Tags: pam is made of awesome, fangirling means srs bsns, eric northman is one hot piece, waste of an entry

Dakle, drugo poglavlje, također na engleskom. Prelijena sam da napišem sad i na hrvatskom.



Chapter Two

Watchin' a crowd roll in. Out go the lights, it begins.
A feelin' in my bones I’ve never felt before

It was a Mercer family tradition that some of your best thinking happened in the bathroom. Even if that bathroom was tiny as hell and painted bright purple and had a cracked mirror.
Jack let out a breath as he braced his hands against the sink and studied his reflection in the mirror. The guy looking back at him looked fine – cool and collected – but inside he was a mess and he had no fucking clue why. Being on stage and in front of an audience was one of the only times in his life he didn’t have to deal with this shit, one of the only times he didn’t have to battle his nerves. Maybe it was that he doing this alone now – no band backing him, no lead singer taking the spotlight – maybe that was what was screwing with his mind and making his hands shake.
He was just being stupid. It’s a coffee house with maybe, tops, ten people in it, killing time, more interested in their lattes than in the loser on the stage, moaning into the microphone. Last night’s gig had been at a packed bar and he’d gotten through that just fine. The desire to hightail it out of there disappeared once he strummed the first chord and leaned in, closing his eyes as the words took over. He wouldn’t even have to do this if he hadn’t misjudged how much money he had and spent some of his train ticket money on booze and Christmas presents.
His trip was just supposed to last for a week – long enough to get him past Thanksgiving and all the crap that dredged up. Bobby had accused him of running away, and he didn’t even bother to argue with him. He figured he’d earned the right to run.
Once he’d arrived, the city pulled him back in and the week easily turned into a month. He’d forgotten how much he loved it, the noise, and the rush, and the crush of people. New York was always alive, always charged with an energy that Jack missed back in Detroit.
He didn’t have the best life when he lived in New York before, always struggling to make ends meet. Days spent working shit jobs to pay the rent on an apartment that was maybe, at best, one step above a cardboard box; nights spent playing gigs at any place they could book – some were good, but most were dives.
But things had been looking up for The Spares just before the shit hit the fan and he got dropped for some chick. Now they were getting airplay on a couple of local stations, the buzz building and he was on his own – a solo act for the first time in his life. He’d toyed with the idea of forming a new band, but something in him had changed. A while back, he’d picked up his guitar and found a singer within himself that he hadn’t known was there and try as he might, he couldn’t pull himself away from that. Now instead of the hard pulsing beat of punk and hard rock, he found himself looking inward and what came out was much mellower and more personal. It felt like Evelyn was looking over his shoulder, watching him play, smiling proudly as he finally got it right.
There was a loud knock on the door, breaking through his thoughts and he realized his was still leaning against the sink, still staring blankly at the mirror. He quickly turned on the water and cleared his throat. “Uh, give me a sec.”
“Dude,” the muffled voice on the other side said, “there’s only one john in this place, you know.”
Then use the ladies room, jackass, Jack thought to himself as he ran his hands through his hair, making sure it was just disheveled enough without looking like he just rolled out of the drunk tank. He rolled up the threadbare cuffs of the army surplus jacket he’d thrown on over his faded Clash t-shirt and took one last look at his reflection. “Just a fucking coffee house,” he told the guy in the mirror staring back at him; the guy in turn gave him a smirk that let him know he thought he was full of shit.
“Whatever,” he said as he pushed the door open.

XxXxXxXxXx
Loosely holding his guitar, he stood off to the side as the poetry-reading chick on stage wrapped things up. The applause she got was unenthusiastic to say the least, but she seemed pleased with herself, even giving a weird little curtsy at the end. Rolling his eyes, he scanned the place, silently counting the number of customers sitting at tables and lounging on couches and overstuffed armchairs.
The turnout wasn’t half bad and he was surprised. Apparently more people had come in while he was having his half-assed breakdown in the bathroom. It probably helped that it was cold as fuck outside and sometimes it was more appealing to stop in anyplace with an open door and fresh pot of coffee than to continue on foot to wherever you were headed. It sure as hell wasn’t because his name was on a sign propped up outside. It could say “Joe Shmoe” for all the good it did. No one knew who the hell he was; and if he didn’t figure out how to calm the fuck down and not spend half his life hyperventilating in bathrooms across America, then no one ever would. His solo career would be over before it even got started. “Told ya so,” he could hear Bobby’s voice in his head and he tightened his grip on the neck of his guitar.
Still scanning the crowd, his eyes fell on a girl sitting at a table near the back. He had no clue what it was about her that caught his attention, just something that kind of pulled at the back of his brain like a line of a song that was trying to form but was trapped by too much beer and not enough sleep. She seemed average; nothing special - hell, nothing not special, either - just kind of there. He couldn’t figure out why he even noticed her in the first place.

