“Oh lord,” I muttered. This was going to be some nerd convention where they trade those idiotic cards that were so popular when we were thirteen.
“Very funny, Peewee,” Trent said, shooting me a look of reassurance.
This was what I got for caving and agreeing to a date with a nerd. Our tastes ran down totally different rivers. Finally, the burly guy behind the door swung it open.
He reached out a hand that was as plump as his face. “Dude, is this your girlfriend?” He eyed me appreciatively.
“That’s the plan,” Trent answered. I
didn’t know where the authority in his voice came from, but it was a side I might like to see more of.
“He wishes,” I answered, holding out my hand. “I’m Tressa.”
“Trent and Tressa. The double Ts. That’s cool.” He chuckled at his reference. “I’m Peewee. Ironic, right? It’s okay. You can make fun of my physique. I do.”
A laugh tickled my throat. I liked this guy.
“Not cool, man,” Trent said, walking around him.
“Hey, don’t want to give the lady the wrong impression. You can head in. Your usual table is open.” Peewee sank back on a stool, waving as we walked away.
“What is this place?” I followed alongside Trent as he pushed open another door. I was floored by the space we had just entered. We were in some kind of restaurant/jazz club judging by the bearded saxophone player who had just stepped out onto the small stage. It looked to be a factory that had been converted to a club, but still maintained a very industrial vibe. Tables that looked like they had been rescued from thrift stores and garage sales were scattered around, and no two chairs were the same throughout the entire place. The cool thing about the tables was that they were covered in old ticket stubs, concert flyers, and papers with handwritten notes, and were lacquered over for protection.
The well-dressed patrons who took up most of the tables clashed with the club’s décor. By the looks of the place, I would have expected to see poor college kids who were too cheap to pay to get into one of the trendier places near campus.
Trent seemed at home as he weaved his way between the tightly packed tables before stopping near the front of the stage. The small round table was barely big enough for two people. I’d call it a little less than cozy, but definitely intimate. Our knees knocked together as I slid my chair under the table. He didn’t scoot his chair back like I might have expected him to. Instead, he spread his legs apart slightly so one of my knees slid between his.
It was a bold move and erotic as hell. Where had this debonair person come from? It was as if the building had morphed him into someone else. Maybe calling him Clark Kent was appropriate and this was where he’d turn into Superman. Or maybe I’d already spent too much time with Trent and I was the one morphing into someone else. Like the Geek Queen.
“What is this place?” I asked again, examining the relics underneath the clear hardened surface of the table.
“It’s called the Secret Club,” he answered, returning a nod from a couple sitting two tables from us.
“Seriously?” It was so hokey I figured he had to be messing with me.
“I’m serious. It’s one of the best-kept secrets on the East Coast.”
“And they couldn’t come up with a more obvious name than that?”
“I know, but you wouldn’t believe some of the talented musicians, poets, and even writers who got their start here. The place is only open on Fridays and Saturdays. Saturday is for musicians and Fridays are for poets and writers. I’ll bring you back for that sometime. It’s a different crowd than this—more serious and very scholarly.”
“They should have called it Club Irony. A secret club called the Secret Club with a big guy named Peewee watching the door, and now you want to bring me back to hang out with a bunch of scholars. It’s almost too funny.”
“Kudos for the observation, other than the last part about you. You need to give yourself more credit,” he said, watching the saxophone player onstage.
Not fair. I was trying to find reasons why Trent and I wouldn’t work, and he was not helping by giving me the best compliment any guy had ever given me.
“How come I’ve never heard of this place?”
He leaned in close since the music was too loud for real conversation. “As funny as the name is, they really do manage to keep it a secret. This is the sort of place you can’t just show up to and hope to get in. Peewee’s mom, Shirley, started this place back in the sixties. It’s rumored she was friends with some of the greats in rock music. You name some of the legends and chances are they sat at these tables. It was supposed to be a kind of safe haven for them. They knew if they came here, fans wouldn’t mob them and the press would never find out. To even perform here you have to sign a confidentiality statement. To get in you have to either know Shirley directly or have friends with connections.”
“So how did someone like you find out about this place?” The question came out harsher than I’d intended. “I mean, what’s your connection?”
He didn’t look insulted by my question. “One of my professors last year is Shirley’s brother. That’s how some of his lit majors find out about the Friday performances.”
“You’re not a lit major,” I said, still confused.
“No, Shirley needed my help with something else. I refused to accept money, so she told me to consider this place my second home.”