With her foot she tapped a rhythm that was very nearly martial. And just sang whatever came into her head.
Are you afraid to touch me, darlin’?
Are you afraid you’ll burn?
You’ll have to get in line, darlin’
You’ll have to wait your turn
Yeah everybody wants me, darlin’
But one day you’ll finally learn
I only ever wanted you
Because, baby, I’m a badass rose
Baby, I’m the kind that grows
Stronger when it storms
And weaker in your arms
I might cut you, make you bleed
But I’m all you’ll ever need
Don’t give up on me
Oh, don’t give up on me
Damn.
She laid the guitar aside gingerly, as if it were a chainsaw she’d just turned off. She had a knot in her throat.
Those last few lines had come out of nowhere. Odd how the song had swung from taunting, sexy bravado to something like a plea.
But then her guitar had always felt like the divining rod that helped her get to the truth.
And maybe it had just revealed something she needed to know.
Chapter13
“Don’t smack anybody if they grab your ass, Glory. Leave the corporal punishment to me.” Glenn was running down a list of The Baby Owls show agenda items and this, apparently was on it.
“You think someone will grab myass?” Swell.
Glenn had rounded up the troops to brief them on how “An Evening with The Baby Owls” (pretentious as hell, Glory thought—they were hardly rock’s elder statesmen—but the manager insisted that all mentions of the event, including the notice in theHellcat Canyon Chronicleonline and any local radio announcements, refer to it that way). The crew for the evening—Glenn, Sherrie, Glory, Giorgio, and Truck Donegal—were sitting together inside the Misty Cat like an earnest prayer circle.
“We’ve never had a big show yet where some jerk hasn’t tried to fondle a waitress. So yes. I do think someone will try to grab your ass. And the more beer they drink—we’re going to sell gallons—the more they’ll try it. Though some of these indie band types are cheap bastards. It’s the rockers that drink the most. Remember when Blue Room came through and did an acoustic set years ago, Sherrie?”
“We completely ran out of beer. Made a mint. We had quite a Christmas that year,” she said mistily.
Blue Room was enormously successful now. Glory was a fan.
Glenn had enlisted Truck Donegal to check IDs at the door. He was a huge guy with a square, handsome face, and he looked dumb and not averse to cracking the occasional skull, which wasn’t far wrong. But thanks to a little inspiration from John Tennessee McCord and to the astonishment of everyone, he’d become a pretty successful entrepreneur, and his fundamental, considerably more decent self, was shining through more and more.
Giorgio was in charge of sound equipment, of all the microphones and the mixing board and any other equipment the band might need, though Glenn had learned they were bringing their own sound guy. Glenn was emcee and waiter; Glory and Sherrie would be the waitresses.
