Werewolf Sings the Blues (2 page)

“You're always late,” Muriel says.

“I know. I'm sorry. I'm a selfish bitch. Already got the memo.”

Cyr leaps down the three feet from the stage like a cat and meets me halfway across the room. “We have about twenty minutes,” he chides.

“Don't worry, it's all good,” I say as we walk.

“You memorize the song list?”

“Of course.” I set down my purse behind the bandstand. “Did you bring my … stuff?”

“You're really gonna do the gig high?” he whispers low.

“Rather I do it asleep? Come on. I have a killer hangover, and I barely ate. I'll only do half a bump each time. I swear.”

He apprises me with disapproval. The man's a part-time drug dealer, he should be encouraging, not judging. “It's coming out of your paycheck.”

“Of course.”

My friend reaches inside his bag, pulling out a tiny zip-lock filled
with my magic powder. I only do coke a few times a month when I'm dragging. Working nights in a bar while getting the odd singing gig and still going on auditions a few times a week is taking it out of me, especially in the last year. I stuff the coke in
my coat pocket before slipping the jacket off. I'll take it right
before the guests arrive. “Thank you, dearie.”

“I was actually glad you called earlier,” Cyr says. “I tried your cell a few times, even the house phone. I was worried after last night.”

“Yeah, I did get a bit sloshed. I can't believe you let me drive home like that.”

“You were hammered?” he asks, thick brow raised.

“Yeah. I had four shots of tequila on an empty stomach.” Not to mention the joint before work.

He sighs. “Okay, makes sense now.”

“What makes sense?”

“That guy. The blonde guy in the parking lot. You don't remember?”

“Last night's kind of a blur. What happened? What'd I do now?” I ask with trepidation. The answer can run from leap up on a bar and sing a capella to making out with a drag queen. She was an amazing kisser though.

“Well, you asked Jeff to leave early because you said you weren't feeling good. I said I'd walk you to your car after I poured a couple orders, but when I got back, you were gone. I found you over by your car, and this big blonde cat was grabbing for you. You shoved him away, and I shouted for him to fuck off. He ran off, you got in your car, and drove off. He must have known you were plastered and was trying to take your keys away.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“Yeah. I noticed him watching you a few times when I came up to your level last night to relieve Juan. He was the one I pointed out, remember?”

That strikes a chord. A flash from last night reverberates through my mind. Okay, I remember Blondie now. In between mixing drinks and flirting with the generous seaman, I was aware that this man never left the bar and barely acknowledged the various women and men who tried to pick him up. He was in Juan's section, and we were crazy busy, so I didn't pay him that much attention. I think Juan did mention Blondie kept ogling me, so I turned and blew him a kiss before Juan and I started giggling.

“Tall, muscular, weird blue eyes, looked like a Russian hit man?” I ask Cyr.

“That's him.”

A knot ropes around my stomach. Great, I have a stalker. Just what I need. “You ever seen him before last night?”

“No. You?”

“I don't think so.” I pause. “He
attacked
me?”

“Not really. I mean, at first you two were just talking. Then his arm moved toward you, you shoved him, I yelled, he ran off. I think he was trying to stop you from driving drunk, dumbass.”

That sure as hell doesn't explain why he was following me today. I'm about to tell Cyr this, when Muriel says, “Are you two gonna yap all night or are we gonna practice?”

She's right. This isn't a
now
problem, if it even is a problem. I'm surrounded by people. I'm safe. The show must go on and all that shit. We climb onstage and Cyr picks up his Gibson guitar. “Let's warm up with Human League's ‘Don't You Want Me,'” Cyr says.

“Righty-O,” I reply. I step in front of the mic with a long, not helpful, sigh. I remember when this used to be exhilarating. Fun. The only place I wanted to be. Now it's a grind. Same songs, same venues. And I never thought it possible but I'm sick of Etta James's “At Last.” Every damn wedding it's on the set list. As if it's legally required for every first dance. It used to be one of my favorite songs, and I can sing the hell out of it, which is why we usually get hired, but now I grimace whenever the instrumental begins playing. This is not how I envisioned my career would end up. I've been singing professionally since sixteen when I started hitting every karaoke contest in the Orlando area, and here I am thirteen years later pretty much doing the exact same thing. Barry's right. I've made no forward progress. I fucking
hate
it when he's right.

