floor, all empty except for a few regulars. Without thinking, I took a step away from her.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her blush deepened, and her fingers fluttered against her glass. “I’ve never met a singer before.” She stilled her hands with the plastic stir stick. “I don’t go out very often.”
This, I later learned, was an understatement.
“It’s…okay.” Blame the schoolgirl-plaid skirt. If I were being set up, it came with unexpected perks. “Would you like to sit?” I gestured toward a booth in the back corner. “And talk.”
Aimee beamed, and when we were sitting, she planted her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “So, Elvis—”
“Elliot. My name is Elliot.”
“Oh! So Elvis is your stage name. That’s very clever.”
“Thank you,” I said with no trace of the King in my voice.
“But honestly,” she said. “I like Elliot better.”
She gazed at me, her expression naked. In my mind’s eye, I could see a Christian missionary setting foot on some exotic shoreline. The pulse of drums rises up from the jungle floor, the beat strange, seductive. A half-clothed native woman beckons, her gaze innocent, provocative, and wrong.
It was enough to make a man forget who he was.
* * *
“I heard one of your songs today.”
I’d long since stopped trying to explain that they’re not my songs. Aimee looked at me, as she always did, with barely contained anticipation. Tonight she was wearing a too-short pleated skirt and a sleeveless blouse with a Peter Pan collar. The Mary Janes on her feet would have been innocent if not for their three-inch heels. I sometimes considered she was part of a larger conspiracy to drive me insane.
But she was waiting for me to ask. “What was it, darling?”
“I don’t remember the name, but it was very funny.”
I wracked my brain for funny while she continued.
“It went something like—” With one hand on the bar, she steadied herself, then let out a howl that had Ron the bartender grinning.
Her pitch was perfect, and I named that tune in two notes. “ Werewolves of London , but it’s not one of mine.” Although I’ve covered it before—Elvis-style, of course. It was a crowd pleaser.
“Oh.” So much despair in a single word.
“I sing it sometimes,” I said. “Would you like me to tonight?”
The anticipation returned and she nodded.
“It’s by Warren Zevon.” What possessed me to add the next, I wasn’t sure, but it was out of my mouth before I thought better of it. “He died of lung cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” Her fingertips grazed my wrist. “Was he a friend?”
“No, I didn’t know him.”
She sighed, the sound sad. “But you sing his songs.” For Aimee, that was enough.
The summer crowd grumbled, chairs scraping against the floor. The lounge was filled to capacity, and thanks to an Elvis retrospective on one of the cable channels, I’d been booked solid for weeks. It was a good month to be the King.
Still, the audience contained several new faces. I didn’t like the look of them, and apparently neither did Ron. He caught my eye over the top of Aimee’s head and nodded toward the bar’s back entrance. He watched Aimee while I was on stage, kept the barflies and players away with a single glare. In return, she perched on a stool near the register and tallied the tabs in her head.
I wasn’t the main attraction that night. My gaze strayed to Aimee. I sang better with her in the audience. Tonight that might make all the difference.
It didn’t. I had finished Blue Suede Shoes and was ready to launch into Hard Headed Woman , which I always dedicated to Aimee, or rather “the pretty little thing sittin’ at the bar.” The phrase lit her face with an uncertain smile, and she glanced around as though I had meant someone else. There was no one else.
The anonymous cry came from the back of the crowd—not unexpectedly. “Hey, faggot! Pants tight enough?”
That was a gimme. I had several comebacks, depending on
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her blush deepened, and her fingers fluttered against her glass. “I’ve never met a singer before.” She stilled her hands with the plastic stir stick. “I don’t go out very often.”
This, I later learned, was an understatement.
“It’s…okay.” Blame the schoolgirl-plaid skirt. If I were being set up, it came with unexpected perks. “Would you like to sit?” I gestured toward a booth in the back corner. “And talk.”
Aimee beamed, and when we were sitting, she planted her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “So, Elvis—”
“Elliot. My name is Elliot.”
“Oh! So Elvis is your stage name. That’s very clever.”
“Thank you,” I said with no trace of the King in my voice.
“But honestly,” she said. “I like Elliot better.”
She gazed at me, her expression naked. In my mind’s eye, I could see a Christian missionary setting foot on some exotic shoreline. The pulse of drums rises up from the jungle floor, the beat strange, seductive. A half-clothed native woman beckons, her gaze innocent, provocative, and wrong.
It was enough to make a man forget who he was.
* * *
“I heard one of your songs today.”
I’d long since stopped trying to explain that they’re not my songs. Aimee looked at me, as she always did, with barely contained anticipation. Tonight she was wearing a too-short pleated skirt and a sleeveless blouse with a Peter Pan collar. The Mary Janes on her feet would have been innocent if not for their three-inch heels. I sometimes considered she was part of a larger conspiracy to drive me insane.
But she was waiting for me to ask. “What was it, darling?”
“I don’t remember the name, but it was very funny.”
I wracked my brain for funny while she continued.
“It went something like—” With one hand on the bar, she steadied herself, then let out a howl that had Ron the bartender grinning.
Her pitch was perfect, and I named that tune in two notes. “ Werewolves of London , but it’s not one of mine.” Although I’ve covered it before—Elvis-style, of course. It was a crowd pleaser.
“Oh.” So much despair in a single word.
“I sing it sometimes,” I said. “Would you like me to tonight?”
The anticipation returned and she nodded.
“It’s by Warren Zevon.” What possessed me to add the next, I wasn’t sure, but it was out of my mouth before I thought better of it. “He died of lung cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” Her fingertips grazed my wrist. “Was he a friend?”
“No, I didn’t know him.”
She sighed, the sound sad. “But you sing his songs.” For Aimee, that was enough.
The summer crowd grumbled, chairs scraping against the floor. The lounge was filled to capacity, and thanks to an Elvis retrospective on one of the cable channels, I’d been booked solid for weeks. It was a good month to be the King.
Still, the audience contained several new faces. I didn’t like the look of them, and apparently neither did Ron. He caught my eye over the top of Aimee’s head and nodded toward the bar’s back entrance. He watched Aimee while I was on stage, kept the barflies and players away with a single glare. In return, she perched on a stool near the register and tallied the tabs in her head.
I wasn’t the main attraction that night. My gaze strayed to Aimee. I sang better with her in the audience. Tonight that might make all the difference.
It didn’t. I had finished Blue Suede Shoes and was ready to launch into Hard Headed Woman , which I always dedicated to Aimee, or rather “the pretty little thing sittin’ at the bar.” The phrase lit her face with an uncertain smile, and she glanced around as though I had meant someone else. There was no one else.
The anonymous cry came from the back of the crowd—not unexpectedly. “Hey, faggot! Pants tight enough?”
That was a gimme. I had several comebacks, depending on
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