Exposed (The Alpha Stranger) Book 2 (4 page)

We get out and head inside of the Arrow Bar. It is packed. There are maybe three hundred people in there. Everyone in the bar looks like your typical Santa Monica crowd. And by that I mean very hip, well-dressed, well-to-do creative folks who will be more than willing to tear apart my untrained music.

The handsome stranger walks up to the piano player and talks to him. I hang by the bar and order a vodka straight up. That’s about the strongest drink my body can take. I watch my anonymous lover hand the piano player a hundred-dollar bill. The piano player is more than willing to go on a “cigarette break.” My anonymous lover walks up to me and takes my hand. “Here is your moment. Show them what you’ve got.”

Oh wow. This is it. I am going to puke. I nervously sit at the piano. I struggle to raise the adjustable piano stool. After about a minute of preparing myself in front of the baby grand piano, I look out into the audience. Just about all of the people in the bar are engaged in their own conversations. The only one looking directly at me is my anonymous lover.

I look at the microphone. Then I close my eyes and try to remember one of my original songs written years ago. I tap the microphone, causing the PA system to feedback slightly. “Hello. My name is Carrie. This is a song called, ‘Runaway Life.’” I begin to play the first few bars of my original song. It doesn’t take long for my sub-conscious to take over my hands. I’ve played this song so much that I could execute it note-perfect with my eyes closed. That’s the easy part. The singing is another story. I have never sung in front of another live human being before. Every bone in my body is shaking.

I utter the first verse from my song. Oh my God, I am so out of key. I totally expect the boos to come from the audience. I peek out at the crowd and discover that practically no one is paying attention to me. That makes me more comfortable. I continue to sing, finding my key and getting more comfortable with each passing chord. By the time I reach the chorus of my song, I find a comfort level that allows me to continue my song without that worrisome tingle in my belly. Halfway through the song, I look out into the crowd. No one is paying attention to me. No one that is, except for my anonymous lover. He stands by the bar staring right into my eyes. Oh fuck, I am so in love with him right now.

I continue to sing. But this time, I am not singing to the crowd, I am singing to my anonymous lover. My voice is not only in key, I am finding passion in my voice. I feel good. I start to own this song. I end strong. There is not much applause. A couple of polite scattering of claps. That doesn’t bother me at all. I have just accomplished something that before had only existed in the sub-conscious of my dreams - I played one of my own songs to a crowd. I leave the piano and run into my anonymous lover’s arms. I cry. Something in me lights up. I feel like this is a turning point in my life.

“You did it,” the handsome stranger tells me. I continue to cry. All this emotions washed over me. My lover carries me out of the bar. We stand out in the sidewalk and kiss. That strong stud puts his thick lips against mine. He runs his hands up and down my body. He goes for my tits. I am more than happy to give him my entire body - right here, right now. The handsome stranger pulls down my thong and pushes me up against the wall. I grab onto him. I hear the sound of his zipper coming down. He enters. We fuck right up against the front of the bar. Dammit. This feels so right. I claw my lover’s back as he grunts and grinds his thick cock inside of my body. I cry out moans of joy as I cum right on the cold, dark Santa Monica sidewalk.

We giggle and kiss. I put my thong back on and rush back into the Ferrari with my anonymous lover. He speeds off and heads back towards the hotel. “You did great!” the handsome lover says as he strokes my hair. “I was talking to the bartender. He said that there is no live entertainment tomorrow. He mentioned that if you wanted to drop by and play a few songs, it would be okay. Of course, I padded his pocket with a little incentive,” the handsome stranger adds.

I am so energized that I scream out, “Yes! I will do it!”

“Cool. I’ll come by and see you at 10:00 p.m.”

I kiss my lover on the neck. It is not a sexual kiss. It’s an affectionate kiss. I lusted after this man for so long. But right now, so help me, I am totally in love with him. We arrive at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I hand the valet my car ticket. The valet pulls up with my Honda. The handsome stranger tips the valet a hundred-dollar bill. And like that, the handsome stranger has made that young valet’s night.

“Get a good night’s sleep. Call in late at work if you have to,” my lover advises. Oh boy, work is the last thing on my mind right now. All I can think about is my music. I feel reborn. I look up at my anonymous lover and try to think of the perfect thing to say to him. First he opened my legs, then he opened my mind, now he has opened my soul. I kiss him on the lips and say, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the handsome stranger says with a genuine kindness that just makes me melt.

I get into my car and head back to my apartment. I turn down the windows and turn up the radio. The cool west LA air hits me in the face while I listen to some alternative rock music. Life could not be better for me. By the time I get back at my apartment, I am too amped up to get too get sleep. It doesn’t take too long for my roommate to let me know she doesn’t appreciate my surplus of energy.

“Carrie. What the fuck?! It’s 2:00 a.m.?!” my roommate says as she storms out of her bedroom.


“I’m sorry. I just had the best night of my life.”

“Oh wow. He must be fucking you well if you’re dancing around the living room at this hour.”

“It’s more than that!” I say as I jump up and down. “I performed at the Arrow Bar in Santa Monica. It was just one song. But I did it!”

“I’m happy for you really. But I gotta be up in like five hours to get to work. And you need to get to work as well. You don’t want lose your job.”

Deb is right. I hop into the shower and then I brush my teeth. By the time I get to bed it’s almost 3:00 a.m. My body is still energized with music ideas flying around my head. I reach under my bed and pull out my dusty old keyboard. I find some earplugs and begin to play some of my old songs. As I play, the time continues to pass. 3:30. 4:00. Before I know it, 5:00 a.m. rolls around.

