Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue) Page 2

  Finnegan’s is the kind of place that has a hometown feel, appealing to both locals and tourists. It’s always busy on Fridays; I had to use a little extra muscle to make my way past the people drinking out on the patio and find my friends who would be waiting for me at the bar.

  “HEY! EEEMMMBEERR! Miss November!” Monica screeched like an idiot. Her milk chocolate hair was twisted in to a cute up-do.

  When Monica is giddy, drunk, excited, or a combination of the three, she likes to shout out ‘Miss November’ as if I’m pictured on a calendar somewhere in my bra and panties. My friends typically just call me Ember, which is equally as counter-culture, but somehow “cooler”.

  As I headed toward the bar, I noted a stack of CDs by the bouncer signaling who was playing tonight. The name ‘Bo Cavanaugh’ graced the CD, and his smoky hot face sat above it. Steely blue eyes were set masterfully in his pale face against a black background. There may have been a guitar on the cover, but who could be sure - and who really cares - with a face like that? What is it about a bar, and a guitar, that makes me so tingly? I shook my head at the carnal thought and met Monica, Callie and Sarah at the bar.

  “Ay caramba!” Callie rolled off her tongue like the sexy Venezuelan goddess she is.

  “Thank God you wore a heel, Em.” Sarah slid in, “As much fun as it is always watching you wear flip flops…” Sarah’s about 5-foot-nothing and is constantly tip-toeing around in impossible heels, God bless her. She pulls it off, though, and is nearly more graceful in her heels than out of them.

  “Thanks guys, you’re all so sweet,” I gushed sarcastically. “Who’s the new guy singing tonight?

  “Don’t know,” Monica entered, “Josh said he’s not from here, but has performed for years.”

  Josh is Finnegan’s manager, and Monica’s boyfriend of 2 years. We’ve known him since we moved here. He is boyishly rugged with sandy hair, olive skin, and a killer smile. He helps bring in the music at Finnegan’s, so we always share our likes and dislikes, which he promptly ignores. Josh and I share musical taste so actually, I do have some input.

  Artists that played at Finnegan’s were warned well in advance that the patrons enjoyed live karaoke and they were expected to facilitate that. It’s amazingly fun. My parents’ affinity for music served me well on these nights. While I never took to an instrument myself, I was able to sing along with those who could play. I rarely had anyone to sing with at Finnegan’s, since my folk-rock taste isn’t shared by a majority of the musicians that turn up. However, since Josh took over the bookings, I found myself on stage more and more.

  Over the next several minutes we drank beer, talked about our week, and I reassured everyone that I’d recovered from the frightening scene at the garage; when I picked up my car on Wednesday, everything seemed in place and no one mentioned a disturbance. Josh left us, hopped up on stage, and tapped the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Josh cleared his throat into the mic and emphasized “gentlemen” in an effort to encourage his species to rise above and act as such, “Finnegan’s is excited to introduce the talented spedBo Cavanaugh!” Josh clapped, and we all followed.

  “Wow, he’s hot,” Sara whispered to us as Bo walked on stage.

  He was wearing dark, worn jeans and a thin, loose fitting long-sleeved shirt that looked blue under the lights of the stage. His guitar was slung over his shoulder.

  “Yea, I saw the CD at the door, now shush.” I was always interested in the musical talent that Finnegan’s was able to wrangle in, and I wanted to see if this guy had chops.

  Bo adjusted the microphone, and pushed his sleeves to his elbows as he took a seat on the stool. His dark hair and pale complexion suited the stage. It appeared to be just Bo and his guitar and I loved that.

  “Thank you all for having me. Enjoy,” Bo’s voice was the perfect kind of husky that made my heart skip a beat; my heart hadn’t skipped in a long time. He took a deep breath and began.

  His strumming took more of my heartbeats with him; he was playing one of my favorite songs. I stared at his beautiful silhouette as he began “All Over Now” by Eric Hutchinson. It’s a fairly upbeat tune that requires strumming and tapping the guitar; the acoustic version is absolute heaven.

