2 - Sing Me A Song

Okay, fine.  So maybe the latest Merriam-Webster dictionary wouldn't feature the impeccably heart-shaped ass next to their definition of fun.  Jon, however, was willing to rewrite his own personal dictionary for the woman bent at the waist before him - and her flawless backside.  Hell, the feminine wiggle of that perfectly worn pair of Levis could convince him to rewrite a lot of things. 

His eyes flicked over the woman long enough to note the messy red ponytail and red earbuds plugging her ears before he took his line of sight in a more southerly direction.

It was a good thing he wore sunglasses, because his attention to the denim that hugged her very shapely legs could probably be considered some form of sexual harassment.  And that was before he got to the “fuck me” high heels that put her on tiptoe as she wiped a bar rag over the old Formica table.

Jesus.

If he were still a practicing Catholic, Jon’s thoughts on those devilishly red shoes would require at least four Hail Marys. 

“Man,” Obie murmured quietly as 'Fun' took her rag and moved on to the next table.  “That must be the girl Mike was talking about.”

That was all well and good, but Jon had no idea what Obie was talking about.  From the moment he'd laid eyes on Fun, his sight took a stranglehold over all of his other senses and left her ass as the only imprint on his mind.  It wasn't until a moment later that he was able to acknowledge the touch of blunt fingernails gouging the inside of his own clenched fists.  Following that, his other senses got on board so that he could taste blood where he’d bitten the inside of his mouth, smell the grease of the infamous chicken wings and – maybe most importantly – he could hear. 

“Where troubles melt like lemon drops away above the chimney tops

Thaat's wherrre youuu'll fiiiind meee…”

She was singing to whatever song was piping through those earbuds of hers and, once he realized it, Jon found himself interested by more than her derriere.

Fun had a voice that was deep and throaty, but smoothly honeyed at the same time.  It could be described as a husky silkiness and its distinctiveness was appealing.  Very appealing.  Kind of Janis Joplin meets Whitney Houston.  

“Sooome-wherrre oo-ver the rain-boww, blue birrrds flyyyy

Birds flyy ooo-ver the rainn-bowww

Why then, oh whyyy cannn't III?”

Or Judy Garland.

“Lovely, just lovely!” Obie announced loudly as the final note dissipated.   

The bellowing proclamation didn’t faze Jon, but it must’ve scared the hell out of Fun.  She stood straight up, ripped the earbuds out and whirled on those sexy heels, blurting out, “Holy shit!”

Her blunt exclamation had Jon tucking his chin into his chest with an inconspicuous smirk, but amusement quickly turned to intrigue when she clapped a hand to her chest and smiled with a radiance that he didn’t know he’d ever seen in person. If he had, it was at one of those fake Hollywood parties and it sure as hell hadn't been backed by the genuine twinkling in Fun's eyes.

“Pardon my French, but y’all scared the bejeezus outta me,” she said with a laugh, swiping absently at the loose strands of hair that dusted her cheeks.  “Welcome to Tully’s.  What can I get for ya?”

Jon was too busy absorbing the lazy Southern drawl and the easy, brilliant grin to respond.  That smile of hers could rival his own press smile for size and brightness, and damned if it didn't make her glow from within like a friggin' ball of sunshine.  She wasn't just Fun, she was Happy.

Next you'll be calling her Sneezy, Dopey and Doc.  

“First things first, young lady,” Obie instructed during Jon’s dwarf induced silence, hands propped on his hips.  “Who are you and where did you learn to sing like that?”

He found her chuckle as sultry and engaging as her vocals.  “Learn to sing?  I can’t say I rightly recall ever learnin’, it’s just somethin’ I do.  Unless you count the stint Sister Ella May made me do in the church choir.  Then I guess it’d be her.”

“Well, honey, I’d say you owe God or Sister Ella May a big ole thank you, because you sound damn good.  Do you know anything besides hymns and Judy Garland?”

“Cassidy!” 

The loud and booming voice came from a doorway behind the bar and filled the empty room with its presence, but Happy Fun – aka Cassidy – didn’t flinch, and her smile didn’t waver.  She simply threw up a hand in casual acknowledgement of the behemoth who was bellowing at her. 

“I prob’ly do,” she replied.  “But Tully don’t pay me to sing, he pays me to serve drinks.  What I can I get you boys?”

“Another song,” Obie persisted, following her toward the bar.  “Seriously.”

“I thought you wanted chicken wings.” Jon took the few steps that would place him next to his companion and pulled out the stool to his left.  Sliding onto it, he hooked his heels over the lower rung and ordered for himself, instinctively guessing that his preferred wine wasn't on the menu at Tully's.  “Beer for me.  Something light in a bottle.”

“Bud Light, comin’ up,” she acknowledged, sashaying to the serving side of the counter.  “Tully, I need wings!  Honey, you want those mild, medium or hinges of Hell hot?”

“Medium,” Obie sighed, perching on his own stool.  “And fried pickles with a Coke.”

She called the food details toward the kitchen over her shoulder while twisting the top off of Jon’s beer and sliding it toward him with a wink that had him nodding his thanks.  “What kinda Coke?”

“Uh…  Not the kind you snort?”

