DONOVAN'S BLUES
Chloe Waits
Copyright © 2012
Smoke curled
blue through the dim lights as Amanda Turner took another sip of her wine,
savoring its crisp flavor. She played self-consciously with the fragile stem of
her glass, glancing at the time on her watch. Almost two o’clock . Her friends abandoned her at The Blue
Bird hours before, leaving her to sit in the dark club by herself, feeling
strange and out of place. Yet she wasn’t alone. Other patrons packed the tables
too, all of them waiting, just like her. Waiting for Donovan
Strait.
Amanda first
heard him play two weeks ago. And fell in love.
That her
friends dragged her here initially was an irony not lost on Amanda. Blues and
jazz never appealed to her. Some of it sounded too busy, the blaring of the
trumpets clashing with clang of cymbals, like a cacophony of jarring
instruments. Yet Donovan’s music sounded different. Slow. Sensual. Seductive. When he played, his music seared right
through her, branding her soul with each lingering, tremulous note.
Donovan’s saxophone
sang mournfully, even sweetly at times, just as he did. After a haunting
instrumental solo he switched just as easily to vocals. Drawing a breath in the
middle of the song, he’d pause, and in a voice that sounded both
old and young, jaded and full of hope, his words washed right over the
crowd, carrying them along with a mixture of joy and pain. Amanda’s friends were
an eager part of that crowd before, but refused to wait the long hours to see
him on a weekday. The ringing of her own alarm in a few short hours would be
the price of this decadence, but one she’d willingly pay.
Her spine
straightened in expectation as the musicians took the stage, setting up. Craning
her neck, Amanda spotted him. Donovan. People parted respectfully for him as he
took the stage last, entering slowly with movements measured and careful, as
though aware all eyes were on him. Long black hair curled against the dark
sunglasses he always wore. With a face too strong and severe for generic good
looks, his full lips always curled sensually in a half-smile like he was ready
to share a private joke. Amanda flushed. Or knew your darkest
secret, your hidden longings. Charisma, like a compelling force, shone
from him, luring her as helplessly as iron to a magnet. Perhaps just as
important as his physical appeal, his words seduced her. His music spoke to her
directly.
Amanda smiled
at the silly idea of his music existing for her alone. More and more, she felt
like a love-struck teenager, but she didn’t care. Tonight, she’d speak with
Donovan, letting him know how talented he was, and how much his songs meant to
her. The desire to get close to him gnawed at her. Amanda stifled a groan at
the thought. Even her friends urged her to stay, winking and encouraging her
plans. They were right to laugh. She sounded like a groupie, all right. And looked it. Her outfit was pure come hither
—a low cut silver blouse and fitted short
skirt
—certainly not what she usually wore,
but she wanted to speak to him, to get noticed. To get
—
Donovan’s sax
suddenly reverberated through the air, silencing the direction of her thoughts.
Amanda closed her eyes, vibrating on the single drawn out note. That sweet tone
expanded and grew, making her body taut with anticipation. And then his voice,
mellow as whiskey, carried over the band like a caress. She responded to him,
to the sensuous rhythm that wrapped around her and insinuated erotic images in
her mind. The song rolled over her, rippling through her skin with a steady,
building beat. Like making love. Her pelvis flexed
involuntarily as though moving to a phantom lover. She imagined Donovan’s hands
running over her as their bodies moved to the tempo in her mind, and abandoned herself to the music.
Amanda’s eyes
snapped open suddenly. Lost in her reverie, the musicians had already exited
the stage at the end of the set and now spilled into the crowd. She
Chloe Waits
Copyright © 2012
Smoke curled
blue through the dim lights as Amanda Turner took another sip of her wine,
savoring its crisp flavor. She played self-consciously with the fragile stem of
her glass, glancing at the time on her watch. Almost two o’clock . Her friends abandoned her at The Blue
Bird hours before, leaving her to sit in the dark club by herself, feeling
strange and out of place. Yet she wasn’t alone. Other patrons packed the tables
too, all of them waiting, just like her. Waiting for Donovan
Strait.
Amanda first
heard him play two weeks ago. And fell in love.
That her
friends dragged her here initially was an irony not lost on Amanda. Blues and
jazz never appealed to her. Some of it sounded too busy, the blaring of the
trumpets clashing with clang of cymbals, like a cacophony of jarring
instruments. Yet Donovan’s music sounded different. Slow. Sensual. Seductive. When he played, his music seared right
through her, branding her soul with each lingering, tremulous note.
Donovan’s saxophone
sang mournfully, even sweetly at times, just as he did. After a haunting
instrumental solo he switched just as easily to vocals. Drawing a breath in the
middle of the song, he’d pause, and in a voice that sounded both
old and young, jaded and full of hope, his words washed right over the
crowd, carrying them along with a mixture of joy and pain. Amanda’s friends were
an eager part of that crowd before, but refused to wait the long hours to see
him on a weekday. The ringing of her own alarm in a few short hours would be
the price of this decadence, but one she’d willingly pay.
Her spine
straightened in expectation as the musicians took the stage, setting up. Craning
her neck, Amanda spotted him. Donovan. People parted respectfully for him as he
took the stage last, entering slowly with movements measured and careful, as
though aware all eyes were on him. Long black hair curled against the dark
sunglasses he always wore. With a face too strong and severe for generic good
looks, his full lips always curled sensually in a half-smile like he was ready
to share a private joke. Amanda flushed. Or knew your darkest
secret, your hidden longings. Charisma, like a compelling force, shone
from him, luring her as helplessly as iron to a magnet. Perhaps just as
important as his physical appeal, his words seduced her. His music spoke to her
directly.
Amanda smiled
at the silly idea of his music existing for her alone. More and more, she felt
like a love-struck teenager, but she didn’t care. Tonight, she’d speak with
Donovan, letting him know how talented he was, and how much his songs meant to
her. The desire to get close to him gnawed at her. Amanda stifled a groan at
the thought. Even her friends urged her to stay, winking and encouraging her
plans. They were right to laugh. She sounded like a groupie, all right. And looked it. Her outfit was pure come hither
—a low cut silver blouse and fitted short
skirt
—certainly not what she usually wore,
but she wanted to speak to him, to get noticed. To get
—
Donovan’s sax
suddenly reverberated through the air, silencing the direction of her thoughts.
Amanda closed her eyes, vibrating on the single drawn out note. That sweet tone
expanded and grew, making her body taut with anticipation. And then his voice,
mellow as whiskey, carried over the band like a caress. She responded to him,
to the sensuous rhythm that wrapped around her and insinuated erotic images in
her mind. The song rolled over her, rippling through her skin with a steady,
building beat. Like making love. Her pelvis flexed
involuntarily as though moving to a phantom lover. She imagined Donovan’s hands
running over her as their bodies moved to the tempo in her mind, and abandoned herself to the music.
Amanda’s eyes
snapped open suddenly. Lost in her reverie, the musicians had already exited
the stage at the end of the set and now spilled into the crowd. She
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