Chapter 1

Actually it was my car, I was just letting her drive it.

There must be a cheaters hand book out there somewhere. My future bride should have read it.

If you're going to cheat and still try to hang on to the man you're supposed to love, flying below the radar should be the first priority. When going to a tryst with your lover you should drive a nondescript vehicle, something that blends in.

A shit brown 2002 Camry would be perfect. There are millions out there, one more would garner no notice.

Too bad you didn't check the oil or get changes like he told you too, maybe you wouldn't have blown the engine.

You should have known driving his vintage car, a 1969 Mach 1 with loud mufflers would get you noticed. Especially since it was the only one in the world painted Carolina blue with a white pearl hood scoop. Dressing down wouldn't have hurt either. People will notice when a tall platinum blond with a killer body, wearing a scoop neck belly shirt and short shorts in bright pastel colors, your signature outfit, gets out.

Really, you should have given the plan a little more thought.

We met in a bar. We weren't there to find love. we were working. She was a waitress, I was playing in the band.

I had been a professional musician for eight years. The group I was with now, Sound Wave, was the best group I had ever worked with. We were a party/dance band. Old rock, new country, Motown, blues, we played everything. If the crowd was younger we rocked out. If there was a lot of forties plus in the crowd, we used a slower tempo with a lot of slow songs thrown in. If it was a cowboy crowd we upped the 'yee-haw' factor. We did whatever it took to please the crowd.

Some days you're good, some days you're adequate, some days you're ashamed to take the money, and rarely, rarely, you're damn near perfect. Tonight was an almost perfect night. The band was tight, the crowd was well behaved, the sound was mixed perfectly. Musicians feed off energy like that.

We talked about it after our first set, and decided to take it up a notch. We had a set just for situations like this. No slow songs, no pauses between, just 45 minutes of hard fast music. We had to work the crowd a little to get them in the mood.

Although I wasn't the lead singer, I was the talker for the band. After returning to the stage I yelled out.

"YOU GUYS READY TO PARTY?"

A little applause a few yells were all we got.

I looked over at the keyboard player.

"I don't think they want to party Al, we must have a bunch of lightweights here tonight."

He nodded a played a few bars of slow, mournful organ.

"Let's try this again. YALL WANNA PARTY?"

They got a little louder.

"What, did you bring your mammas? Don't you want to have a good time? We do."

Much louder, they were starting to get into it.

"That more like it. We're not going to stop for 45 minutes. Think you can keep up?"

Now they were crowding the floor. I loved giving

alcohol fueled people a challenge.

"Tell you what, if three couples can keep up, we'll give them each a band t shirt and a bar t shirt."

I held up a shirt. It was a picture of a donkey with the logo 'We danced our ass off to Sound Wave', it was always a crowd pleaser.

"All right, here we go. Time to run with the big dogs. If you can't keep up, just lay on the porch and growl. Two, three, four..."

We started up with an old southern rock song, Flirtin' With Disaster, by Molly Hatchet. Fast, loud with double lead guitars, shifting smoothly into Should I Stay Or Should I Go, by the Clash. Then just to confuse them, straight into Too Proud To Beg, the Rolling Stones version. By now we were about 16 minute in and had them sweating.

We really threw them for a loop when we went to Cotton Eye Joe. After 30 minutes there were about six couples who had been on the floor continually.

Only one couple made the whole set, and they looked like they were going to have heart attacks.

We gave them their shirts and the owner comped their drinks for the rest of the night. We threw shirts and bar vouchers randomly into the crowd.

Every body thinks that fifteen to twenty minute breaks between sets is to give the band a rest. We appreciate it, but the real reason is to sell more drinks without yelling over the music. There was over 400 people there, with just five waitresses and two bartenders. They were being worked to death. The owner had a huge smile on his face. This was our first time there and I was sure we would be back.

We did two more sets. We slowed down during the last set. It's better to send them out feeling mellow than wired up. After the last set was over I teased the crowd one more time.

"Wanna hear one more?"

There was a lot of "hell yeahs" and "go for it".

"Well, you have to ask the boss. Buy another drink, that'll get him in a good mood."

I had preapproved this with the owner. He was all for it. Most clubs stop the music 30 to 45 minutes before last call purposely, to allow the crowd to wind down. Amid the yells and the drink orders he pretended to reluctantly give the nod.

We had all gathered in the front of the stage without our instruments. Crowding around the mikes, we launched into an accapella version of the old doo-wop song Goodnight Sweetheart. It only about two minutes long, but they loved it and left in a good mood.

It was a three day gig, so we didn't have to break down the amps, drums, or sound system. Hard experience had taught us to take anything small and portable with us. While we were packing up we talked to the customers. You never knew when the guy thanking you for playing his favorite Tom Petty song might call you up to see if you were available for a company function.

I had two other post gig duties. If anybody wanted to talk guitars, I was the man. I gave a lot of advice, and sometimes a guy would tell me about a guitar that had been in a closet or basement for years. I would perk up, buying, restoring, and selling vintage guitars was my hobby. Sometimes I got a good deal, sometimes I gave restoration advice and a rough appraisal of value. Sometimes the way they were stored ruined them, but I would pick them up for parts. Deals were getting scarcer, between the internet and collectible shows on TV people are a lot smarter.

Still, every once in a while I got lucky.

The second duty was being the designated slut magnet. All the other guys were married and in their thirties. I was twenty eight, but we had all been around long enough to get over the 'I'm gonna be a rock star and party all night' phase.

If a woman hit on one of them they started waving their wedding rings around and talking about daycare while steering them towards me.

There were always a few that for some reason hadn't hooked up yet so they headed for us. The later it got, the drunker they got, and the more aggressive they became. A lot were married, having a girls' night out, and decided one of us would be the lucky one for tonight. Usually we were from out of town, and the chance of seeing us again soon was slight. I had a wedding ring I used when we traveled. It helped, some.

In all honesty when I was younger I hooked up a lot. The band I was with had a good agency, and they sent us all over the southeast. That all changed when I picked up an STD. You have no idea how much fun it was telling a doctor you couldn't give him the name of your partners because you hadn't bothered to get them. He had to settle for a list of the places I remembered. Management was not happy when they were contacted by the health department and were told to place posters of me in the ladies room saying if you've had contact with this man come in for a check up. The band had jobs canceled and had to fire me for self preservation. I had no hard feelings, but it was years before I played in that state again.

I still played occasionally, But I made sure they looked clean and unmarried. I had a friend who met up with a woman and made regular visits whenever he was in town. When her husband found out he smashed his hands with a ball bat, ending his career as a keyboard player. He works in a warehouse now. I also used industrial grade protection

Tonight I was still on a high from the great session we had played, so I broke my normal rule and decided to have a beer. I usually didn't drink anything after a gig because I always had to drive home at two or three in the morning, and at the first bobble you were pulled. If they smelled alcohol they made you get out of the car and do stupid human tricks. Then they brought out the breathalizer. When you only blew a 1, they usually sent you on your way after giving you a lecture. You just lost forty five minutes to an hour of your life you couldn't get back, and were even more tired when you got home.

It was five minutes for last call, just enough time for one.

I idly eavesdropped on the two waitresses sitting behind me. A tall platinum blond and a smaller but bustier redhead. I had passed them on the way to the bar. I heard one groan.

"They worked us like dogs tonight. I think my feet are gonna fall off."

"Mine too. I worked last night also. I may have to crawl to the car."