Mr. Chicken was the second band out that night. The first, Ask Rosie, had an enthusiastic group of followers; but they played a stale mix of covers and uninspired originals. The bar pushed to overflowing as Mr. Chicken's time drew near. The crowd was a bit older and a lot hipper. The increasing energy in the room lifted her with it.
The real shock came when they took the stage. Presence—Blue had come to understand it watching the old footage of Dry Gully. Lots of decent musicians didn't have an ounce of it. They could play something with feeling, but they couldn't translate it into commanding a crowd.
Jed could. He was perfect, from the moment he stepped onto the stage to the last motion of his hand as he left. The crowd would have held its breath indefinitely, had he asked it to. Jill, her voice rising over his in effortless harmony, was far more than backup. Her voice was the current that electrified them.
When they left the stage after their final encore, Bet pushed her way out toward the back. Meena followed, and Blue moved to join them.
A scent—unpleasant, charred, hot—stopped her. There was no sign of fire or smoke, and no one else looked concerned. The woman in the red dress had given off a similar scent … But this had an unfamiliar bitterness. She drew a deep breath, trying to track the seared odor. It took a while to push her way through the bodies, the smell growing stronger with each step. In the far back corner, where it filled the air, she found a man seated alone.
He had dark brown hair in a nondescript short cut, and he wore a blue cotton dress shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. His face was the kind some girls would find attractive, though Blue found it bland. He didn't at all resemble the woman in the red dress; and yet she didn't know anyone else drenched in Eau de Flame.
The man glanced at her, then returned to the papers in his hand. She walked up to him and ripped a piece of paper out of her notebook.
Why are you here?!
If the devil could steal someone's voice with a kiss, surely it could look like a man or a woman. Except … the face of the woman in the red dress—and the woman in the co-op—had been real. Lived-in.
Her uncertainty rose as the man looked at her note without interest. "I beg your pardon?"
Changing the rules again? What now?
"I don't believe we've met, and I don't have a clue which rules you're referring to. If you auditioned at some point and didn't get in—well, I'm sorry, but we have very few spots. Keep practicing. Hard work makes stars."
She'd been ready to walk away. But a metallic sparkle shimmered in his eyes, a flash of undiluted glee. Her heartbeat quickened.
It's not me, is it? Who called you then?
"Called me? Really, I think you have things confused. We look for talent, we're not called by it." Around them the crowd had begun to thin, the staff wiping tables and stacking chairs. They clearly didn't smell him. Could they not see him, either?
She heard Jed's voice behind her, and the man stood, holding out his hand. Blue's pencil dropped from her fingers. So he wasn't invisible.
"Good of you to see me. I'm John Rathburn." The man held out a business card. Jed took it without a glance. "We're very impressed with what we've seen of Mr. Chicken. As I mentioned to you over the phone, Vineyard Productions is in charge of casting for a number of high-quality, reality-based network shows. We think you'd be perfect for Major Chord. We've chosen nine acts to date. We'd very much like for you to be the tenth and final one."
No one spoke for a moment. In the silence, Blue searched for her pencil, to no avail. Then Jed shouted across the room to the others. All around them the burnt odor filled the air, but no one else seemed to notice, or to care. More and more she felt crazy, seeing things no one else did, believing things that made no sense. She had to be wrong about this.
She walked away. First to the bathroom, where she waited at the end of a long line. Then, passing through a room almost emptied of people, she headed outside. Above her, the stars shone brilliantly. Few cars remained in the parking lot. The bartender and a couple of waiters leaned against a beat-up sedan, red glowing under their cupped fingers from time to time as they smoked. Jill stood with them, taking in the sky.
The bartender grinned at Blue and offered his cigarette. She shook her head. He shrugged. "You with the band?"
She nodded, felt for the missing pencil again. Her hands still trembled from before.
"Blue's got a sore throat." Jill moved close, linked an arm through hers. The way Teena used to. "Either of you have something she can write with?"
The bartender shrugged, looked at the waiters. "Talia, you got a pen in your shit heap of a car?" The woman beside him, her pale hair slicked back in a ponytail, stretched lazily. A warm, sweet scent drifted off her as she reached into the front pocket of her black pants and pulled out a stubby, zebra-striped pencil.
Tx!
"Jesus, you were hot tonight," the woman said.
Jill pulled Blue's arm a little closer. "Some nights, you know? Some fucking nights, the world is yours."
The bar door opened and Jed and Bet came out. Bet looked upset. Jed leaned down to whisper to her, something that brought a smile to her face but didn't ease whatever made her cross her arms in front of her.
He looked up and saw them. "Jill." He ran over, Bet following at a walk. "We did it!" Jed's jubilance skipped across the cars, rang out into the endless sky. "Tomorrow afternoon we sign a contract to appear in Major Chord. Big time, Jill. That's where we're going."
The bartender gave a wolf whistle as the waitress clapped. Blue just stared as her anxiety returned. If the man in the blue shirt was the same as the woman in the red dress, what would it mean for the band if they signed a contract with him? Were they doing the same thing she had—making a trade—and if so, did they understand the rules?
Jill gave Jed a disbelieving look. "Are you serious?"
"There's a few little things to work out, but starting next week we'll have free food and housing, free lessons with pros, free exposure on national TV—"
"And a one-in-ten shot at winning a contract and a million dollars," the drummer, appearing from nowhere, broke in. "Big fucking time, baby."
"What kind of little things?" Jill's eyes flicked toward Bet, who looked even more miserable.
"Um, stupid things. Just little made-up things to make it flashier."
"Like?"
A deal. Blue could feel it in the air. What would they lose?
"They think we need a little more of a hook, so … It would just be pretend."
"You and Jed, all boyfriend and girlfriend," the drummer said. "All romantic and shit."
"You serious?" Jill kept looking at Bet—only, Bet looked away. If Blue could see the hurt there, surely Jill could, too.
Time dripped, one single perfect drop, the glow of the cigarette in the dark, the flicker of streetlight, silence where Jed's breath should have been, had he not been holding it. Hush, the kind of hush that must have surrounded her at the crossroads as well.
Then Jill stopped looking at Bet. "A million bucks and a record contract? I'll pretend to be anyone's girl for that."
A whoop from Jed as he leaped forward, spun Jill in the air, her hair a shower of black. The drummer playing air guitar, everyone dancing.
Almost everyone. Blue watched Bet as she tried to shape a smile. The man in the blue shirt was no good. Blue was sure of it. He'd promised them what they wanted, but she'd bet anything they didn't know what they'd be giving away.