Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,27
it’s really that much of a band.” The voice bellows out from behind an ancient teller’s booth, now equipped with a modern cash register. The man who steps out from behind it is Clint plus thirty years—black hair, dark tan, broad shoulders, rugged features.
“Brought a new musician, Pop,” Clint says, pointing at Brandon.
“Greg and Todd’ll be ready to play in a minute,” Clint’s dad tells Brandon. “Why don’t you just sit down and enjoy yourself for a minute? Any appetizer you want, on the house.”
As if Brandon could be bothered with food. He beelines for the small stage area, pointing to the space behind the microphones. “Right here,” he shouts. “My amp’ll fit right here.” He whacks into a Zildjian cymbal, which brings a protective drum-set owner—a pretty beefy guy in a fraying Corona ball cap—out of the shadows, shouting, “Who goes there?”
“This pretty lady his agent?” Clint’s dad jokes, while Brandon introduces himself to the drummer.
“Chelsea Keyes. The basketball player I told you about last night.”
“Gene Morgan. The father I’m sure he hasn’t said a single word about,” Clint’s dad says with a quick wink.
Morgan, I think, sneaking a glance at Clint. Clint Morgan. It even sounds like the character in a romance novel. Or a soap opera. Clint Morgan, the rugged hero. Clint Morgan, the love-interest in the great cinematic American love story. Not that I’m interested. Gabe Gabe Gabe Gabe …
“You kids better snare a table while you can,” Gene says. “Filling up fast tonight.”
Just beyond Gene’s shoulder, another guy joins Brandon and the drummer. The drummer seems to be interested in whatever Brandon’s saying—or maybe he’s just mesmerized by his enthusiasm. But this second guy slips his slender body onto a stool that sits in front of a mic and watches me and Clint with a stare so intense, I’m not sure he even knows Brandon’s here to infiltrate his band.
“Greg and Todd?” I ask, nodding once at the stage.
“Yep,” Clint answers. “Todd’s in the hat.”
The slender guy—Greg—raises one hand to wave.
Clint pushes me toward the kitchen, where a woman with a long brown braid pinches the receiver of a phone between her ear and shoulder as she jots down a carry-out order. When she hangs up, she slaps Clint’s hand, which has dipped into a plate of sizzling onion rings. “Get your dirty fingers out of that. I’ve just made them for table seven.”
“They’re clean, Mom,” he protests.
“Clean as a fish, maybe,” she says good-naturedly. The whole scene just reminds me so much of home. God—the mom in the back, the dad working the cash register. It’s so familiar, in fact, that an actual giggle starts to trickle out of my mouth.
Clint’s mom turns to me for the first time, her eyes running over me, digging so deep for details that it’s almost like I’ve got newspaper glued to my arms and legs and she’s searching my skin for the weather report.
“Chelsea Keyes, fisherwoman extraordinaire,” Clint says, piling some hush puppies on a plate.
“Chelsea? The Chelsea?” A pleased grin tries to tug the corners of her mouth, the way Scratches sometimes paws and tugs on my foot, trying to get me to play. “Cecilia Morgan,” she says, pointing to her chest. “Fry cook extraordinaire.” She bites her top lip.
When she doesn’t think I’m looking, she gives Clint one of those all-knowing mother gazes. Pats his shoulder. “Didn’t expect you two to be out in the evening,” she says. “Didn’t expect to see the two of you together in the restaurant at all, actually.”
Clint frowns, and does such a rough, violent job of shaking his head at her that it practically gives me a rug burn just watching it.
“I’m just saying …” Cecilia’s voice takes on a defensive tone.
“No, you were probing,” Clint says. “We wanted to celebrate a good day on the lake for Chelsea. And her brother’s a musician. Period. Don’t get all private eye about it.”
I suddenly get an all-over weird feeling, watching the beginning of a family fight unfold. Especially since I don’t even know Clint, and especially since it looks like I’m going to be the source of the argument.
“I—I have a boyfriend,” I blurt, stupidly. “Gabe. My—boyfriend.”
Clint tosses a frown at me, his look of disbelief and annoyance so intense that my blush doesn’t just slowly spread across my cheeks—it splashes across my face all at once.
“Looks like Clint’s already fixed you a plate,” Cecilia says, rolling her eyes as Clint heaps on servings of everything she’s just taken from