Oleg’s thick brows go down like he wants to smash some skulls over it.
He elbows Nikolai and puts his fingers in a ring to his lips. Nikolai mimics the gesture and gives a loud whistle that gets people’s attention.
“Hey, thanks,” Story says, smiling our way. Her gaze bounces and returns to Oleg, and she seems to give him a special, secret smile. “And thank you to Rue for having us out again, tonight. This is our favorite place to play.” She waves, and a woman with heavy piercings and a blue mohawk behind the bar waves back.
“First song we’re going to sing is called ‘Let’s Go.’” The band launches into a well-rehearsed upbeat song. Story’s lyrics are clever. The musical hooks are perfect. I don’t know that much about the music industry, but I’m surprised these guys haven’t gone beyond Chicago. They’re great.
We sit and watch. I don’t dare attempt more conversation with Oleg sitting at the table. He clearly is here for the band, and I don’t want to be rude. Instead I watch the band, Oleg, the other guys at our table. Maxim watches me.
I lean over and kiss his jaw. “This is fun.”
He drags me out of my chair and onto his lap. “You’re fun.” I settle into his embrace. It feels easy and natural and, simultaneously, thrilling.
The next song is slower, and Story walks out to the edge of the stage to sing. Like me, she’s comfortable with attention. This isn’t just about the music, it’s about the interaction with the audience. She works to make connections—looking people in the eyes when she sings, making her face expressive to go with the words.
I can see how Oleg fell in love with this persona. I doubt she has any interest in him, though. It probably just seems that way to him because of the way she performs.
I watch song after song, enjoying the whole scene.
By the end of the second set, they have a drunken crowd packed in and dancing right in the tiny dance area in front of the stage. We’re on the side, lucky to have seats right off the dance floor but still beside the stage. The band strikes up what seems to be their big, fun hit. The end-of-the-night finale. The audience cheers, clearly familiar with it. Story prances to the edge of the stage near us, belting out the song. She walks down the steps and joins the dancers on the dance floor.
Oleg’s back goes ramrod stiff, his meaty hands closing into fists like he’s the bouncer ready to throw out anyone who touches her.
She’s touching them, though. They fall in line behind her and tour the lounge, loudly singing along in a crazy conga-line. “Come on.” I jump to my feet to join.
Maxim gives me that indulgent smile and slowly unfolds from his chair, guarding my back as I join the hilarity. Story snakes the group around. Instead of heading back on stage, she stands on my empty chair then in the center of our table. The crowd cheers.
She steadies herself with a hand on Oleg’s shoulder. The moment she touches him, his hand shoots out to hold her waist. She loops a leg over one of his broad shoulders, straddling it.
The crowd cheers—I think possibly at her audacity of climbing her audience like a jungle gym.
Oleg’s elbow bends up to secure her with his hand splayed at her lower back. When he stands slowly, there are more whoops and cheers and some very drunken crowd members start scrambling on each other’s shoulders like they’re going to have a chicken fight. Oleg carries his queen to the center of the dance floor where her hive swarms around her, glorying in the royal position he put her in.
The band goes on for three encores before Oleg gently deposits her on her feet on stage, and the entire place goes wild with cheering for him, for the band, and especially for Story, their captivating lead singer.
“Gospodi!” I shout to Maxim. “Does that always happen?”
Maxim and his roommates share bewildered expressions. “I’ve never seen it before.”
Oleg comes back and sits, his expression impassive, but with a visible flush under his stubble.
The guys offer fists to bump, but he ignores them, folding his arms across his chest to continue watching his obsession. She’s out of breath, laughing and thanking the crowd. Promising to be back the same time next week.
Story and the band members bow and wave and then start packing up their own equipment—I guess they’re too small to have a sound crew.
The overhead fluorescent lights flash on. “Last call!” Rue shouts from behind the bar.
Maxim orders another round for everyone, pulling me back onto his lap.
When Story comes off the stage, she has a whole crew of people waiting to accost her, but me being me, I stand up and give a little wave like we know each other.