guitar clanging, foretelling the start of the vocals, and I pulled in a breath and held it.
And then he was singing, his voice rich and earnest in my ears, filling the dark space behind my closed eyelids. He sang the chorus, declaring his love, making his oath. I moved my lips in time, making my own declaration, pretending it was just him and me in that club. Pretending he was singing to me.
With every promise, with every "I'll love you," I felt the desire, the yearning, growing inside of me. My heart felt swollen and full in my chest, my blood running hot in my veins. It's kind of embarrassing to admit it, but I even felt it low down in my belly, and tingling between my legs. That's how much of an effect the song had on me.
The first chorus ended and Sara Sounding played a brief chord-progression on the keyboard, paving the way for the song's transition to the verse. I opened my eyes, looking up at the stage, wanting to see the gorgeous man who'd written this haunting song, wanting to seem him sing it.
My lips were already moving to the words of the first verse. My eyes were all blurry and stinging, as if I were about to cry. It wasn't that I felt sad, it was just that I felt so much that my eyes were overflowing with it.
But Trace wasn't singing the verse.
I blinked my eyes a few times, trying to clear them. My vision shifted back into focus. And then my heart almost stopped.
It looked like Trace LeBeau was looking at me. Of all the people packed into that crowd, of all the statuesque Amazons all around me, it looked like Trace LeBeau's eyes were focused on mine.
I saw something fall from his fingers, flashing out of sight. I saw his left hand gripping the guitar's neck, his fingers slipping on the strings. My lips kept moving, mouthing the words, willing for him to sing them. A feeling like panic sparked in my chest.
The band kept going, playing the verse even without Trace singing it. And then Trace took a deep breath—his eyes still turned in my direction, but they couldn't be on me, could they?—and grabbed a pick off the mike stand. He turned toward the drummer and the bassist, nodding his head, and then back to the microphone. He pulled in another breath, leaning in, his dark hair falling over one of his eyes. And then he started singing, his throat stretched long, his hand hammering down on the guitar, passionate and powerful.
They say this life is full of pain
They say the cost outweighs the gain
They say the world is made from sin
They say that hope is at an end
But I say hope still knows this place
I feel it when I see your face
I sense it when our bodies touch
'Cause only love can hurt this much
Every word seemed real, every line felt like an undeniable truth. Trace's right hand hammered down on the strings, driving that truth home. There was no room for doubt. There was no chance for despair. This was a man who'd known suffering, who'd struggled with darkness and sorrow, and when he stood on the stage and shouted that there was hope, you believed him. Everyone in that overcrowded club believed him.
The song went back into the chorus, and then we were all singing it. The women around me were swaying and moving, throwing their hands up in the air. The band up on the stage was locked in together—so tight, so solid, that it almost seemed to force your heart to beat in time with their playing. And Trace owned the stage, throwing his whole body into the music, the corded muscles in his neck and forearms standing out, the sweat beginning to shine across his skin, making his hair cling to his forehead.
They came to the end of "A Heart's-Blood Oath," all the music dropping away. Trace stepped away from the mike, stepped right up to the front of the stage—one foot planted on a speaker, one arm held out, pointing at the crowd. All of us sang the chorus through with him, our voices so loud it seemed to make the walls shake.
But when
And then he was singing, his voice rich and earnest in my ears, filling the dark space behind my closed eyelids. He sang the chorus, declaring his love, making his oath. I moved my lips in time, making my own declaration, pretending it was just him and me in that club. Pretending he was singing to me.
With every promise, with every "I'll love you," I felt the desire, the yearning, growing inside of me. My heart felt swollen and full in my chest, my blood running hot in my veins. It's kind of embarrassing to admit it, but I even felt it low down in my belly, and tingling between my legs. That's how much of an effect the song had on me.
The first chorus ended and Sara Sounding played a brief chord-progression on the keyboard, paving the way for the song's transition to the verse. I opened my eyes, looking up at the stage, wanting to see the gorgeous man who'd written this haunting song, wanting to seem him sing it.
My lips were already moving to the words of the first verse. My eyes were all blurry and stinging, as if I were about to cry. It wasn't that I felt sad, it was just that I felt so much that my eyes were overflowing with it.
But Trace wasn't singing the verse.
I blinked my eyes a few times, trying to clear them. My vision shifted back into focus. And then my heart almost stopped.
It looked like Trace LeBeau was looking at me. Of all the people packed into that crowd, of all the statuesque Amazons all around me, it looked like Trace LeBeau's eyes were focused on mine.
I saw something fall from his fingers, flashing out of sight. I saw his left hand gripping the guitar's neck, his fingers slipping on the strings. My lips kept moving, mouthing the words, willing for him to sing them. A feeling like panic sparked in my chest.
The band kept going, playing the verse even without Trace singing it. And then Trace took a deep breath—his eyes still turned in my direction, but they couldn't be on me, could they?—and grabbed a pick off the mike stand. He turned toward the drummer and the bassist, nodding his head, and then back to the microphone. He pulled in another breath, leaning in, his dark hair falling over one of his eyes. And then he started singing, his throat stretched long, his hand hammering down on the guitar, passionate and powerful.
They say this life is full of pain
They say the cost outweighs the gain
They say the world is made from sin
They say that hope is at an end
But I say hope still knows this place
I feel it when I see your face
I sense it when our bodies touch
'Cause only love can hurt this much
Every word seemed real, every line felt like an undeniable truth. Trace's right hand hammered down on the strings, driving that truth home. There was no room for doubt. There was no chance for despair. This was a man who'd known suffering, who'd struggled with darkness and sorrow, and when he stood on the stage and shouted that there was hope, you believed him. Everyone in that overcrowded club believed him.
The song went back into the chorus, and then we were all singing it. The women around me were swaying and moving, throwing their hands up in the air. The band up on the stage was locked in together—so tight, so solid, that it almost seemed to force your heart to beat in time with their playing. And Trace owned the stage, throwing his whole body into the music, the corded muscles in his neck and forearms standing out, the sweat beginning to shine across his skin, making his hair cling to his forehead.
They came to the end of "A Heart's-Blood Oath," all the music dropping away. Trace stepped away from the mike, stepped right up to the front of the stage—one foot planted on a speaker, one arm held out, pointing at the crowd. All of us sang the chorus through with him, our voices so loud it seemed to make the walls shake.
But when
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