Read Online Lights Out by Ruthie Robinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruthie Robinson
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anything else he could think to say.
“You want something to drink?” She opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. “My treat, for you being such a sport and coming with me,” she said, leaning over the table, placing a quick kiss on his lips.
He hadn’t been given a choice, since she’d been the one driving. He didn’t voice that, though.
“Coffee, black,” he said, his eyes darting around looking for Piper. Quickly catching himself mid-search, he turned his attention back to the one he’d come here with, Rachel, as she left the table. He followed her with his eyes as she made her way to the counter to place their coffee orders.
Piper stood behind it; her eyes caught his and moved away. She stood next to her sister, Taylor, the one Shane’s age.
He glanced over the room, taking in the many different kinds of people here. Who knew there were so many people interested in poetry?
He found Rachel again. She’d gotten her drinks and had moved on, and was now standing at a table near the stage, bent over it with pen in hand, writing. His eyes roamed over the crowd again, looking up as she returned to their table.
“I signed up to read tonight. The line is starting to form,” she added, again pointing to a line with three people standing in it; Piper’s younger sister was second, a sheet of paper in her hand.
He inwardly groaned, dropping his head to his chest. His hand went to rub his forehead. Poetry from all ages. He looked at his watch, wondering what excuse he could use to get out of here.
“I’m fourth,” she said, bringing his attention back to her. “And I’ve got to tell you, I wrote this poem with you in mind. I’m going to read it tonight.”
Fuck me, he thought, but gave her a smile. “Should be interesting.”
“It’s good,” she said, turning her attention to the stage as Piper walked up to the mic.
“Thank you ladies and germs,” she said, the mic in one hand. He let out the breath he’d held, unaware that he’d been holding it, his attention so drawn to her.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” she said, looking around the room. “I’m turning you over quickly to Thomas, the guru of all things poetry, the planner and host of tonight’s event. I’ll be at the counter if you need anything coffee-related,” she said, stepping off the stage.
A tall, young African-American man strode up to the stage—hopped on, actually, all youthful vigor. He looked to be in his early twenties, still in college probably, funky Frank Sinatra hat on his head, smooth face except for that patch of hair on the bottom of his chin.
“Thank you,” he said, big smile, white teeth, contrasting his smooth brown skin. It was the kind of smile that said I know I look good. Joe knew that smile. He owned one.
“Let’s give a hand to Piper, the owner of this place and our personal barista for the night,” he said in a low voice. Joe thought he was probably trying to be sexy as he looked at Piper like she was the only one there. Needs work, Joe thought, but watched as Piper smiled back and blew him a kiss.
“You all know the drill,” he said, giving off that sexy intellectual vibe. “Sign in and spread some love, some rhythm, some rhyme. We welcome you to Sunday night poetry and coffee at Lights Out. Now without further delay, let’s welcome up Jasmine, that sweet smelling flower that tantalizes the senses and delights the soul,” he said. The crowd laughed, hollered, and clapped. She must be a regular, Joe mused, controlling his impulse to gag at the flowery introduction.
A tall, thin woman, her bald head a nice pink color under the lights, walked onto the stage, regal in her bearing. She raised her arms above her head, fist clenched tightly, and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Shoot ’em up! Shoot ’em up! Shoot ’em up! Take it to them! Take it to them! Take it to them!” The crowd was startled by her volume and the content of her message.
She then lowered her arms, bringing
“You want something to drink?” She opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. “My treat, for you being such a sport and coming with me,” she said, leaning over the table, placing a quick kiss on his lips.
He hadn’t been given a choice, since she’d been the one driving. He didn’t voice that, though.
“Coffee, black,” he said, his eyes darting around looking for Piper. Quickly catching himself mid-search, he turned his attention back to the one he’d come here with, Rachel, as she left the table. He followed her with his eyes as she made her way to the counter to place their coffee orders.
Piper stood behind it; her eyes caught his and moved away. She stood next to her sister, Taylor, the one Shane’s age.
He glanced over the room, taking in the many different kinds of people here. Who knew there were so many people interested in poetry?
He found Rachel again. She’d gotten her drinks and had moved on, and was now standing at a table near the stage, bent over it with pen in hand, writing. His eyes roamed over the crowd again, looking up as she returned to their table.
“I signed up to read tonight. The line is starting to form,” she added, again pointing to a line with three people standing in it; Piper’s younger sister was second, a sheet of paper in her hand.
He inwardly groaned, dropping his head to his chest. His hand went to rub his forehead. Poetry from all ages. He looked at his watch, wondering what excuse he could use to get out of here.
“I’m fourth,” she said, bringing his attention back to her. “And I’ve got to tell you, I wrote this poem with you in mind. I’m going to read it tonight.”
Fuck me, he thought, but gave her a smile. “Should be interesting.”
“It’s good,” she said, turning her attention to the stage as Piper walked up to the mic.
“Thank you ladies and germs,” she said, the mic in one hand. He let out the breath he’d held, unaware that he’d been holding it, his attention so drawn to her.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” she said, looking around the room. “I’m turning you over quickly to Thomas, the guru of all things poetry, the planner and host of tonight’s event. I’ll be at the counter if you need anything coffee-related,” she said, stepping off the stage.
A tall, young African-American man strode up to the stage—hopped on, actually, all youthful vigor. He looked to be in his early twenties, still in college probably, funky Frank Sinatra hat on his head, smooth face except for that patch of hair on the bottom of his chin.
“Thank you,” he said, big smile, white teeth, contrasting his smooth brown skin. It was the kind of smile that said I know I look good. Joe knew that smile. He owned one.
“Let’s give a hand to Piper, the owner of this place and our personal barista for the night,” he said in a low voice. Joe thought he was probably trying to be sexy as he looked at Piper like she was the only one there. Needs work, Joe thought, but watched as Piper smiled back and blew him a kiss.
“You all know the drill,” he said, giving off that sexy intellectual vibe. “Sign in and spread some love, some rhythm, some rhyme. We welcome you to Sunday night poetry and coffee at Lights Out. Now without further delay, let’s welcome up Jasmine, that sweet smelling flower that tantalizes the senses and delights the soul,” he said. The crowd laughed, hollered, and clapped. She must be a regular, Joe mused, controlling his impulse to gag at the flowery introduction.
A tall, thin woman, her bald head a nice pink color under the lights, walked onto the stage, regal in her bearing. She raised her arms above her head, fist clenched tightly, and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Shoot ’em up! Shoot ’em up! Shoot ’em up! Take it to them! Take it to them! Take it to them!” The crowd was startled by her volume and the content of her message.
She then lowered her arms, bringing
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