“He’s just doing his job,” the lady screamed as the Asian dude listened, stone-faced, to Tabitha’s tirade.
“Back off, bitch!” Tabitha countered as friends of the lady at the bar tried to pull the lady away. When the lady lost her footing and accidently wavered toward Tabitha, she overreacted. Let’s face it, in Tabitha’s diminished state a fly buzzing nearby might have made her feel threatened. She, being the totally smashed Princess of Pop, hauled off and punched the woman.
Chaos ensued, and Tabitha, Maxwell, and the lady at the bar were all hustled outside. Mocha had already jumped out of the limo, opened the door, and was ready to hurry her off.
Chase followed me as I trailed Tabitha outside. I didn’t know if Maxwell was already inside the limo or not, but as I approached on the street side, Tabitha’s window rolled down.
“Come on,” she said, “let’s get out of here and go to Robert’s, where we can do what we want. ZK will be there. He’s dying to see you.” As I processed that Robert’s was Robert Francis’s house, I began to panic. At 2 A.M., it was about the last place I wanted to go near.
“Think I’ll stay here with Chase,” I said as gently as I could.
“Who?” She scrutinized Chase in her drunken haze. “You’re the video shooter.”
“Yep, that’s me,” Chase said self-effacingly.
“You’re hooking up with a video shooter instead of ZK Northcott?” she asked drunkenly, sneering at me as if I were a lowlife. Chase took an immediate step back. I sensed he was embarrassed and maybe had a different orientation altogether.
“Tabitha, please,” I said and wanted to explain we were just friends when Mocha tapped the partition to get her attention. A police car was approaching.
“Suit yourself,” she said, silently closing her window as Mocha drove away.
“What’s this world coming to when a pop star can’t score a drink for an underage booty call?” Chase said as we watched her limo get swallowed up in the night. I assumed Tabitha figured it would be better to explain things to the cops when she wasn’t totally plastered.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. “You know, the Talkhouse is a pretty good antidote to the limos and McMansion parties, not that I ever go to those. But you look like you could use a change.”
“Sure, why not?” I shrugged. To think I had just arrived that day. Uh, it was 2 A.M. Okay, the day before.
As the East Hampton Police pulled up, we squeezed our way back in the door. Chase grabbed us a couple of beers and found a spot at the corner of the stage on the far left of the club near the soundboard. The flashing red police light reflected intermittently on the windows of the club, but everyone inside seemed to have moved on. The cops appeared content to confine their investigation to people outside. I wondered if they would follow up with Tabitha.
The whole club was so small you could literally step up on the stage if you wanted. It was only a foot or two off the floor and about twenty feet wide and fourteen feet deep. The ceiling was low enough to almost touch on your tiptoes.
Behind the stage was a backdrop, an ancient sepia-toned picture of a stoic man with long black hair, his shirt buttoned at the top with a scarf tied at the neck, holding a walking stick in one hand that almost looked like a rifle but wasn’t.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“That’s Stephen Talkhouse,” Chase told me. “He was one of the last chiefs of the Montaukett Indians. Where we’re sitting used to be their land, before the tribes of Laurens and Von Furstenbergs invaded.” I laughed.
“And what brings you out here?” I asked.
“I had a gig shooting a charity event that turned into a weeklong job,” he said. “I thought I’d hang out a little, get some sun, maybe pick up another gig before heading back. And what’s your angle out here?”
A seizure of insecurity washed over me, and I wondered if I had already let my guard down with Chase.
“Some family matters to clear up in East Hampton,” I lied, hoping to sound superior. “Then back to the city for Fashion Week.” His inquisitive brown eyes brightened, and he ran his hands through his tousled auburn hair.
“For Designer X?” he asked with a knowing hipster smile that renewed my fears he was on to me.
“Yes,” I said, leaving it at that. He had been following my blog. I worried why. Moments later, the energy inside the steamy club inexplicably ratcheted up as people started to clap in unison. Everyone seemed to know that the band was about to come out.
The first band member onstage was a hot-looking drummer followed by a tall, languid bass player who reminded me of Max from Tabitha’s band, then a keyboard player and the lead singer.
“With all these fans, they must be local,” Chase said. The lead singer picked up his guitar to wild cheers. I nearly spit my beer.
It was Jake.
He wore the same sky-colored Blue Note Records T-shirt he used to wear at the Hole. He threw a nod to cue the band, and the bassist slid his finger all the way down the neck of his guitar, thumping a low bass-line intro as Jake hammered four chunky power chords, then kicked the distortion pedal. Immediately, everyone was on their feet, dancing and singing along.
It was one of those classic guitar hooks you couldn’t forget, a throwback, like the opening to Rick Springfield’s “Jessie’s Girl.” His immediate feedback loop with the audience encircled the room. Preppies and locals were dancing together.
I was awestruck.
He had no idea I was standing a few feet away, and I hoped he wouldn’t see me. On the second chorus, Jake allowed the noise of the band and the crowd to build to a crescendo. Watching him move with such grace and power, I found I couldn’t swallow or speak or breathe. I could only remember my mistakes, starting with the fact that I just didn’t have the confidence to believe that Jake Berns was really interested in me.
I had been right about one thing though. Hearing his yearning, soulful voice opened a hole in my heart. The band joined in with husky harmonies while Jake’s distinctively silky lead guitar ripped across the melody. Why couldn’t I have confided in him? Why couldn’t I have let him know what was going on?
As he stalked across the stage, totally in his element, I had to admit to myself that I had always been hopelessly attracted to him and afraid of what that might mean. Probably like every other girl here, I guessed.
Some chick in a cropped shirt in the front row got up on the other end of the stage and started dancing, and he played off her excitement. The crowd loved it. At the end of the song Jake politely escorted her offstage, and that’s when he caught sight of me. He appeared shocked momentarily but recovered immediately, turning away.
I don’t think anyone noticed except Chase.
“Do you know him?” he shouted above the music. I shrugged yes, hoping I didn’t look as totally undone as I felt.
Jake’s whole set was mind-blowing with its emotional anthems and flat-out rockers. I was standing so close that I could almost touch him.
He pretty much avoided looking my way through most of the performance, although he gave me a soft smile near the end. Just enough to be kind, I thought. He leapt around the stage with his unassuming charm in the same old tennis shoes he used to wear at the Hole.
The Rockets finished with a rollicking dance song that everyone in the crowd seemed to know by heart. As soon as Jake ripped the last chord, the Talkhouse was on its feet, demanding an encore. After a few moments, the band gave them what they wanted: two more songs.
Still, they asked for more. These were his fans, his following from all walks of life, not just locals. They wouldn’t let him go.
They began to cry out for a third encore.
“One night! One night!” they chanted. I didn’t know what that meant, but even when the houselights went on, the fans wouldn’t let up, they wouldn’t stop. Usually when the lights come up people leave, but no one moved an inch.