and ripped through a perfectly staged rendition of “Come See About Me,” the classic 60s pop hit by The Supremes, Summer bopped along from her seat.
“They have moves,” she pointed out. “We need some moves.”
They needed more than moves. They needed a song.
She must have noticed his worried expression or read his mind because she turned suddenly and leaned across the table until her face was inches from his. “Have you ever seen Grease?”
“Pfft, are you kidding? The movie and stage play were de rigueur in the suburbs when I was a kid.”
“De rigueur? My goodness. Were you raised in a palace?”
“More along the lines of a professionally decorated and maintained mausoleum. Like one of the monstrosities in the architecture magazines.”
“We had very different childhoods,” she told him. “Our decorator was Monsieur Walmart.” Her thick fake French accent made him smile.
“Reality caught up with me by the time I went to college.” He didn’t know why he kept explaining and just kept going. “I traded my walk-in closet and laundry service for a dresser and tiny closet—enough for sixteen hangers. Eight for me and eight for my roommate. I loved it,” he murmured as the flashpoint in time filled his thoughts. “Later, I did a lot of traveling. Business stuff,” he said in a husky whisper. “Lived out of a suitcase for a long time. Nothing permanent. Everything was temporary, furnished, and bland.”
The next act consisted of a group of college kids attempting to sing Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” He sipped his drink and continued to huddle in the middle of the table, talking about the past.
“When I moved to New York and joined the agency, I had a tough time adjusting to a normal life. Finally got a permanent address about two years ago. For the first six months, I only had folding chairs and outdoor loungers in the living room.”
Summer listened closely, occasionally taking a dainty sip of her drink. She licked her lips and nodded.
“I get it. Really, I do. My dad died a year after I got out of high school. One day, I was a stupid nineteen-year-old wasting time in a community college. In the blink of an eye, my father was gone, I cleared out our house, had an epic yard sale, and moved into a little efficiency while I thought about what the hell to do.”
“Where was your brother?”
“Oh, he’s older by a bunch of years and was already off doing his thing. Army,” she muttered quietly.
Arnie swallowed with difficulty. She had an older brother in the Army. Great.
He nodded as a bunch of things made sense—like why she was friendly but understandably cautious around him at first. Her brother was probably the reason. If he’d had a sister, Arnie was certain he would have been overprotective in a big-time way.
“Has Santa Barbara always been home?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Sacramento. I came here for a new start.”
He touched her hand, stroking it lightly. “I’m glad you’re here. Glad I’m here. Glad we met.”
“Next up, we have Barbie and Ken,” the club’s comedic host boomed through the sound system. “Give ’em a big hand. Come on up, guys.”
“That’s us.” She giggled and shot out of her chair. “Just follow along,” she yelled over her shoulder as he stumbled after her. “I did this in high school!”
“Hi,” she exclaimed to the guy running the equipment. “‘You’re the One That I Want.’”
“You got it, Barbie. There’s a spoken intro, and then you’re all set. Have fun.”
She grabbed his hand, dragged him onto the little stage, and handed him a microphone. “The words are on the screen if you need them.”
“My balls have risen, Goldilocks. Let’s do this.”
She dropped her head back and laughed. Her tumble of long blond hair shone in the spotlight.
The backing track started with the spoken intro. When it was time, he broke into an exuberant Danny Zucco with multiplying chills, and from there, the performance went supersonic. Not only did his little lady have killer dance moves but she also knew how to engage an audience. As a duo, they brought the house down and had a damn fine time in the process.
They held hands and took stage bows as the audience hooted and hollered.
When they were almost back to their table, a random shithead sitting at the end of the bar commented a bit too loudly as they passed. “Nice job, boots and ass.”
Arnie’s hand very nearly shot out and grabbed the fucker by the throat. No such action was necessary