The bar is small inside. Gus said it will hold two hundred, but I don't know how. By the look of the place, nothing's ever been fixed or updated, from the dark wood walls, to the torn vinyl booths around the perimeter of the room, to the worn, uneven, wide-planked wood floors. It smells like a brewery. I can't imagine how much beer has spilled on and soaked into the floors over the years. This place is a real dive, and it's amazing to think that Gus and Rook got their start here, when they've played some of the most well-known venues in Europe and the States.
Paxton is in his glory, helping the band bring in their equipment and set it all up. He's wearing one of the Rook T-shirts Gus gave him, and I know for a fact I've never seen him happier than he is tonight. I wish he could live this for more than a couple of hours.
I hear voices near the entrance, and I can see the bouncers turning away mobs of people at the door. Everyone wants in to see Rook play. Paxton and I were going to watch from backstage, but Paxton wants to be out in the crowd. So after the stage is set, we find a spot amongst the masses of people already gathering in the audience. Being in the middle of all these people makes me uncomfortable, but I'll do anything to keep that smile on Paxton's face.
When Rook takes the stage, the place erupts. I've never heard anything like it. If adoration has a sonic equivalent, that was just it. It's love. Mad love for this band. And it makes me smile. Paxton is jumping up and down, yelling, and clapping. Yup, I've never seen him happier, not that life always calls for this kind of excitement, but this is what I want for Paxton every minute of every day.
Gus clears his throat as he approaches the microphone and he smiles, but something is off. His eyes are searching the crowd and the intensity in them doesn't match his smile. "Hello San Diego!" he calls out. "It's good to be back at Joe's!" His eyes are still searching. "We're gonna play a few songs for you tonight. But, before we get started I need you to bear with me a minute."
A woman near the front takes her shirt off and swings it like a lasso over her head. Franco is laughing from behind his drum kit and points a drumstick at the woman in only her bra and says, "Not that kind of bare, but I love your enthusiasm, chica."
The crowd laughs, but Gus still looks intent. He's not seeing or hearing what's going on around him. His eyes are still methodically scanning as he calls out, "Pax, where are you?"
Paxton starts waving his hands over his head. Usually he'd be embarrassed by this kind of attention, but I think the excitement has outshined any hint of shyness.
When Gus spots the waving hands his eyes lock with mine and he points at us before crooking the same finger, calling us to him. "I want everyone to give the stud in the Rook shirt and the pretty girl with him some room and let them move up front."
Paxton grabs my hand and starts pulling me through the crowd. I'm bumping shoulders with everyone we pass and everyone's staring at me, which is usually a nightmare. And though I still feel a little self-conscious, I can't stop smiling while a blush heats my face ... because Gus just called me pretty. He called me pretty to a room full of people. I know this shouldn't be a big deal. Beauty is on the inside, blah, blah, blah. I know that. I preach it. It's my mantra. I've repeated it to myself for years. Repeating and believing are two different things. And when you grow up not feeling pretty, then when something like this happens ... it's huge.
When we stop directly in front of him, up against the stage, I finally look up. He's staring down at me and his smile has transformed. It's real. It's the smile he wears after he's surfed, or played with Spare Ribs, or watched the sunset, or hugged Audrey. It's bone-deep contentment. It's my favorite version of Gus. I smile back to let him know I'm with him and that I'm proud of him. And then I say, "Thank you. Show me what you've got."
His smile grows and he winks. "Challenge accepted, Impatient," he says into the microphone.
He strums his guitar twice, glances back at Franco, and nods. And just like that it begins. For the next hour I watch Gus own that stage. Challenge accepted indeed. From my place up close to the stage, I'm in awe. I can feel the bass and the drums thumping inside my body, and I'm close enough to reach out and touch Gus, if I wanted. I can feel the heat of the stage lights, and the sound of the music seems to pour over me. My eyes roam over every square inch of him, taking it all in. This whole experience is sensory overload.
I watch his feet move from one side of the stage to the other while he's playing his guitar, before they come to rest in front of me at his microphone stand while he's singing. And when he sings his words seem to seep in through every pore and fill me completely. I don't hear them; I feel them. I feel every word, every syllable. His voice, his delivery, it grabs ahold of me. The emotion in his voice makes my heart feel like it's going to burst. He is so passionate. And holy shit is it sexy.
As the performance goes on, I find myself shamelessly checking out his ass in those jeans every time he walks away from us. I can't believe I've been living across the hall from that ass for months now and I've never noticed how spectacular it is. And the way his chest perfectly fills out the T-shirt he's wearing, his biceps tugging and stretching the sleeves, seems totally new. I watch his taut forearms tighten and flex with constant use.
And his hands. His hands. Watching his fingers manipulate that guitar, bending it to his will, he manages to make it scream ... or sing. I know music is visceral, but my imagination is running wild watching those hands. How they would feel on me. What they could do to me. Jesus, suddenly I feel like I'm going to lose my mind. I thought there was attraction before, but now I'm blatantly staring at the bulge in his jeans and full-on fantasizing. All I feel is need. So. Much. Need. The kind of need that's demanding relief.
And every time my eyes meet his face again, it's as if they're being pulled there. I realize that he's staring at me, and the look in his eyes is sinful and playful and so, so naughty. It's fueling the crowd.
And it's fueling me.
I don't know how long they've been playing. It could be tomorrow already for all I know, and believe me I'd stand here all night long and watch him, but when he pulls his guitar strap over his head and separates himself from it, his shirt is drenched with sweat. He pulls the shirt over his head, and the women in the crowd whistle and scream as he huddles up the rest of the band at Franco's drum kit. The cheering of the crowd continues as they talk, and though we can't hear what they're saying, the look on all of their faces has turned serious. When they break apart, Gus walks over to the edge of the stage, grabs a stool and his acoustic guitar, and returns to the mic. After he adjusts the stand, he takes a seat and strums his guitar a few times before he speaks. While he speaks, he absently tunes the guitar. "So, we recorded this song a long time ago, but we've never played it live." He shrugs while he says it. It sounds like an admission and an apology all at once. "Hell, we haven't even played it as a band in a very long time, so we're gonna do our best to not fuck it up, but don't throw shit at us if we do. Deal?" The crowd yells their agreement. His eyes drift from the neck of his guitar, when he's satisfied with the tuning, to me and he smiles nervously. He's looking for support.