  He sang with such fluidity and passion you’d have thought he wrote the song himself and, knowing most of the people in this bar, they probably thought he did. Without removing my eyes from the stage, I backed up to the table that held his CDs. I flipped it over to check out his play list and nearly fainted. While he had some original tracks on there, the list of covers was stunning; Eric Hutchinson, Gregory Alan Isakov, Mumford and Sons, and Indigo Girls. Indigo Girls!

  I walked back to my friends and mouthed a grateful, “Thank you,” to Josh for this breath of fresh air. Josh beamed a proud smile like a little boy. He knew he had nailed it.

  Inexplicably, Bo’s eyes caught mine as my jaw hung open and I looked between the CD and him. He half-smiled, seemingly acknowledging my reaction, as he finished his first song. My cheeks felt flushed.

  The clapping began as I stood wide-eyed like I’d never heard music before in my life. I joined in before anyone noticed. For the rest of his set he held me captive through the covers I recognized on his CD, as well as some songs he identified as his own. It was heaven; the few times we made eye contact, his gaze ignited something in me, and heat spread through my body. The way his mouth turned up in a grin was nearly enough to send me running for the fire exit. I sang loudly along to all of the songs, and Monica joined in.

  “Thank you all for letting me share some music with you tonight,” Bo said, shifting on

  his stool. “It’s my understanding that you all enjoy a little live karaoke? I had a request placed at the beginning of the night, so I suppose I ought to honor that. Could Monica and . . . Ember join me?”

  Josh wrapped his arms around Monica and me, giving a slight squeeze before saying, “You’re welcome.”

  You’re welcome indeed. When Bo started the intro, I thought I’d crossed into a different dimension. He began The Wailin’ Jennys song, “Heaven When We’re Home.” Monica and I squealed like the college girls we were when we saw them perform this song on campus during our junior, post boyfriends, year. The Wailin’ Jennys were one thing Monica and I had always agreed on and no one at Finnegan’s had ever played them.

  Nervousness took over as I got up on stage; I had never felt nervous on stage before but I froze under Bo’s striking masculinity. While his shoulders didn’t overpower his guitar, I flippantly thought about them overpowering me. He stopped playing to shake our hands.

  “Bo Cavanaugh.” He stuck out his hand.

  “Monica, nice to meet you. I can’t believe you know this song!” I was glad she spoke first because my eyes were the only thing working in that moment. He is really something to look at.

  “You must be Ember? I like it.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

  The second our hands touched I felt it run up my arm, through my veins, and land square in my gut. A ribbon of instant desire tightened around my insides at the sight of his half smile just a few short inches from my face. I managed a small grin in return, and let my eyes linger on his as our hands parted.

  “Yea, Thank you. I’m thrilled you know this song.” I silently thanked my voice for making a gracious return.

  “Are you kidding? Judging by the crowd here tonight I’m thrilled you know the song,” he chuckled.

  Bo started strumming the intro again, and I swear I could feel his soul through the music. Thankfully, Monica broke my uneasy stare at this beautiful guitar-playing god by tossing me the microphone. Bo cocked his head to the side, indicating he wanted us to sit on the stools on either side of him, so we obliged.

  Bo sang the first verse with us and the crowd went wild. Josh, Sarah, and Callie were beaming, air toasting us with their drinks as we sang,

  “Don’t know what time it is, I’ve been up for way too long

  And I’m too tired to
sleep

  I call my mother on the phone, she wasn’t home,

  And now I’m wondering the street

  I’ve been a fool, I’ve been cruel to myself

  I’ve been hanging onto nothing

  When nothing could be worse than hanging on

  And something tells me there must be something better than all this . . .”

  It only took until the end of the first line for our voices to harmonize. I’d never heard a guy sing this song before, let alone with two women, but it was hot. His low register pulled the soul of the song from deep within my body and cast its spell over the crowd. Everyone was staring, like they were all wondering if we’d cooked this up ahead of time.

