When Devils Sing(31)
Neera laughed. “We’ll see, won’t we?” She glanced around the empty restaurant, brown eyes lingering on the table full of unrolled silverware. “Let me help you.” Without waiting for Sam’s response, she sat down and got to work.
Sitting across from her, Sam protested, “Come on, don’t do free labor for these assholes.”
“I’m not doing this for them.” Neera gestured to Sam’s splinted wrist. “I’m doing this for you.”
Heat warmed Sam’s freckled cheeks. She didn’t like to admit to herself the splint was a hindrance, much less to anyone else. She didn’t like to acknowledge it at all—the physical reminder of all her failings. “Well, uh, thanks.”
Nervousness had been a foreign concept to Sam until she’d met Neera Singh a month ago. There wasn’t a person on the planet Sam couldn’t talk to with ease, but it was different with Neera. She grew abashed and a little awkward and she hated it.
“So”—Sam cleared her throat, motioning to Neera’s guitar case—“did you decide what you’re gonna play?”
“Not yet.” Neera considered for a moment. “I’m really into blues right now. Bluegrass. Stuff like that. I suppose any of it will work.”
“Ooh, bluegrass.” Sam hummed. “Folks here would like that.”
Neera looked thoughtful. “I hope so. Never played for a place like this before.”
“Just give them what they want, and you’ll be fine.”
“Oh yeah?” Neera asked, “what would that be?”
Sam shrugged, smirking. “I know these people. They like easy. They like comfortable. You could play some sweet, sweet country. The type of song they hum to themselves on their wraparound back porches, drinking sweet tea and expensive whiskey.”
“So … what you’re saying is, I should be what they want. Not who I am.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, exactly. You’re gettin’ it.”
“Noted.” Neera gave her a wry grin, and Sam’s heart stuttered.
Jason appeared from the back. He took in the sight of the pair of them, his thin lips forming a tight line. “What’s all this?” He then checked his watch. “Oh, right.” He waved for Neera to get onstage without giving her a second glance.
Neera let a brief expression of annoyance flash across her face before smiling pleasantly. Guitar in hand, she marched over to Jason and extended her hand proudly.
“Thank you for taking the time to let me audition,” she said smoothly.
Jason looked at her hand, then her face, before finally extending his own. “Uh-huh.” He then turned around, facing Sam. “You just gonna sit there or what?”
Sam rolled her eyes, grabbing the remainder of the silverware and carrying them to the bar. She began slowly polishing the wineglasses that hung overhead, while Neera stepped onto the stage, pulling a stool to the center. With efficient, methodical movements, she opened her guitar case and pulled out a shining acoustic. She slung the guitar’s worn leather strap over her shoulder before taking a seat on the stool. Her brown eyes scanned the restaurant, meeting Sam’s.
You got this, Sam mouthed, giving her a thumbs-up.
Jason grabbed his clipboard from the nearby table and clapped his hands for Neera to begin.
“Any song requests?” Neera asked as she tuned the strings.
Jason didn’t bite. “Honestly, I really don’t care.”
Neera nodded, chewing her lip. “Okay then.” She glanced at Sam again, then down at her feet. “This is ‘Old Man’ by Neil Young.” She strummed the guitar for several notes, then began to sing.
Sam thought the song was an odd choice at first. The flow wasn’t easy, and the lyrics told a story more than it moved an audience. It took several lines before Neera really leaned into it. But as the chorus picked up, the song flowed like water. Neera’s whole demeanor changed, growing loose and languid. There was a subdued yet beautiful way about how she played, picking at the strings with ease.
Sam stood with a wineglass in hand, frozen with the rag mid-swipe. Watching Neera perform was like seeing a sunrise early in the morning, soft and wondrous. Nearly impossible to look away.
But Sam noticed movement at the back of the room, by the side entrance. Grant Langley, the Tavern’s owner, leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching Neera just as intently as Sam had been. She didn’t know when he’d arrived but hoped for Neera’s sake he liked what he heard.
The song came to an end. Neera strummed the last part slowly, the notes echoing in the near-empty restaurant. She had closed her eyes as she played, but she opened them now, looking squarely at Jason.
Jason cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair. “You’re not bad.”
Neera exhaled, her shoulders visibly relaxing. She didn’t say anything, and the silence stretched on between them. She chewed her lip, shifting underneath Jason’s appraising stare. Whatever she put into her music, it seemed to equally take out of her.
Finally, she asked, “Can I enter the Cicada’s Song or not?”
Sam tensed, waiting for the answer. She’d seen Jason turn down dozens of other perfectly talented people hoping for a slot. It was damn near impossible to get onstage if you weren’t already part of the Clearwater community in some way. Someone like Neera couldn’t make it just by being good—she had to be perfect.