I see Gia step onto the stage with about twenty seconds to spare and the whole bar goes fuckinginsanewhen she starts to sing. I’m guessing there aren’t many Saturday regulars here.
“Give it up for Gia, everyone,” I say into the mic once we’re done with the song. It’s a little redundant because everyone’s already applauding wildly. “I also want to shout out Whiskey Tango’s very own Damon Forrester, who sponsoredthis performance—he’s going to be covering the last hour of Gia’s shift tonight.”
The crowd cheers again and Gia gives Damon a two-fingered salute off her forehead before stepping off the stage. I notice Damon’s brother giving him a commiserating pat on the back and struggle not to laugh.
I’m supposedto be switching back to guitar now I’m done with the two Jim Steinman songs, but I’m reluctant to move just yet. I can’t resist the opportunity to perform another classic that I’ve designated strictly off-limits for the guitar; so I turn my attention back to the piano and start playing, smiling at the enthusiastic reaction from the crowd when they recognize Mark Cohn’s “Walking in Memphis.”
I can’t see much of the bar from the angle I’m sitting, so I’m stunned to glance around as I’m wrapping the song up to find a bunch of people up on the dance floor. Soft rock is not the genre I generally pull out when I want to get people up dancing.
So, now I’m in the unfamiliar territory of not knowing what my next move is. I’m thrilled they’re having a good time and I want to make sure that continues but I’m having trouble figuring out which song I should play next to keep the vibe going. My instincts are rebelling against playing another soft rock song—but maybe that’s what this crowd wants?
This feels so fucking weird. I can usually read the crowd really well but there are so many variables right now I can’t tell what they’re responding to. I’m sure the novelty of seeing me play somethingother than guitar is driving some of the enthusiasm but my ego’s not inflated enough to believe this reaction is solely due to my awesome skillz.
I take the genre out of the equation and just focus on the song. “Walking In Memphis” is a classic; it’s greatto sing along to and it’s basically a musical good mood pill. That’s what they’re responding to; it has nothing to do with soft rock. In fact, I’mpretty sure if I were to play Simply Red or Charles & Eddie right now people would be diving for their seats like it was a Duck and Cover drill.
The weird sense of uncertainty evaporates and I feel myself grinning. I know exactly what to play next.
10
“Oh my god,it’s the song fromPitch Perfect 3!” Ava squeals as Jazz starts playing a familiar tune.
“Also known as “Freedom! ’90” by George Michael,” I say dryly. It’s far from the first time tonight one of the kids—or Jamie—has recognized a song from some movie or TV show.
She gives a dismissive wave. “Whatever. I want to go dance—who’s coming?”
“Jamie and the others are already dancing,” Shay says, nodding to the space in front of the stage where Jamie and his friends Mac and Maya—who joined us about an hour ago—are shimmying away.
Ava grins and heads off; then, to my immense surprise, Joel shrugs and follows after her.
“You want another round, man?” Blake asks me.
I shake my head, smiling wryly. “I’d better stick to water.”
Shay snorts with amusement. “Ah, shit, yeah—what time do you need to get to work?”
I check my phone. “Not for a few more hours. You guys don’t need to stick around?—”
“Are you crazy?” Blake cries, throwing his arms out withthe exuberance lent to him by four pints of beer. I actually have to quickly duck my head back to avoid a punch to the jaw. “Why wouldn’t we stick around? This place is awesome.”
Shay nods his agreement. “Yup. Sucks you’re paying the price, D, butdamnthat Meat Loaf song was epic. I don’t even care about AC/DC anymore.”
“How could you not care about AC/DC?” Blake demands indignantly.
I roll my eyes and get to my feet, striding over to the bar to grab a fresh water bottle.
“Oh, I could have brought that over for you,” Chloe says brightly as she notices me at the water station.
I smile. “It’s fine. You’ve got plenty of other people to look after.”
“It’s actually pretty quiet right now. I think everyone’s a little mesmerized,” she says with a pointed glance at the stage.
I follow her gaze and find myself nodding. Until about half an hour ago I didn’t know Jazz played another instrument; now it’s obvious he’s actually a pianist who’s also pretty good on the guitar. “I can’t really say I blame them. He’s pretty damned good,” I say with a laugh. “Does it always get like this?”
Chloe frowns. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “I haven’t seen him do a piano set before…”
“Oh—no, this isn’t a regular thing,” she tells me. “As far as I know he’s only ever performed guitar here. Tonight was just…I don’t know…”—she waves her hand vaguely in the air—“something to do with Celine Dion and a bet, apparently,” she finishes with a helpless shrug.
