Dancing With Keenan

Chapter Two - Alive

The crowd had been an easy one to please. They were responsive and open, if not a little drunk, but they seemed to genuinely enjoy the music, a few brave souls daring to dance during a couple of the more upbeat songs.

It was those inebriated fools that had me barely able to contain my laughter.

When it was time to bid goodbye to the crowd, I was almost sad to end this night. I knew that once I left this stage, my life would go back to being a chaotic mess, and I wasn't ready to do that. I enjoyed the freedom and peace I felt while on stage, even though I would probably never feel that again.

Things had gone too badly for that.

Keenan and the rest of the band retreated to the dressing room while I slipped over to the bar for a bottle of water.

"You're pretty good," the bartender commented, handing over the bottle.

I shrugged a shoulder and hopped onto the stool, glad Phoebe hadn't picked out a skirt for me to wear. Being five-one in a world where five-four or five-five was the average had always put me at a disadvantage, especially in bars where I either had to hop onto the stools as I had done tonight or had to climb on them.

Neither looked very decent in a skirt.

The bartender jerked a thumb towards a big plastic jar that was being passed around the room, slowly filling up with money. "They do that every night," he stated. "They're the only ones that ever get close to full, and this is the third round tonight."

I arched a brow in question, unsure why he was telling me this.

He winked before responding. "You stole the show, baby."

That was my cue to leave. I replaced the cap on the bottle and found my back to the dressing room.

I stilled just outside the doorway, the sound of raised voices reaching the hallway.

"...Needs her!" The voice was hoarse, and though I'd only heard it once, I recognized it as the small blonde from the dressing room.

I pressed my back against the wall next to the door, reluctant to interrupt the argument. My heart clenched at the next voice I heard.

"You're overreacting," Keenan hissed.

"Oh, really? Explain this to me, then: the tip jar's on its third round. They loved her, Keenan. More than they ever liked me."

She sounded bitter.

Keenan sighed, and I could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. "She's different. It was a change of pace."

She scoffed. "No, Keenan, she's good. There's a difference. She's a natural."

"Yeah, she is, but you saw her. She's not happy about being here."

They were talking about me. I pushed a hand through my hair and contemplated slipping back into the dressing room for my jacket and violin.

"Look, this was always temporary. It's time for me to leave."

"No, it's not, Whitney."

I heard a sigh, one I knew wasn't Keenan, just as Mariah sidled up next to me and arched a brow. I pressed a finger to my lips.

They fighting again?  she mouthed.

I nodded. Her chocolate-colored eyes lit up in mischief, and she leaned against the wall on the other of the door.

I had to suppress a laugh.

"...you can," Keenan was saying when I refocused on the argument.

When Whitney spoke again, a sadness had invaded her voice. "It's been fun, but I can't compete with her."