Beg by C. D. Reiss Read Free Book Online Page A

up.
The chitchat and apologies would take another fifteen minutes, and I still had
to practice some dumb standards for the solo gig at Frontage that night.
    I sat on a wooden bench facing the glass separating the studio
from the control room. The room stank of cigarettes and human funk. The
soundproofing on the walls and ceiling was foam, porous by necessity, and thus
holding cells for germs and odor. Though I thought I’d rubbed away the ache
Jonathan had caused, I woke up with it, and good scrub and an arched back in
the shower did nothing to dispel the feel of him. I needed to get to work.
Letting this guy under my skin was counterproductive already.
    I whispered, “I’ve got you, under my skin.” Then I sang, I’ve got you, deep in the heart of me. So
deep in my heart, that you’re really a part of me.
    No. But yes. It was a good song. It was missing how I really
felt: frustrated and angry. So I belted out the last line of the chorus, I’ve got you, under my skin, without
Sinatra’s little snappy croon, but a longing, accusatory howl.
    “Hang on,” Gabby said. She took a second to find the melody, and
I sang the chorus the way I wanted it played.
    “Wow, that’s not how Sinatra did it,” she said.
    “Play it loungey , like we’re seducing
someone.” I tapped her a slower rhythm, and she caught onto it. “Right, Gabs.
That’s it.”
    I stood up and took the rest of the song, owning it, singing as
if the intrusion was unacceptable, as if insects crawled inside me, because I
didn’t want anyone under my skin. I wanted to be left alone to do my work.
    Having the guys here to record it so I could hear it would have
been nice, but I could tell I was onto something. The back room at Frontage was
small, so I needed less rage and more discomfort. More sadness. More
disappointment in myself for letting it happen, and begging the pain away. If I
could nail that, I might actually enjoy singing a few standards at a
restaurant. Or I might get fired for changing them. No way to know.
    I did it again, from the top. The first time I sang the word,
“skin,” I felt Jonathan’s hands on me and didn’t resist the pleasure and
warmth. I sang right through it, and when Gabby accompanied, she put her own
sadness into it. I felt it. It was my song now.
    My phone rang: Darren.
    “Where the hell are you?”
    “Harry just called me. His mother is sick in Arizona. He’s out.
For good.”
    I would have said something like, so no bassist, no band, but Gabby would have heard, and she wasn’t
ready for any kind of upset.
    “And you’re not here because?”
    He sighed. “I got held up at work. I’ll be there in twenty.
Tomorrow night, I have a favor to ask.”
    “Yeah?”
    “I have a date. Can you get her home after your gig and make sure
she takes her meds?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Thanks, Mon.”
    “Go get laid.”
    I clicked the phone off and used the rest of the time to work on
our performance.

 
    ***

 
    Thursday afternoon shift at the Stock was slow by Saturday night
standards. I earned less money, but the atmosphere was more relaxed. There was always
a minute to chill with Debbie at the service bar. I liked her more and more all
the time. I tried to keep it light and hold my energy up. Just because this gig
tonight wasn’t my own songwriting, I still wanted to do a good job. But after
Darren’s call and the sputtering dissolution of the band, I lost the mojo, and
I just sounded like Sinatra on barbiturates. I had no idea how to get that heat
back.
    Debbie got off her phone as I slid table ten’s ticket across the
bar. Robert snapped it up and poured my rounds.
    “I think he likes you,” Debbie said, indicating Robert. He was
hot in his black T-shirt and Celtic tattoos.
    “Not my type.”
    “What is your type?”
    I shrugged. “Nonexistent.”
    “Okay, well, finish with this table and go on your break. Could
you go down to Sam’s office and make a copy of next week’s schedule?” She
handed me a slip of