  Electricity amplified on the side of my body closest to Bo, and I liked it. I held the microphone in my right hand, causing my elbow to brush against his left arm as we both moved to the music. Each note he strummed found its way into my body, leaving it thirsting for more. He let Monica and I carry the next two verses as he guided his skilled hands across the neck of the guitar.

  The fourth verse of the song is my absolute tattoo-worthy favorite. I was so lost in the music and watching Bo’s hands that I got carried away. I stood up from the stool, placed the microphone in the holder, and really went for it. Monica stopped singing and Bo grinned behind his microphone.

  “There’s no such thing as perfect

  And if there is we’ll find it when we’re good and dead

  Trust me I’ve been looking

  But tonight I think I’ll go and take a bath instead . . .”

  The guitar stopped as I sang the word “instead,” and I turned as I held the note. Bo tilted his chin toward me to tell me to keep singing, only this time he stood up, put his hands on the microphone and joined in- a cappella. As his lips brushed the microphone, he placed his index finger under my chin, lifting my gaze to his. His dark eyes held a stare that ripped through me; a stare that said something I couldn’t read, but begged me to learn its language. We were singing this incredible song to each other, for the crowd, as if we’d written it ourselves. My soul wept with excitement and pleaded for more. If there was such a thing as song sex, I reached my climax as we sang,

  “And then maybe I’ll walk a while

  And feel the earth beneath me

  They say if you stop looking

  It doesn’t matter if you find it

  And who’s to say that even if I did

  It’s what I’m really looking for . . .”

  I thought for sure I was sweating through everything I wore, but that was just my soul panting in the background. Keeping in time with the music, he sat back down and continued playing into the next verse, amidst hoots and claps from the people in the bar. The three of us finished the song together and when the final note was plucked, Finnegan’s erupted like a stadium full of crazed Sox fans.

  I was breathless and invigorated; my insides screamed in delight and made note to do that again very soon. Monica lunged in front of Bo and gave me the tightest hug.

  “That was so beautiful . . . and hot!” She half-whispered in my ear. Did she see the song sex, or was that in my head?

  I turned to Bo and smiled. “Thanks for letting us share that with you. It’s kind of our song.”

  “Ladies, the pleasure was all mine. That was excellent.” Bo grabbed each of our hands, gave Monica a kiss on the cheek, and followed up with a kiss on mine.

  “Really beautiful,” he reinforced how fantastic I sounded with one more soft kiss on my cheek before he dropped my hand. I cocked an eyebrow, let a grin reach my eyes, and headed back to my friends, who were anxiously waiting with shots in hand at the bar.

  “Chicas!” Callie squealed as she handed Monica and I our shots. We clinked our glasses together and downed the shots.

  “Guys, that was unbelievable!” Sarah jumped up and down as if she’d just seen The Wailin’ Jennys perform.

  “I thought you guys would like it,” Josh shrugged coyly. I could tell he was just as thrilled as the rest of them, and us.

  “Josh, give us a warning before you bring the Indie Rock God in here next time, eh?” I smiled, still dazed.

  Monica gushed about what a rush that whole scene had been. I smiled and nodded, but I found my eyes drifting toward the stage as Bo Cavanaugh finished his closing number. He met my eyes and smiled as he slipped off the stage and out of sight.

  Chapter Three

  Still on a high from my now-favorite singing performance at Finnegan’s, I floated out to the deck by myself, beer in hand. I sank into the chair, taking a long sip of my beer, and sighed out to the ocean. I am definitely attracted to Bo. I shook my head at the thought. I hadn’t felt that instantly attracted to anyone since Adrian, and we were both lucky to come out of that relationship with any hope stitched to our hearts. I briefly considered accepting an invitation to another heart battle if it meant spending a few minutes with Bo Cavanaugh.

  I greedily took another serving of salty air into my lungs, but something was different. I peered over my shoulder, and there he was.

  “Ember, right?” Bo motioned to the empty wooden Adirondack chair next to me with his pint. “Can I sit?”