Before he had a chance to think about it further, the manager of the coffee shop was up on the tiny platform they called a stage, announcing something into the microphone and motioning over to the corner Jack was standing in. A smattering of applause filled the room and the people who weren’t pouring sugar in their coffee or carrying on very important conversations on their cell phones were looking over at him. Shit, fuck. Right. Time to earn that fifty bucks, he thought as he made his way over to the stool set up for him on the stage.
He willed his hands to stop shaking as he pulled the guitar strap over his shoulder. He adjusted the microphone and tested it. He should say something – hey, how y’all doin’? – something, anything. But he couldn’t get the words past the weight pressing in on his chest, so without any sort of introduction or dedication, he leaned forward, closed his eyes, and started to play.
The change was instantaneous – the fear fled, replaced by the words, and the notes, and the peace he could never describe to anyone when they asked why he liked music so much. Evelyn knew, though. She always knew. The song was for her - it was about love and loss and hope. His brothers would have known in a second, but he’d managed to keep them from coming to any of the gigs he’d recently played back home, so none of them had heard the song.
It was hard being so open in front of strangers now that he was singing about more than just chicks and sex and booze and well, sex. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to sing such personal songs in front of his brothers. They never really gave a shit before, anyway – but the whole almost dying thing put a whole new perspective on the family thing. Bobby would try to be supportive, but he’d inevitably say something incredibly asinine and cruel, something they’d both regret. It was easier to just keep him at arm’s length when it came to his music. And Jerry and Angel were both busy with lives of their own, so most of the time a simple, it’s no big deal, if you can’t make it; there’s always next time, would be enough to keep them away.
He’d never cared before. Jerry and Angel had been to a couple of shows back in Detroit, before he moved East, but Jack always kind of suspected Evelyn had gently nudged them to get them to go. Bobby … well, Bobby never got the whole music thing to begin with. Creativity was completely lost on him and if he couldn’t punch it in the face or set it on fire, then it was just a waste of time. Jack was always the odd one out when it came to the Mercer brothers – one of these things is not like the other – but that was just part of being a family.
His fingers found the notes, falling perfectly. The tune felt organic, almost like he was making it up as he went along, but he knew it by heart. His voice rumbled deep in his chest like the words were locked in deep and struggled to get out. He was so in the moment and playing as though he had become the song that it took the applause to let him know he had finished. Embarrassed, he looked up and nodded his thanks. He reached down and grabbed a bottle of water that was on the floor by his feet. He downed half it as he waited for his buzz coursing through his veins to die down a little bit; his brain felt like he’d taken a hit of some really good shit, but he didn’t want to push it and risk crashing.
He let his eyes wander over the crowd as he readjusted the strap on his guitar and moved the microphone a millimeter closer to his mouth. Clearing his throat, he prepared to start the second song, when he noticed her again.
The girl in the back.
She was looking right at him and he felt a wave of … something … wash over him. Their eyes met and the words he was about to sing came to a crashing halt in the back of his throat.
Kathy Price.

Holy shit.

XxXxXxXxXx
He had forgotten all about it until he walked into the cafeteria – then it became the only thing he could think about, like he was a scratched record that was stuck in a groove, the scene from the lockers playing over and over again in his head.
It wasn’t like he’d forgotten on purpose. It had happened hours ago, and it was a known fact that his brain didn’t really start to work until second period, so he couldn’t really be held responsible for any promises he made before homeroom.
Kathy had cornered him – like she’d been cornering him every chance she got for the past two weeks. Somehow, between Jack looking for an escape route and her eyes filling with tears, he’d agreed to have lunch with her.
The whole thing had happened in that weird slow motion where you watch yourself from outside your body; screaming at yourself to stop, but it’s no use. The words were out of his mouth and his fate was sealed and he couldn’t do anything about it. He needed to toughen up and just tell her to get lost – he bet Angel and Jerry never let girls trick them into stuff like that.
Now he was either going to look like the world’s biggest asshole and ignore her, or he was going to paint a giant loser sign on his forehead and go through with it. He still hadn’t decided what he was going to do when he got in the lunch line.
The cafeteria was crowded and noisy and part of him was convinced he could just pretend he hadn’t seen Kathy, that he tried to find her but had to give up before his tater tots got cold. But that was a load of shit; and besides, the lie wouldn’t work after she noticed him looking directly at her table, which of course she did. And even though she had quickly picked up the dog-eared book she had resting on her tray and started reading it, he knew she knew that he knew she saw him.
Crap, he thought to himself as he stood there with his lunch tray in his hand, weighing his options. His buddy, Steve, knocked him on the back with his elbow.
“Earth to Jack. You gonna move or are you planning on proposin’ to Lunch Lady Marge here and running away together?”