Damn, I’ll just call in sick, sleep in and work on my music for my next set at the Arrow Bar. As the first hints of dawn break through the darkness, I lay my head down on my pillow. Before I fall asleep, one final thought passes into my head -
this is the life I want.
I want to play music late at night, sleep in and then write my own music during the day. I want to be a musician.

***

For the first time in years, I am well rested. I hop out of bed at around noon, go to the Coffee Bean and grab some overpriced coffee. Then I check my cell phone messages. Uh Oh. My boss just left four messages on my phone. I forgot to call in sick. To be honest, I completely forgot that I had a day job.

I call the office manager and tell her that I’m sick. She isn’t buying it. She says, “Enjoy your day off and make sure to get back into the office tomorrow.” Perhaps it was not a good idea to call when she could obviously hear me walking down the street. As I hang up the phone, I have mentally quit working for a living. My anonymous lover has rekindled my passion for music. Perhaps I am being delusional but life is too short to play it safe.

I get back into my apartment and bring the keyboard out into the living room. Even though I have a book of original songs in my head, none of them have been written in the past five years. And frankly, all of them sound like rejected Fiona Apple songs. I want to compose something new. I want to see if my recent life experiences can spark new lyrics.

So I sit in front of my keyboard and begin to play. It takes a few minutes for me to come up with some song ideas. I know right away that this is not going to be easy. After an hour, I write two songs. They are both crap. I crumple up the paper and throw it away. After two hours, it becomes apparent to me that I have made a big mistake.

I’m no singer/songwriter. I played one song live at a bar to an indifferent audience and now I am ready to throw away a perfectly good job for a pipe dream. I should just slap myself back into reality and get back to work tomorrow. My lover was just trying to be nice to me. I am flattered. I appreciate it. But I am certainly not a professional music artist.

Now I begin to cry. Dammit. I really want to be a musician but I just don’t have the talent. This sucks. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life answering phones and signing for packages for twelve bucks an hour. That is not going to make me happy. What does my anonymous lover see in me?! As the tears fall on my keyboard, I am resigned to the fact that I will just be another face in the crowd of people with broken dreams.

Then I think of my anonymous lover. He is going to be at the club tonight. He will be listening to my music. I know he will appreciate whatever I play. So, you know what, I am going to write a song for him. He’s the only positive force in my life. And he is the only person who seems to give a fuck about me. I can’t write a great song. But I will write the best damn sing I can write for my lover with no name.

I giggle at the phrase, “Lover With No Name.” I write that at the top of a blank page. Then I start writing about my experience with my anonymous lover. I write about our phone conversation. “Do you like to get spanked?” That is the first lyric of my song. Then I continue to write, “We don’t know our names, but we know our favorite places.” Oh fuck, this is starting to get fun. The more I write, the more obscene my lyrics become. I have fun coming up with delicately worded phrases to describe our sexual adventures. In half an hour, I finish writing the song.

I turn on my keyboard and begin to play. I just jam. After a few minutes, I start playing the sexiest jazz piano chord that can possibly spill out of a girl’s fingers. And I just start to sing my lyrics in a breathless tone that I didn’t even know I had in me. After a while, I don’t even have to look at the words on the page, my song is forever imprinted on my subconscious mind.

When the song is done, I begin to cry again. But this time it’s different. I am not crying out of despair nor am I crying out of fear. I cry out pure joy and accomplishment. For the first time, I have created something that truly makes me proud. I have written a song for my lover. And tonight, he will hear my gift to him. I hop back to my bedroom and play the song again while sitting in bed. As I play, I can see the hotel bedroom where I was stripped down and spanked. I can feel my lover’s hands on my body. This song can manifest the most perverted and beautiful sex right in front of my eyes. Forgive me, but I am getting off right now!

***

I drive down to the Arrow Bar at 9:00 p.m. The place is about half full. My anonymous lover will be here in an hour. I talk to the bartender who says that I am welcome to play whenever I feel like it. I tell him that I’ll start my “show” in about half an hour. Right now, I just need to take a walk around the block and get myself ready.

My body is so energized, I feel like I’m going into a prize fight. There is a whole part of my spirit that is opening up here. Let me put it this way, you don’t become this psyched on your first day at work as a receptionist. I could do great. I could fall flat on my face. All I know is that my life has gotten a lot more interesting and I feel so much more alive.

At 9:30, I head back into the bar and make my way to the piano. There are still butterflies in my stomach but I don’t feel that huge wave of terror inside of me. The crowd is a little smaller than last night. They are indifferent to my presence. I sit down at the piano and make myself comfortable. As I settle myself in, a waitress comes over, “Gabe says you have drinks on the house.”

“Oh cool. I’ll take a rum and Coke.”

Well, that is nice of the bar guy. Maybe he is thinking that liquoring me up will yield a better performance. Who knows. I’ll take all the free drinks that I can handle.

The waitress hands me the drink. I take a nice big sip and place the glass on the piano. “Good evening. My name is Carrie. I’ll be playing some tunes tonight.” With that, I begin to play. I start off with a melody and just let the sound of the piano fill the room. After about a minute, I get comfortable enough to start my vocals. My voice is much better than last night. I’m in tune and I feel good.

When I finish my first song, I actually get a scattering of applause. “Thank you,” I say with a nervous laugh. I launch into a second song. I feel good enough to rock my body back and forth while I sing. In the middle of my second song, I see a person’s hand place a dollar into a tip jar on the piano. My first professional income! Now I am actually smiling.