Octo BEAR fest (Renaissance Shifters #1)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

G wen liked Bill Torben. She'd only known him a couple of hours, but he was such a big solid lunk of a guy who clearly cared deeply about his family and their business. She wanted him to be able to have his cake and eat it too, and never mind that she wouldn't hate being the cake that was being eaten. Which was a mess of a metaphor, but that didn't matter.

What mattered was the resignation and sadness in the big man's dark eyes, and her desire to do something about it. He'd obviously been shocked at her probably-too-blunt assessment that he was miserable, but Gwen was pretty sure she wasn't wrong.

She was absolutely sure she was right about music being a balm for the soul, though. "I am," she confessed as they went into the club, "assuming you like rock music. Oh, this is nice."

The Harlequin kept its theme going from the enormous, Carnival-bright painted mask on the sign outside to its interior, which was done in reds and golds with white accents, making it vivid and almost bright even with the lights down low. A variety of seating scattered through the space, from a small set of tiered, stadium-style theatre seats to round couches around tables, and other individual or small chairs and sofas. The flooring had raised areas, and there was an open upstairs with metal railing at about chest-height. Gwen bet it kept drunk people from falling downstairs.

There was a real stage setup at the far end, and the whole space was clearly oriented to focus on that. It had theatrical lights, curtains, a microphone and drum set, and a couple of stools for musicians to use. There was a glimpse of a just-barely-visible backstage area, too, and from the way the back of the building was structured, Gwen thought there were probably dressing rooms and maybe even enough space for setting up back there. Impressed, she said, "This is the real deal. How do you not come here?" before shaking her head. "Silly question. You're busy running the pub."

"And before I was running it I was…" Bill shrugged. "I did a lot around the place."

Gwen bet that meant he'd been running it unofficially for quite a while before he'd started doing it officially. "Well, we're just going to have to figure out some way to make sure you get time of your own, big man. You need down time, too, you know." Ideally spent with her, except she would be gone after the weekend. Gwen didn't mind fly-by-night affairs, but Bill Torben didn't seem like the kind of guy who went for one night stands. Besides, for some reason the idea made her heart ache a little. Even though she'd just met the guy, it was like the idea of stealing just a few days with him wouldn't ever be enough. Which was ridiculous, but hearts were capricious things. Gwen shook herself, pushing the thoughts away to ask, " Do you like rock music?"

"I don't know any new rock," Bill admitted sheepishly. "I don't hear much of it on the radio."

"No, like I said, it's all pop and hiphop, or at least, a lot of it is. But that implies you know older stuff? And like it?" Gwen asked hopefully.

He grinned. "Yeah. That's me, a wannabe metalhead."

Gwen laughed. "Good. Gonna have to grow your hair out to really thrash it, but we'll work with what we've got." Someone came out on stage, obviously not paying attention to the relatively small number of people scattered through the club, and sat down with their back half to the audience, tuning a guitar and singing under their breath. "Come on, let's go ask if they know who the manager is." She scurried up to the stage, leaning on it in the musician's eyeline until they finished what they were doing and turned to look at her.

They were cute: androgynous, shaggy hair, large eyes, shapeless clothes, and held the guitar like they were comfortable with it. Gwen couldn't help smiling a little wistfully. She would have liked to have spent her own teen years figuring herself out like that, hiding in floppy clothes and wrapped around a guitar. "Hi! I'm Gw?—"

"Gwen Booker," the musician whispered, their eyes getting considerably larger. "Holy shit, you're Gwen Booker ! From the Sixty Pix, right? The lead singer? You're—what are you doing here?"

A thrill broke from Gwen's throat in a laugh that turned into a beaming smile. She didn't get recognized all that often, and it was still incredibly cool to her when she did. She shot a quick glance at Bill, who looked a bit starstruck himself, just because somebody had recognized her. Still beaming, Gwen turned back to the musician. "Yeah, that's me. I'm playing at the Thunder Bear Brewpub this weekend. What's your name?"

"Ripley. I'm Ripley." Their voice squeaked and they stood up, blushing. "Holy crap, I can't believe I'm talking to Gwen Booker !"

"Hey, Ripley." Gwen felt like her grin was going to split her face as she nodded at the guitar. "You been playing long?"

Ripley looked at the guitar in their hands like they'd never seen it before, although they were holding its neck with a throttlingly tight grip. "Oh. No. I mean, yes, but no? Not, like, not long enough to be good like you are."

Gwen lifted her chin, a little encouraging action. "Will you play something for me?"

Ripley, faintly, said, "Oh my God," and sat on their stool again like someone had cut their strings. "Me? Really? For you?"

"Yeah! I'd love to hear you!" Gwen took a couple steps back, spreading her hands, hoping it would encourage Ripley, who ducked their head over the guitar and audibly hyperventilated for a few seconds. Then they nodded and loosened their grip on the guitar, shook their shoulders, and, head still ducked, began to play.

It only took a few notes for Gwen to recognize the song as one of her own. She couldn't help laughing, and with a quick, sort-of apologetic glance at Bill, vaulted up on the stage and went to tap the microphone. It wasn't on, but she grabbed it anyway, theatrically, and when Ripley looked up with a gulp, Gwen nodded encouragingly at them. They lost their fingering for a moment, but she waited, and after another couple measures, they found it again, and took the intro of the song with more confidence. Gwen waited for her cue, lifting the mic to her mouth, and belted it out like she was playing for a crowd.

Ripley's eyes widened further and a smile leaped across their face. Before Gwen reached the end of the second line, the guitarist's confidence had soared, fingers dancing across the strings like they'd been playing with Gwen their whole life. By the end of the verse, Gwen was forehead to forehead with Ripley, both of them singing their hearts out as they grinned wildly at each other.

