Micah took it with a dubious scowl. “I can, but you have to promise you won’t go and get a tattoo of it or something. Just take a picture. Trust me.”
That sent Martha into a convulsive fit, and she held her stomach. She obviously couldn’t believe she’d been so bold tonight. Her friend held her arm out and shoved up the sleeve. Lynn was the brains of the operation apparently.
Micah wrote, “What a crazy night that was. Micah Sinclair.” Or I assumed it said Micah Sinclair. Only theMand theSwere legible.
Lynn showed it to Martha, and Martha shoved her sleeve up, too. “Me, too?”
“Sure.” He wrote, “We’ll always have TriBeCa,” and the same scrawl of a signature. Anyone could have scribbled that on their arms.
Lynn fished out her phone. “We have to get a picture with you. Our friends are never going to believe us.” She handed the phone to me. “Do you mind?”
Suddenly a part of this situation, I took the camera and leaned back so I could get all three of them in. Martha and Lynn held their arms up so the signatures were visible. I said, “One, two, three.” The camera clicked, and the two ladies flopped into their seats, content. The invisible boundary went back up.
Micah faced forward again. His face registered no difference in attitude, but I felt his shoulders sag and the energy seep from him.
“That seems exhausting,” I whispered.
“Better than flipping burgers.”
“Good point. How’d you end up a musician anyway?”
“When I was in high school, I started a band with some of my friends and let my sister sing with us sometimes.” He cut his eyes at me. “I never told her our audience doubled if we announced that she’d be singing. I didn’t do great in high school, but I worked summer jobs and saved up money so I could move to Brooklyn and join up with some guys who were looking for a front man. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“What else do you do? I mean when you’re not onstage, at a party, or supporting your sister?”
His eyes narrowed briefly. Did he think I was trying to get him to talk about all those women he dated in his spare time? Would it be horrible of me if I was? But he relaxed back into that cocky half grin. “Music takes up about eighty percent of my life. I’m either touring or rehearsing or writing or going to see other musicians. I spend the rest of my time blowing off steam—or sleeping.”
“How do you blow off steam?” I was incorrigible. But I wasn’t asking as a journalist. I really wanted to know.
A wry little devilish light gleamed in his eye, and I knew I’d pushed too hard. “Treks through the Amazon mostly. You know, saving the rain forest.”
I pushed his shoulder, but he didn’t budge. His shoulder muscle was hard as a rock. “Tease.”
He pretended to be pushed over, a second later. “Yeah? Then why was I the one left standing on the sidewalk last night?”
Before I could formulate words again, the sound quality of the air changed noticeably. People stopped milling around their chairs and all settled in. If there’d been a cue, I’d missed it, but moments later, the lights dimmed. Eden had advised me that there’d be an opening act that I could use to set levels on and get in some test shots. She also told me to get up and move around, but all the chairs were full, and people were leaning against the walls on either side. I’d be in someone’s way anywhere I went. But I was being paid to be in someone’s way.
Tobin, the guy we’d met up front earlier, hopped up on stage to a smattering of applause and a couple of catcalls. He pulled the mic up and scanned the audience. “So good to see so many familiar faces out here tonight.”
More applause.
“The fact that you were all so willing to give up five times the normal ticket price for this event just goes to show how much you all take advantage of me.”
The audience laughed.
“Starting tomorrow, the cover charge will be adjusted accordingly.” Tobin smiled. “Seriously, though, I’m appreciative that all of you were willing to come out tonight. The proceeds will go to a great cause:”
Tobin paused for a minute, and the smile faded from his face. He cleared his throat. “Some of you here remember my mom, Elena.” His hand rubbed across his cheek, almost of its own accord, brushing off a tear maybe. “Mom fought a long hard battle. She was my fiercest supporter. She stood for things and made a difference despite her own frailty. She had so much strength, but—” He took a deep breath and heaved it out as though he couldn’t contain it.
Someone in the audience hollered. “We love you, Tobin!” And others applauded and shouted encouragements.
Tobin raised his hand to indicate a banner hanging behind him for an organization that specialized in muscular dystrophy research. “Together we’ll find a cure.” His voice was pitched and the tears fell unchecked. “Let’s give a huge round of applause to Eden Sinclair and Kelli Hind for volunteering their own time for this special evening.”
The applause from the crowd was powerful and clearly in support of Tobin more than in support of the fund-raiser. I got the feeling these people would’ve come there if he’d asked them to support clown school. Even though I didn’t know Tobin, his speech affected me. My heart constricted at his loss. I fought the urge to go back to the door and pay my way in. But I didn’t have a hundred bucks on me. Or in my bank account.
When Micah leaned over and asked if I’d ever seen Kelli Hind, I shook my head, afraid to speak for the lump in my throat.
At last Kelli took the stage, gave her own short speech, and started to play. I lifted my camera and shot off a picture. Hearing the shutter open and close, I cringed. I glanced at Micah, but he continued to nod his head to the music. I hoped that I was just being hypersensitive to the noise and shot another. Then I checked the pics and readjusted for lighting. After I was confident I had the right settings, I relaxed and enjoyed the music. It wasn’t the style I usually listened to, but the woman sang and played well. It beat leaning against a wall out on the street hoping for a celeb to wander by. Or flipping burgers.