“Huh?” Jack said, coming out of his daze. His face grew hot as he realized everyone in line was staring at him as he stood at the cash register, staring blanking at Marge, who was holding out her hand and cracking her gum in the most evil way imaginable. She didn’t look too happy. “Oh, sorry,” he mumbled as he fished his money out of his pocket, dropping the crumpled bills onto the counter.
He hurried away as soon as she dropped the change on his tray. Steve was right behind him, laughing like a hyper jackass. “Jack and Margie sittin’ in a tree …” he stared to sing and Jack stopped abruptly. Steve almost rammed into his back and barely caught his plate in time, nearly spilling the ‘barf-a-roni’ all over the floor.
Jack glared at him. “Shut up, man.”
“Ah, come on, Mercer. Can’t you take a joke?”
“Let me know when you tell one,” Jack said flatly and Steve shook his head, a hurt look on his face.
“That was harsh, dude,” Steve said as he started walking over to their usual table. Most of the other guys were already there, banging their shit and ogling the girls who walked by, making lewd jokes that were never funny but Jack always laughed anyway. His feet wanted to follow Steve, but he couldn’t help looking over at Kathy. Her table was wedged between the bathroom and the trashcans and he wasn’t sure how she managed to be completely alone at a table full of other kids.
“Mercer, what the hell?” he heard Steve call after him as he went in the opposite direction – headed for the Loserville side of the lunch room.
Dropping his tray on the table without a word, he sat down on the stool across from Kathy like it was something he did every day. The kids at the other end of the table stopped the conversation they were having to stare at him. He nodded at them and they just kept staring. He had no clue who half of them were – they were the brainy kids, kids who never crossed his path in the dumb classes. From what he’d seen these last couple of weeks, Kathy was a lot like them – nose always in a book, her brain working overtime.
Speaking of books … he glanced over at her. She was still gripping her book and reading it like there was no tomorrow and ignoring him. He looked closer and laughed outloud. That finally got her attention.
“What?” she asked and he reached out, grabbing her book and turning it around.
“I’m not the biggest reader in the world,” he said with a grin as he handed it back to her, “but even I know it’s easier to do when the book’s right side up.”
She blushed and dropped the book like it was on fire or something. “Oh, I … uh …”
“Relax. No big deal.” Looking for something to talk about, he picked up the book and looked at the worn cover. “Jane Eyre,” he mumbled, flipping through the battered pages. Most of his books looked brand new and his science book still made that creaking sound when he opened it.
“It’s my favorite,” she said quietly.
“Cool,” he said, instantly feeling like a dork, but he’d pretty much exhausted his knowledge of books with that one word.
She smiled and picked up a carrot stick and took a bite. Her lunch was laid neatly out on the napkin in front of her – not a Ding Dong or Twinkie in sight.
“What’s with the rabbit food?” he asked as he dredged his cheeseburger in the puddle of ketchup he had on his plate.
“My mom’s on this diet kick. It sucks.” Kathy grimaced as she took another bite. Jack didn’t know how anyone could eat vegetables that weren’t at least drenched in ranch dressing, or butter, or chocolate. Something. She looked miserable and he figured he wasn’t through doing his good deeds for the day.
Sighing, he pushed his tray across the table. “We can share, I’m not really hungry,” he lied.
Kathy’s eyes grew wide behind her glasses. “I … I can’t.”
“She ain’t gonna know. Be a rebel - have a tater tot.”

XxXxXxXxXx

“Great job, Jack. Anytime you’re in the city, man.”
“Sure, yeah. That would be, uh, great,” Jack said, only half-listening as he scanned the room. She was gone. Sometime between finishing the last song and getting cornered by the manager of the coffee house, Kathy Price had left. He wasn’t sure why that bothered him so much.
“Merry Christmas.” Jack looked down and realized the guy – Randy, according to his nametag – was still talking to him.
“Huh?” he said stupidly.
Randy shook his head as he held out an envelope. “Merry Christmas. Don’t go spending that all in one place,” the guy said with a lame chuckle and Jack nodded.
“Oh, right. Thanks,” he said as he took the envelope without opening it to count it. It should be enough to get him through one more night in the city and on a train the next morning back to Detroit.
Picking up his guitar, he left the stage and headed toward the back of the place, where he’d left his guitar case and leather jacket. Not paying attention, he rounded a corner and ran right into someone, hard.
Before his brain had a chance to register what was happening, the front of his shirt was drenched in a warm liquid, probably coffee and whoever he ran into was muttering a string of the lamest curses he’d ever heard. He was pretty sure he’d never actually heard anyone say “fudge” out loud before, at least not anyone over the age of five.
“Sorry,” he said, looking down at the person he’d collided with. It was a girl and she was standing in a puddle of coffee, looking down at her empty mug.
“I wasn’t paying attention. Everyone says I don’t pay attention, so don’t feel sorry.” She was rambling and he found himself grinning. “It was cold anyway, or else you would have been burned and then I would have felt really bad. Not to mention a bit stupid. If you want I can -”
“Hi, Kathy,” he said, interrupting her epic apology.
Finally looking up, Kathy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. “Hi, Jack.”

That's all sweethearts < 3


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