I swing her out of the car and carry her inside. She could probably manage just by leaning on my arm, but neither of us suggests it.
At first, I fear I’ll be recognized when we enter the dark, homey, cave-like space. I can’t cut a low-key figure walking into the bar carrying a girl. But with my hat pulled down, no one notices me at first.
Instead, they focus on the companion in my arms.
There’s a collective cry of “Daisy!” And people, young and old, men and women, approach her, saying, “You’re here!” and “What happened?”
I settle her into a cracked leather booth. She spends the next fifteen minutes volleying questions about her injury, how she’s doing, and if she’s going to sing her signature song tonight.
She’s only been in this town for a little over a month. How the hell does she know so many people?
But then I remember, this is Daisy. It’s just her way.
When the crowd thins around her, Ed himself approaches us. He sets down two glasses of water and a bowl of peanuts with the shells still on.
His weathered, wrinkled face breaks into a wide smile. “Good to see you back, little lady.”
“Thanks, Ed,” she says with a grin. “You know I can’t stay away. It’s Wednesday, after all. And I have a title to defend.”
When I tilt my head at her in question, she laughs. “You’re looking at the reigning karaoke queen.”
And I’m struck by a memory of Daisy’s surprisingly sultry alto singing a melody I’d written while I played the guitar next to her on a couch. That was a decade ago. That song became one of the biggest hits of my debut solo album.
Ed turns to me. “So, young man, you’re finally back.”
“Excuse me?” I say with polite reserve.
“Don’t think I forgot the night you tried to sneak in here with your friends. You ordered a beer when you were, what, twelve? Thirteen? That was just before you joined that band.”
I bark out a surprised laugh. “And you told us to get the hell out and not come back. I took you at your word.”
Ed nods. “Well, I’m glad you finally returned. Take care of our girl. We’ve grown fond of her.”
“Thanks, Ed.” Daisy smiles. “Right back at you.” She brushes a kiss to the old man’s cheek.
He blushes, looking at least thirty years younger. I’m beginning to wonder if I might have to fight someone who’s old enough to be my grandfather for Daisy’s honor, but he just ambles away with a chuckle.
An hour and two beers later, Daisy turns to me, her changeable blue eyes indigo in the light. “Ed says you have to take care of me. That means you need to sing.”
“I’m a rock star. I don’t do karaoke.”
“It’s a little conceited to call yourself a rock star. I mean, you are, but shouldn’t you pretend you’re not and call yourself a musician, just to be humble?”
“I’m not humble. Not about my music.”
“Hmmm. Not about much else either.” She points to the list. “Look! They have a bunch of your songs. You can’t screw up yourown music. You might even win karaoke tonight—or you would, if you weren’t up against me for competition. Come on. The winner gets a free round of drinks for their table.”
“I can buy us all the drinks we need.”
The intro to “I Will Survive” starts, and I wince at the enthusiastic singer. “Why do you like karaoke again?” I ask, rubbing my ears and then my forehead.
“Because singing is awesome. And it makes me happy to hear people who are performing just for the love of it. It’s inspiring.”
The woman onstage, sporting a black minidress and permed hair, hits a bad note but blithely keeps on.
“See? She’s having so much fun up there.”
“She is. I’m not.”
