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He stepped back and brought the mouthpiece to his lips.
The guitarist, Angel, struck a minor chord, and then the sax wept.
The first note tore through the room, a husky, throaty moan that curled my toes and lingered in the air.
It felt illicit as the sound ripped through my soul.
Deacon ripped into a solo that bypassed every standard blues cliché, dropping from a guttural growl into a flurry of split notes.
His curls flowed over his forehead, damp and wild, as the strummer beside him shredded through a jazz progression with a rock edge.
It sounded like velvet dragging across gravel, achingly moving. I swore everyone in the room sighed, and each couple in the room leaned closer together.
The two men alternated between their acoustic numbers, and I fell in love with their deep, soulful lyrics and growly baritones.
Deacon even sang a ballad on the grand piano and strummed a song on an acoustic guitar, proving the mastery of his craft.
He played three more songs before leaning over to whisper to his bandmate, Angel, then straightening to speak into the mic.
‘I’m going to kick off a solo. This piece is impromptu, never before debuted; I’m calling it ‘Stars in Her Eyes’. It’s dedicated to one stunning señorita tonight who managed to dodge my friendly fire and leave me breathless, after which she vanished. This one’s for you, beautiful.’
As the crowd whistled and cheered, my heart kicked, and I sank into the booth, my pulse thumping.
Was he dedicating a song to me?
No way.
He launched into a riff that started slow, seductive, and smooth.
The music surged over me in a scorching, ruthless storm as I tightened my grip on the stem of my glass.
The melody soared into a high, haunting cry before dropping back down into a mellow, sensual groove.
He closed his eyes, swaying with the rhythm, lost in his playing.
I couldn’t move, and my breath hitched.
The world around me faded, leaving only my beating heart, the wistful chords, and the man making a saxophone bleed sounds of pure heaven.
He slid his fingers down the keys, crying out a final, ascending run that had the room breathless.
When he pulled the mouthpiece away, he leaned into the microphone once more, his rumble gravelly.
‘Thanks, y’all. We’re Deacon and Angel, and we’re taking fifteen.’
The room erupted in applause.
He flashed a quick grin at the guitarist, his mouth curving to reveal beautiful teeth and a dimple on his left cheek.
I spent the break mulling over whether he had actually named an impromptu song after me, then dismissed it.
No way a man like him would make such a rash decision about me, a woman he scarcely knew, who’d almost spilled her drink on him.
He was a talented entertainer and had probably used our tiny encounter as inspiration to move the crowd.
Still, when he and Angel returned after the second set, I was once again riveted by his aura.
I forgot about the movie next door, caught in Deacon’s spell.
