The air sizzled with anticipation. The smell of cigarette smoke and freshly brewed beer permeated the tiny space. Bodies lingered haphazardly around the semi-cramped bar.
It was a decent-sized establishment, located in the heart of the heavily-populated college town. The place was usually packed during the school months, and tonight was no exception.
I sat at a high table near the front of the stage. The waitress, a tired-looking woman with a youthful face ambled up to my bar stool and asked me what it would be.
Ordering my drink, a club soda with a splash of lime, I returned my gaze back to the others around me.
This wasn't my scene.
I noticed that there were throngs of girls.
Well, not throngs. But they were grouped in a fashion that made it seem as if they were twenty of them instead of eight. I watched them, their hair flipping every so often over their shoulders, catching the dim interior lights of the club. They were all clad in their skimpiest: all halters and low jeans, the tiny strings from tiny underwear peeking out ever so seductively.
I looked down at my outfit: scuffed black Converses, the jeans I wore yesterday, plain black t-shirt, and my ever-present black leather motorcycle jacket. At least I remembered to comb my hair, which now sat neatly around my shoulders.
I was clearly underdressed.
The waitress returned, setting down a small white napkin and placing my drink on top. She smiled tiredly at me. I made a mental note to leave her a good tip.
Shrugging off my jacket, I took a sip of my drink. I set it down easily, careful not to disturb the bandage that was covering my wrist.
Why am I here, I thought.
Simple. I needed a break from studying. The flyer looked pretty cool.
Tonight, the Wreck Room advertised someone named Trey London. I wanted to just write it off as another Chris Carraba wannabe: a "tortured" emo kid using mommy and daddy's money to tour shitty bars and sing about girls who broke his heart.
I figured I could have used fodder for my next scathing blog.
A group of females pushed past me, anxious to get to the stage.
"Whoa there skanks, I'm sure he's got enough dicks in his entourage you can suck. No need to bum rush."
I was in a great mood tonight.
One of the girls shot me a mean look. I tipped my drink in her direction. She was blond, although her birth certificate probably said otherwise. I suppose she was pretty, if one considers walking STDs attractive.
She eyed me, with my not-sexy-whatsoever outfit and my black hair that hung down past my shoulders, parted at the side with a sweeping section over one eye.
I guess she wanted to say something, but wisely kept shut. Turning back to her friends, I heard her mutter "dumb black bitch" before walking off.
No, not the time for that tonight, although part of me was wishing to find her in a dark alley later on.
The house lights flickered, and I followed everyone else's lead and turned towards the small stage. It was really more like an elevated platform. It was wide, and close enough to me that I could almost reach out and touch whoever walked on.
Someone finally came onstage. He was tallish, about 6'2. His dark hair was close-cropped and somewhat shiny, like he used amazing conditioner.
His clothes were nothing too fancy, just a pair of jeans and a dark blue fitted Henley. I noticed his body wasn't the typical musician's build of skin and scrawny muscles. He was fit, but not overly so.
This boy ate a sandwich well.
Sitting down on the lone stool onstage, he opened the black guitar case he carried with him. Pulling out a slightly scuffed black guitar, he began to tune it, trying to get everything right.
It was then I noticed that he hadn't spoken to the crowd once. The females in the room were definitely paying attention to him now. And I have to admit he was attractive.
But he was a musician: self-absorbed, slightly pompous. They were pretentious fools moonlighting as soulful artisans, the experts of their craft.
Whatever.
I sighed, preparing myself for just another guy with a guitar.
He coughed as he lowered the microphone. Strumming a few notes, he opened with a song right away. No standard cheesy greeting to the crowd, nothing.
Just music.
He played the intro for a good two minutes, a jangling tune ranging from jarringly loud to barely a whisper.
When he finally opened his mouth, it was as if heaven itself opened its gates and a bright shining angel appeared to me.
No joke.
I don't really remember much of the song. There were metaphors about roads and lonesome trains and churches at the end of tracks.
But his voice. Man, it was like a locomotive barreling down a train track. It was sharp as a razor.
It crackled like lightening, yet was deep as a rumbling southern rainstorm.
I have never experienced anything like that before.
It just didn't seem real at all. No man should sound that sexy. No man could be that sexy.
And yet Trey London and his smooth vocal styling were stirring things inside of me that I thought were dormant.
He didn't stop. He kept playing, segueing into one song after another. I was spellbound, I was hooked.
I wondered at this man, whose energy seemed indefatigable. He played with such fervor and passion.
I imagined that the grace he played with, he also reserved for his lovemaking. I felt my cheeks flush as I watched his hands move along the strings of the guitar, gently plucking and stroking them.
For the briefest of moments, I was his guitar, my body was his instrument and his skillful hands moved along it like they were made for each other.
Mesmerized, I felt my body heat up as I watched his facial expressions. His eyes, a deep hazel, remained closed throughout his performance. His mouth a delicate bow, the fullness of his lips almost too feminine for another man, but on him was perfection.
His eyebrows crinkled, when he hit a meaningful note, and oh his notes! So beautiful and poignant and so completely divine. I felt as if he were a Greek god, and I his wanton servant. I wanted to please this man, this Trey London.
The last song he played, I recognized as one of my favorites. It was Aqualung's "Strange and Beautiful". The song, usually arresting on its own, was absolute perfection in his expert hands.
My eyes were everywhere on him, his hands, his face, his body. I wanted to replace them with my hands, explore this man and discover the source of his mysteriousness.
He finally opened his eyes and I heard my breath catch in my throat. He was looking straight at me.
There was no one else in the room but us. I felt naked under his gaze as he continued to play and sing. It was all for me.
When the song was over, the audience sprang to life. There was thunderous applause and calls for an encore. Trey smiled, and my heart leapt. Damn, he was so fine. His grin was slow and steady, and adorably lopsided. No wonder those girls were fawning over him.
I thought he'd exit the bar after he finished, leaving us bedazzled in a cloud of wonderment. To my surprise, he stepped offstage and walked through the crowd, greeting people and patiently standing while giggling co-eds snapped pictures with their cell phones.
My throat began to seize up as I saw him heading my way. Pretending to busy myself, I flipped out my cell phone to feign disinterest. I was thrilled and a little disappointed when he passed by and headed to the bar.