  “Of course.” I straightened myself and turned toward his chair. The chatter of the jukebox purred from inside Finnegan’s. I caught Monica’s eye near the door and she shot a thumbs-up. I gave her a quick nod, acknowledging her encouragement.

  “Ember,” he continued, “is an interesting name.”

  I took the bait.

  “It’s November, like the month, November Blue, actually. I know, I know. My parents,” I looked up at the sky with my hands raised, “hippies.”

  He chuckled as he settled into his chair, “No, that’s great, I like it.” He paused to take a sip of his beer. “You were really great up there tonight.”

  He raised his glass and I accepted his toast. I kept my glass up against his a second longer than was standard, but he didn’t pull his away first either. The wind carried his cologne through my senses. He smelled like sandalwood and sex - why hadn’t I noticed that on stage? Also, points for him that he didn’t want to base an hours-long conversation on the origins of my name.

  “Thank you, though I should be the one paying you the compliment. That was a killer set; I’d lost all hope of Finnegan’s bringing in someone like you,” my voice was sincere, if not a tad overeager, as I searched his eyes.

  “Thanks,” he replied, “Josh saw me play a show in New Hampshire a few months ago. He said he liked my sound and would love to have me play here if I was ever in town. Here I am.” He faced me as he spoke. “Where’d you learn to sing like that?”

  “My hippie parents that I mentioned before? They instilled a lot of things in me, but my favorite is their love of music. My mom calls my voice ‘my instrument’. It thrilled them that I could hum and sing along to the melodies they played on their guitars, banjos, and fiddles…” I trailed off with a smile, thinking that despite moving around a lot when I was a child, music had always been my home.

  “That’s awesome,” Bo replied.

  “How long have you been playing? And, where did you learn to sing like that?” I let the smile paint my face.

  Bo shrugged with humility, “I started with the piano, when I was little. My parents wanted me to try it, so I did. I got pretty good, but then I found the guitar attracted loads more women.” He smiled cautiously behind his glass and I let out a full-bodied laugh.

  “Fair enough, Mr. Cavanaugh, I’ll toast to that.” We clinked glasses again and returned our gaze to the ocean.

  “Seriously, though. Your voice comes from deep in here,” I patted my stomach to try to illustrate the soul, “It’s captivating.” I didn’t tear my eyes from the water.

  “Well, life happens, you know?” I saw him give his head a faint shake out of the corner of my eye, “You take what you get and you use it for what you want.”

  I shot him an imploring look and noted that he was staring absently
at the sand. Tortured artist?

  “So, Bo, is that short for something?” I quickly shifted gears. I wanted to reach out and touch him because he was so damned attractive but I feared that if I did, he’d scatter into the ocean breeze like the seeds of a long-gone dandelion.

  “Bowan, actually.”

  “Oh, is Bo just for CD covers, or do you prefer it all the time?” I had loosened up in the last three quarters of my pint and decided to turn up the flirt.

  “Ha, well, no one’s ever really asked me that. Is Ember just for friends or do you prefer it all the time?” he chided, nudging my shoulder with his.

  “Ah, I see. Bo it is.” I winked as I finished my pint and stood up.

  “You heading out?” Bo asked, and stood up a second after me.

  “No,” I giggled, “but my friends are inside. I only came out for a little air and to bask in the afterglow of your set.”

  I wrapped my hand around his forearm for a second, half - congratulatory and half “let me feel you.” His arms were tight from years spent with his guitar. I dropped my hand as soon as I realized what I was doing, but he caught it mid-fall and held it there, in the charged space between our bodies. My face heated as electricity transferred from his fingers to mine. That split-second of silence felt like an eternity, and I forgot to breathe.

  “Can I join you guys for a drink?” He lifted his empty glass as proof that he needed more.

  He let go and stuffed his hand into his pocket. Why’d he do that?

  “Absolutely, they’ll love it.” I exhaled as I turned toward the door.

  He held the door for me, guiding me by the small of my back with his free hand. I wanted to grab his face and explore it with my lips, but pushed down the thought in favor of a more responsible one.