, the questions get a little more personal.

“So, do your parents live close by? Do they ever come see you play?” It’s then I realize he doesn’t know anything about me. All the talking we’ve done has been about Ms. Sinclair. I never offered him anything more.

“No. I grew up in Houma, Louisiana. I left there when I was eighteen, just after my dad died. But my sister Charlie still lives there.”

“Sorry to hear about your dad. That’s gotta be tough.” He keeps his eyes on the road. Mine are on my hands.

“It was. He was diagnosed with lung cancer pretty late in the game. Not much they could do. He died a couple months after he got the news.” I don’t tell him the rest of the story.

“Ouch.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What about your mom? Is she still around?”

“My momma left us when I was nine and my sister was eleven. Apparently, Louise McGee loved God more than she loved her own daughters, because soon after Reverend Thompson’s revival tent was pitched in Houma, she chose him over us. Said she ‘found Jesus’ and he told her she had a job to do. She told us to be good for our father, packed up her bags, and we haven’t seen her since. I still say she was brainwashed into some kind of religious cult, but my father always insisted it was one-hundred percent her choice and no one could’ve brainwashed Louise McGee into anything. Regardless, I don’t even know if she’s still alive. Nor do I care.”

“Double ouch.”

I shrug my shoulders to show him it doesn’t bother me anymore to know that my momma picked Reverend Thompson and his smelly white tent over us.

“It’s not so bad, really. The three of us did just fine without her. My dad made a better mother than she did anyway. Except for cooking. That’s a skill he never mastered. It also happens to be the only thing I’ve ever missed about her.” I lift my gaze and smile at Adam in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Do you ever get back to Houma to see your sister?”

“Not really. Charlie and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. My father didn’t raise her to be a fool, but she turned into one anyway. She calls me every now and then, usually to ask me for money. She’s pretty down and out. Always has ‘man troubles’ of some sort. I still love her, though, you know? I wish I could help. I wish there was a self-confidence fairy I could sic on her or something.” He lets out a soft chuckle just as we turn onto my street. “How about you? Do you have any siblings?”

“Nah. It’s just me.”

I point out my building and tell him he can pull up to the curb out front. “If you don’t mind my asking, how come your dad kept you from your grandmother for so long? Ms. Sinclair seems about as harmless as you can get.” I’m probably violating a hundred-and-one patient information privacy rules by asking him, but I can’t help myself. I blame it on the alcohol. And the swooning.

“Because he’s a giant dickhead with a lot of money who enjoys controlling people.” I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t say anything more. He just pulls up to the curb in silence and puts the car in park.

“A giant dickhead, huh? Do you happen to know if that’s hereditary?”

“Don’t worry, it’s a freak mutation. My father’s one in a million. Trust me.” It’s nice to see his smile again.

“Your father’s name wouldn’t happen to be Reverend Thompson, would it?”

He snort-laughs, and the sound of it fills me with something I can’t put my finger on. Happiness, maybe. Or hope.

“No. His name is Winston. But, come to think of it, he does run a different sort of cult. No religion, though. Just politics.”

Winston Sinclair. Sounds like the perfect name for a giant political dickhead.

“Your dad’s a politician?”

“Of sorts.”

“Huh. I voted a couple of times, but that’s about as close to politics as I’ll ever get.”

“Me, too. Though at one point, he wanted me to follow in his footsteps. No chance in hell of that. The last thing on this Earth I want to be is a giant dickhead.”

“When I look at you, I definitely don’t see a giant dickhead.” I have my fingers on the handle, ready to open the door.

“What do you see when you look at me?” He turns his upper body to face me and settles his hands in his lap, dropping them off the steering wheel with a small grin. It’s a loaded question if there ever was one.

“I see a guy who cares about his grandmother. A lot. I also see a guy who enjoys swooning over bass players and drinking coffee with a touch of cream in all his unemployed spare time.” I open the car door and start to get out.

“Spot on.”

When I’m out of the car, I open the back door and take my bass out. Before I close both doors, I lean in to him and add, “I also see a guy who won’t tell anyone at Pine Manor about tonight because the girl in front of him would very much like to keep her day job.” I don’t know how my supervisors would feel about me hanging out with a patient’s family, and I’m not ready to find out.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Thanks,” I say as I close both doors.

Then I swear I hear him add, “But I might dream about you,” through the glass and steel.

I sling the StingRay over my shoulders and head up the stairs wearing a huge smile.

It’s beginning to look like Miriam Hansen was right.