Another husky chuckle brightened up the smile that Jon hadn’t even realized had dimmed.  Damn, she was awfully happy to be working in a rundown bar on the outside of the outside of the outskirts of Nasvhille. 

“Regular Coke?” she confirmed, her thumb poised over a button on the same dispenser that was behind Jon's own bar.

Obie turned to look at Jon, shrugging with a look of bewilderment.  “Yeah.” 

Setting his beer down, but leaving his index finger loosely hooked around the neck, Jon asked casually, “So you from Georgia?”

In a split second, she somehow lost control of the soda gun and sprayed the sticky cola in a wide arc, which included her snug black t-shirt and half the bar’s surface.  It just so happened that it was the same half where Jon’s forearms were propped, and he ended up with a sugary shower. 

“Oh shit!” Cassidy grabbed a bar towel and vigorously began sopping up chocolate colored droplets from Jon’s arm.  “I’m so sorry!  I don’t know what happened.”

After about three swipes of the towel, he placed a hand on her wrist, effectively stilling it while noting that her fingernails didn’t match the rest of her.  Whereas most of this woman was a traditionally fashionable – makeup, salon colored hair and heels – her fingernails were without the polish he would’ve expected - and ragged.  As though she chewed them, maybe.

“Relax,” he pacified her, also subconsciously noticing the delicacy of the wrist in his grip.  “I have kids.  This used to happen to me at least once a week.”

“Maybe so, but I bet they did’t get paid to do it.”

His thumb grazed her porcelain forearm and wide blue eyes snapped up to his.  Rather, to the lenses of the sunglasses he still wore.  Jon was unaccountably pleased that his casual touch could affect her so visibly.  “So sing another song and we’ll call it even.”

What compelled him to aid the cause, he couldn’t say, but he had as much interest in an encore as Obie did.  

“Cassidy!  Order up!”

She gently eased away from him, without responding, to fetch Obie’s food from the order window, and Jon found himself disappointed.  

“Hey!”  Obie called back to the man.  “You the owner?  Tully?”

There was a solid thud on the kitchen door before it flew open, and the overgrown backwoodsman who deep-fried chicken wings for a living lumbered his way out to the bar. The guy could seriously pass for Grizzly Adams with his head of long, bushy hair and matching beard.  His beer gut and grease stained apron were the only thing at odds with the mountain man look.

“Yeah, why?”

Obie’s hands went up in an immediate gesture of surrender, understandably concerned that the big dude was gearing up for a fight.  “Nothing’s wrong, if that’s what you’re worried about.  The little lady here says you don’t pay her to sing.”

“That’s right.  She’s an alcohol liaison.”  Except Bubba Gump pronounced it “lee-ay-zon”.

Alcohol liason?  She’s a damn bartender.

Jon smiled around the top of his beer bottle when he chose to drink instead of laugh in the guy’s face.  A coughing fit was Obie’s preferred cover-up, and Cassidy just smirked as she fetched more napkins to go with the chicken wings. 

“Right.  Uh, of course she is, but if I agree to reimburse you her salary for the next hour – I assume she’s paid hourly? – it'd be okay for her to sing.  Am I right?”

It was painful to watch Tully try and connect those dots in his head.

“So you’re sayin’ you wanna pay me so she’ll sing?”

“Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”  Obie reached into his hip pocket for his wallet, rifling through the bills until he found what he wanted.  “What do you pay her?  Will twenty dollars buy an hour of her time?”

“Well… Yeah.  I reckon so.”  The behemoth shook his head in puzzlement, but it didn’t deter from accepting the money.  “You Yankees can be a strange bunch.”

“No denying that, my fine man.  No denying that,” Obie agreed without hesitation, and then turned to woman in question.  “So… Cassidy is it?”

The epitome of fun bobbed her head once and leaned so that the small of her back rested against the booze shelf.  Unless he missed his guess, Jon would say she was entertained by the floor show.   

“Fantastic.  Cassidy, I’m Obie and this…”  A bony hand slapped Jon’s back.  “…is Jon.  Pleasure to meet you and all that.  Do you take requests, or is your repertoire limited?”

Her arms crossed casually over her chest, the twinkle in her eyes went into overdrive again as she casually observed, “You’re kinda excitable, aren’t ya Obie?”

It was the truest thing Jon had ever heard spoken.  He’d known the guy for a lot of years, and excitable pretty much covered it.  Wired and jacked up did it justice, too, for that matter.  The fact that Cassidy called him out on it within minutes of meeting him, while managing not to be infected by it, was entertaining on so many levels.  To watch the seemingly laid back and happy-go-lucky woman thoroughly amused by Obie in Chihuahua mode was… 

Well, it was friggin’ funny and Jon couldn’t help but find himself as amused as she looked to be.

“Little bit,” was Obie’s unaffected admission.  He didn’t mind blunt and outspoken, because he was.  “Besides if you’d pick a song, I could enjoy it and my food while the pickles are still hot.”

She tilted her head just a little to the side, and her smile subdued into a classic Mona Lisa version.  Jon could only imagine what was going through her mind as she studied the scene before her - Jon hiding under his hat and sunglasses as he silently sipped his beer, Obie practically bouncing on his seat with anticipation, and Tully still shaking his head as he retreated back to the grease garden of a kitchen. 

Yeah.  He'd give anything to know what she was thinking.