Cyr and I do collaborate well when we duet, even with this pop crap. While the rest of me is as Caucasian as a watercress sandwich, my singing voice sure ain't. I'm a bass, so I'm better suited for R&B, which is a blessing and curse. A blessing because it's the music I love, and a curse because A&R departments won't take a chance on a white girl with soul. The few meetings I've had with the bigwigs, I've tried to convince them that just because something hasn't been done before doesn't mean it won't be popular. Since they only care about the bottom line, this truth fell on deaf ears. All they've wanted for years is scantily clad teens lip-syncing bubblegum tunes. Diana Krall and Eva Cassidy were aberrations.

After we finish the first song, we try out Beyoncé's new song “Crazy in Love,” which more and more people keep requesting. Last year it was Kylie Minogue. At least Beyoncé is closer to my wheelhouse. When we're done with Miss Knowles, I have just enough time to fluff my hair, freshen my makeup, and discreetly snort the magical dust from my fingernail before slipping the baggie back into my coat pocket. Despite what the movies and afterschool specials claim, cocaine doesn't kill on contact. It doesn't even hurt to snort unless you do too much. All it really does is make you feel like you've drunk an entire pot of coffee minus the calories and stomach issues. There's no immediate effect, but after a minute, right when I jump back onstage, my heart picks up speed. As the first of the guests begin filtering in, my arms begin to tingle and warm. The drip starts another minute later, irritating my throat, but nothing too bad. I can sing through it. I've done it before.

The first half hour of the gig is easy. People find their seats and
chat about the ceremony, paying us no mind. I phone in, “Don't You
Forget About Me,” “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” and “Maneater.” Our not-so-adoring audience barely glances at us. Always nice to be appreciated.

The coke starts wearing off when the wedding planner Gracie, Cyr's sister, gives us the signal that the bride and groom are about to make their grand entrance. “May I present,” I say, “for the first time ever, Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Dolan!” Cue Stevie Wonder's “Isn't She Lovely,” another song I can sing in my sleep. If I ever get married again, and have a ceremony not at the Vegas Chapel of Love like last time, I'd go for “The Hunter Gets Captured by the Game.” I've sung at almost a hundred weddings and no one's ever chosen it.

The Dolans are a good-looking couple. Young, probably just out of college. Her dress is beautiful, sleek, with swirling crystals sewn on the bodice. The one thing I really regret about my wedding, besides the fact it ever happened, was I never got to wear the dress and veil. The whole debacle was just an impulsive, idiotic mistake. Louie and I had been together for about six months in New Orleans when we decided to move to L.A. On the way, when we passed through Vegas, we figured what the hell? I got married in a black sheath dress with a long string of fake pearls. He didn't even put on a tie. The ceremony lasted about as long as the marriage. The Dolans seem like good kids, though. I can't see him, after three months of marriage, punching her in the eye, then seconds later her smacking him in the head with a lamp. I filed for divorce the next day.

Vivian and the Dolls perform a few more songs as the guests eat, but we take a short break for the speeches and cake cutting before our marathon set. I grab my purse and head to the bathroom as the others go out to smoke. The one vice I managed to avoid. Touch-ups and hairspray are needed STAT, along with
…
shit. I left my coat. Just have to be extra sneaky when I get back out there. As I add blush, my cell rings. I get it out and check the display. Jeff, from the club. Probably wants me to cover for someone tonight. I'd ignore it, but I need the money. Ugh, I'm turning into a vampire, only staying up at night. I guess the sun
is
overrated.

“Hey Jeff. What's up?”

“I, uh, just want to give you a heads up, Viv. I just had a Federal Marshal in here looking for you.”

“A what?”

“I don't know. I think they track fugitives or something.”

Huh. I certainly hope I don't fall into that category. “What the hell do they want with me?”

“Don't know. He wouldn't tell me anything except he'd been trying to track you down, and that you weren't in any trouble. I gave him your new cell number and told him you were singing at a hotel on the beach tonight.”

“Well, what was his name? What did he look like?”

“Kind of tall and thin with brown hair.” So not the blonde. “Said his name was Donovan. Gave me his number.”

“Wait a sec.” I find a pen and rip off a paper towel. Jeff gives me the number. “703 area code? That's not around here.”