Halfway through the chorus, the mic turned on. Gwen's voice boomed across the club and she laughed into the microphone, pulling it a little farther away from her mouth now that it was live, and took half a step back from Ripley so the guitar's sound wouldn't distort. The crowd, such as it was at mid-afternoon, all came up to stand at the stage's edge, clapping and dancing and cheering. Bill stood thunderstruck in the middle of it, gazing up at Gwen like he'd just seen a star ignite. By then they clearly had to finish the song, so she and Ripley did, ending with a laugh and a bow first toward each other, then toward the little audience they'd gathered. Gwen, into the mic, said, "I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you here today," and got another laugh. "Is there a manager in the house?"

"Yeah." A slender man whom Gwen would call tall if he hadn't been standing next to Bill, waved. He was silver-haired, a little craggy, dressed in soft clothing and bright colors, like he'd been a music producer in the 80s and never got over dressing like one. "I'm Mike Piccolo, and you're Gwen Booker. That was terrific. And I see you've met our resident genius, Ripley. What are you doing in town, Ms. Booker?"

Gwen went over to crouch at the edge of the stage and offered her hand to the manager. "I'm playing at the Thunder Bear this weekend, but I thought I'd come check out the local scene. Nice to meet you, Mr. Piccolo."

"Call me Mike, Mr. Piccolo is my father, et cetera," Piccolo said easily. "If you've got any spare time and want to come play the Harlequin, Ms. Booker…"

"Well, now." Gwen smiled and stood so she could put the mic back in its stand, then returned to the edge of the stage to hop down. Instead, Bill stepped forward, raising his hands.

Gwen could think of a list of people she would let help her down from a stage by putting their hands on her waist and lifting her to the floor, and up until that very moment, that list had had exactly zero people on it. But Bill Torben's big hands slid around her waist with absolute confidence, and she had no fear at all as he moved her effortlessly to the floor. She ended up with her hand against his chest, somehow. He was warm and huge and she felt completely safe, looking up into his eyes. They crinkled a little with a smile, fine lines around them, and for a heart-stopping moment Gwen thought—hoped!—he was going to kiss her.

Instead he let her go and stepped back, expression sheepish again. Gwen wanted to heap reassurances on him: that had not only been okay, it had been wonderful and she wanted him to do it again and again and again. And also to see how many other circumstances he could lift her so easily in.

Possibly , though, right now when she was trying to make a professional connection was not the time for those experiments. Which Bill clearly recognized, faster than she had.

Either that or he wasn't interested in her at all and had only been doing her a favor, but with the lingering warmth of his hands on her waist and the memory of the softness in his eyes, Gwen didn't think that was the case. She smiled at him, trying not to look twitterpated, then firmly told herself to get her head in the game and turned to the Harlequin's manager. "I'd love to play here," she told him. "The acoustics are great. But we're in a bit of a pickle over at the bar. Can I buy you a drink and explain?"

Piccolo chuckled. "It's my gin joint. Drinks are on me. Bill," he said pleasantly to that man. "Haven't seen your parents around in a while. They doing okay?"

"They moved to Arizona," Bill said with a smile. "They're driving up for the festival, though. Should be here in a few hours. I'll let them know you asked after them. Gwen, I'll let you?—"

"Don't be silly," Gwen interrupted. "It's your pickle we're in." She explained the mis-booking as they sat and Piccolo called for drinks, finishing with, "So we're looking for some quick and dirty ways to round up an audience for the pub this weekend, because I have many talents, but jazz music isn't one of them."

"When do you start there?" Piccolo's eyebrows drew down thoughtfully.

Gwen cast a glance at Bill, as if she didn't know the answer herself. "Tomorrow. It's a Friday and Saturday night gig."

"Got plans tonight? We don't usually have live music booked on Thursdays, but we do have an active chat group and if we put the word out I expect we could get a decent crowd tonight that would help spread the word for the weekend."

"If you don't mind just me and my guitar," Gwen said, making a face. "The band comes in tomorrow."

Piccolo flashed a grin that made him look twenty years younger. "Pretty sure Ripley up there knows every piece of music you've ever done, and there are some local drummers who won't put you to shame, if you want a backbeat. Now, I'm not talking about a paying gig, here," he added warningly.

Bill made a protesting sound. "Come on, Gwen Booker is a known commodity?—"

"No, it's fine," Gwen interrupted. "Normally, no way, I don't get paid in exposure, people die of exposure, but in this particular case, let's look at it like a local pick-up gig where I just happened to show up and ask if I could get up on stage with the house band. Which, let's face it, isn't all that far from true."

"You're completely independent, aren't you?" Piccolo asked. "No record label, no manager?"

Gwen hesitated. "Yeah. I had some bad industry experiences early on and I thought I was better off avoiding the system, honestly." She felt, more than saw, Bill puff up a little at her side, as if he'd protect her from anything, even her own past. She smiled at him, and he returned the expression, although he still had that protective aura.

Usually, Gwen thought, that would annoy her. But somehow it was kind of charming from Bill Torben. Maybe because he just seemed like such a decent guy. Impulsively, she said, "You'll come to the gig tonight, right?" to him. "You know, so you have an idea of what you're getting into?"

Sheer alarm crossed his face. "Me? At a dance club? I don't fit in." He made a gesture at himself, like he was indicating his size, if nothing else. "And I can't dance."

Gwen absolutely couldn't help it. She knew her grin went sly, and she put on a deliberately sultry tone. "That's all right, big man. I like to be watched."