Page 10 of Dark Verse

He chuckles, looking a little sheepish.

“It is.”

“That is a great name!”

“Glad you feel that way. My name inspired a lot of nicknames and songs when I was a kid.”

“Kids can be little shits.”

“Damn, ain’t that the truth. I’ll drink to that!”

And so we do. When the song ends, we make our way to the bar. Amore proves to be a pleasant distraction for the next hour.

We chat about our jobs and about the occasion. He’s sweet and charming and looking more kissable with each drink we share, my inhibitions lowering as the night presses on. As the band plays their final songs (sans the lead singer), I feel a dip in my energy. Damn, I really want to sit down again, but there are still a few hours left of the party. The DJ is now taking over. The heavy beat the DJ is creating rattles inside my body. As a new song begins thumping through the speakers, Amore gets an important call.

“Take it,” I tell him, “I’m going to step outside for a moment, get some fresh air.”

He nods and steps away from me, looking for a quiet spot to take the call. Just as he disappears from sight, I catch sight of Jeremy, towering over most everyone. Disinterested in continuing that conversation with him or really anyone else, I duck into the stairwell, looking for an escape to the outside.

CHAPTER FOUR

RAVEN

LEANING INTO the heavy exterior door on the first floor, it swings open. To the right is the venue’s back parking lot, and to the left is a short alleyway that leads out onto the main road. The sun has long disappeared behind the mountains, but I can still see the outline of the peaks between the city lights and the clear sky, complete with a full moon and a sky full of stars.

It’s loud out here. The city is far from asleep. But the frantic tempo that comes with daytime traffic, mainly cars and busy professionals, has passed, now filled with more foot traffic and people seeking nighttime entertainment. It’s a shift in the quality of the sound, fewer heavy trucks, more music spilling from open car windows with the heat of the day passed. And more importantly, it’s more slow-paced than inside. The band has finished, which means it’s now the DJ’s turn to carry the party vibes for the rest of the night.

“…you tomorrow,” I hear a male voice saying after a short blast from a passing car’s horn.

“Have a good one, Knox,” a second male voice says.

“You too, Zeke. Love you, cousin.”

Leaning over the railing of the steps, I look down the alleyway. A small van is parked in the loading zone, and I see the Nightshades packing their instruments. The door behind me opens, and several people come out, all headed towards the parking lot. I catch several snippets of conversation, all speaking positivity about Dove and RJ’s reception. I feel the buzz of pride run through me at a job well done. Or maybe it’s just all the liquor.

Damn, those Jamo and Gingers are hitting hard.

When I turn my attention back to the alleyway, the van is gone, but the lead singer, Knox, still stands there alone. Something about him draws my attention. It’s been happening all night through their set. I was less than impressed by his guitar playing. Most of the guests likely didn’t even notice that he sometimes fell out of sync with Octavia and Zeke, but I did. Each time, they would follow his lead, keeping the sound tight overall.

His instrument playing notwithstanding, his singing voice has a quality that I can only describe as orchestral. It is layered and dynamic. Even though most of what they played tonight were covers, he still managed to surprise me with his musical choices. Singing harmony when I thought he would stay on the melody; choosing a minor key with more upbeat songs to make them appropriate for slow dancing. Pushing and dragging the rhythm to make the songs more interesting than some of the originals. It was the kind of chaotic music-making that leads to amazing performances.

Without even realizing I’m doing it, I leave the steps and make my way into the alleyway. He looks up from his phone as I approach, his eyes this soulful color of amber I hadn’t noticed when he was up on stage. The bright streetlight gives his hair a subtle shine, his beard and hair the same shade of chocolate brown. It’s only as I near him that I notice the few strands of his hair that gradient into silver in his otherwise dark brown beard.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello,” he says, dropping his phone into his leather jacket. With the jacket on, I can’t see his arm tattoos I glimpsed as he played. It’s far too hot out here in my opinion for that kind of fashion choice, but it fits his athletic build well. The material is worn and soft-looking.

I freeze in thought, realizing I approached him with no plan for conversation topics. I lean on what I hope will be the safest conversation, business.

“I confirmed with Octavia that the remainder of the band’s playing fee has already gone through.”

He nods, “Yeah, thanks. She let me know.”

I pause, realizing I’ve already run out of conversation. I’ve been speaking to people all day long, familiar and unfamiliar to me, with no issues. But now, suddenly, in front of him, I feel like I short-circuited.

“You sang well,” I say.

“Nice wedding,” he says simultaneously.