“I think it's D.C. Any ideas what this is about?” Jeff asks.

“My ex is probably in trouble again. I had a bounty hunter come around about three years ago looking for him.” The man went from saxophone player to drug addict and trafficker in the five years we've been divorced. Probably also why Blondie's tailing me. At least I hope so. “I'll call him tomorrow. Thanks for letting me know. Bye.” I end the call with a sigh. Just what I fucking need. They're wasting their time though. I haven't spoken to Louie in years, and if he showed up on my doorstep, I'd call the cops regardless. No use dwelling on it now. Wedding guests to entertain. Gotta keep singing for my supper.

Okay, the situation's not completely off my radar. I move
through the lobby back to the reception, scanning for bogies. Sure enough I spot my blonde shadow attempting to remain inconspicuous at the hotel bar, playing with his glass with his head down. Tonight he sports a leather jacket and ball cap but with that bod, inconspicuous is impossible. I'd go confront him, but there's no time. I rush back into the ballroom. The couple are cutting the cake as I enter. A minute to spare. I imbibe in some nose candy seconds before the others return. We get back in place onstage for the main event.

I call the couple center stage for the first dance. As Etta's immortal words spill from my mouth, I watch the couple with the odd smile. The newlyweds only have eyes for each other as he leads her around the dance floor. Ah, to be that in love. A million beautiful experiences ahead of them starting now. So full of hope. Lucky bastards.

Next tradition is my least favorite part of the night: the father/daughter dance. “Butterfly Kisses” by Bob Carlisle tonight. I sing this one almost as often as “At Last.” Mr. Velasquez's pride shines on his round face as he takes his baby girl into his arms. I make it a point never to watch this pairing swing around on the dance floor. Even after the hundred odd times I've witnessed this ritual, it still stings to high hell. My biological father abandoned my mom
and me when I was a year old. Never sent so much as a card after.
Mom married Barry when I was four, but my workaholic step
father never had much time for me, even before Jessie was born. And the moment she came into the world, I went from being an afterthought to a ghost in his eyes. Mom wasn't much better. Her husband comes first, Jessie second, and I'm about fifth behind keeping fit. Michelle went from living with her parents and working as a dental hygienist to the wife of a wealthy dentist. She drank the country club Kool-Aid and has done everything to ensure it continues flowing, including backing up every negative thought or action her husband inflicted upon me. If I ever get married again, this dance is one ritual I'm happy to skip.

Tonight isn't so painful as I have a six-foot-two distraction to keep my mind occupied. My stalker has now added wedding crasher to his list of crimes. I pretend not to see him wander in or move toward the bar. He orders a drink, then strolls to the back of the room, I think in an attempt to blend in again. Massive fail, Blondie. Even if he is a crazy stalker he won't attempt anything while I'm up here. As always the one place I feel even close to secure is onstage.

I keep track of him through our set just in case. He meanders from empty tables to the bar to the corner. Whenever someone starts glancing at the comely stranger, he moves on. Around song five, Cyr spots him too because once or twice my friend glances at me, then the mystery man. I quickly shrug and keep on keeping on. That is until Blondie drops all pretense and flat out stares with sniper-like precision at me when I perform Ray Charles's “You Don't Know Me.” I do my best to pretend not to notice, but he just sits there, strong jaw almost slack with those ice eyes locked on me as if I was the only person in the room. In the damn state even.

No one's ever gazed at me with such intensity before. If aliens landed in this ballroom I don't think he'd notice. I'd be flattered, and I'd be lying if there isn't a butterfly or two fluttering in my stomach, but since the man doing it is more or less
stalking
me, it's still fucking unnerving. I even forget the lyrics for a second. My mouth opens but no noise leaves. That hasn't happened in years. I shut my eyes to center myself. The bastard's throwing me off my game. The butterflies turn back into wormy caterpillars. Not acceptable. When I open my eyes again, I zero in on his with the same precision. Blondie does a tiny double take, almost leaping back in his chair, surprised at being caught, I think. I narrow my eyes to get the point across. Yeah, that's right, asshole. I see you. My stalker immediately glances away and even rises from the chair. A grin crosses my face as he quickly walks out of the ballroom. Always stand up to a bully. Learned that one early on.