Vixen

by Jillian Larkin

  “Country Clara dons my flapper dress and suddenly she’s the expert!” Lorraine laughed obnoxiously. “If I didn’t know any better, Clara, I’d think you’d spent your whole life in a club!”

  Clara laughed nervously. “We don’t have speakeasies in Pennsylvania,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Too many Amish.”

  “Says you!” Lorraine retorted with a guffaw.

  Marcus nudged Clara’s knee under the table. “Well, I think she looks like a baby doll.” He winked at her. “Beauty must run deep in the Carmody blood.”

  “Speaking of the other Carmody, I really do think we should go back and check on her,” Lorraine said. “Clara, dear. You’re family. Why don’t you go?”

  Clara sighed. Lorraine’s ploys were as transparent as a sheet of glass. Clara felt bad for Lorraine—lusting after someone who clearly wasn’t interested never ended well. Telltale signs of desperation were etched across Lorraine’s face: a little too much makeup, tiny beads of sweat lining her forehead, eyes darting back and forth all around the club, trying to avoid their sole real target: Marcus.

  Clara wished she could take Lorraine aside and smack some sense into her. Marcus isn’t interested, she would say. You’re a smart, fun, pretty girl—you’ll find someone else.

  Instead, Clara decided to give Lorraine exactly what she wanted: time alone with Marcus. Besides, things were getting a little too comfortable with his hand on her knee. She needed a breather.

  “You know how sensitive Gloria is—let’s let her be. But I wouldn’t mind refreshing all of your drinks.” Clara stood up and gathered Lorraine’s and Marcus’s empty glasses. “Any special requests?”

  “Why don’t I go with you?” Marcus offered, sliding out of the booth.

  “Absolutely out of the question! It would be completely improper of you to leave a girl as beautiful as Raine here at the table by herself.” And before Marcus could protest, Clara sashayed off.

  She slithered through the crowd, drinking in the dark ambiance of the club, and shouldered her way to the bar.

  She rested one hand on the stained mahogany. It felt so familiar and easy to be standing there. Not at the Green Mill, of course, but at a speakeasy in general. As if she could step back into her old life as easily as she might order a drink.

  “One Pink Lady, one whiskey sour, and …” She realized she hadn’t ordered a drink for herself since New York. “And one dirty martini. More dry than dirty, though. With two olives.”

  “Gotta get more vermouth from the basement,” the bartender said. “You mind cooling your heels?”

  He disappeared just as there was a bustle on the stage. The band members were taking their places. Clara felt a swell of excitement. What could be better than sitting in the dark and listening to good music? Only sitting in the dark and listening to good music with someone you loved.

  A handsome black man, whom Clara recognized from last time as the pianist, took the microphone. Jerome Johnson.

  “Ladies and gentleman, sheiks and shebas, tonight is a very special night.” His voice immediately sent a hush over the rowdy crowd. “Not only because the Jerome Johnson Band has a new member to introduce to all of you, but because”—he paused, ensuring that he had the attention of every last person in the room—“tonight is also this young lady’s Chicago debut. So please, give a very warm welcome to Miss Gloria Carson.”

  Gloria emerged through a curtain at stage left. When she stepped into the light, the entire room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of awe. Perhaps it was the novelty of seeing a young white girl amid an all-black band. Or perhaps it was because she was radiant, like a shimmering mermaid who’d just emerged from the water. Her green dress hugged her curves and made the red waves of her hair look fiery. She held herself with a sophisticated poise and grace that Clara had never before seen her display—she commanded the stage, and she hadn’t even opened her mouth yet. When had she learned to do that?

  The piano began its introduction, and the rest of the band joined in on the fourth measure. And then Gloria opened her lips and took over the room.

  “Since you turned my love away

  My glad rags ain’t the same

  I dress myself up in the blues

  And rue that dire day.

  But now I’m back to tell you

  I’ve changed my wicked ways

  I’ll be your true-blue lover, babe—

  If you’ll only let me stay.”

  Gloria’s voice fit her image perfectly—it was sultry, with glimmers of soulfulness and deep hints of sadness. She began singing in a way that was almost conversational, but then plunged into her lower registers. As the song explained how a man had broken her heart beyond repair, she gradually took her voice even lower, to a throaty whisper, a smoky growl.

  “Miss? Your drinks?” The bartender was back and had already prepared the round.

  “Put it on Marcus Eastman’s tab, please.”

  The barman carefully slid Clara’s martini across the bar so that it wouldn’t spill all over everything.

  That was when she saw it: Speared between the two olives was a piece of torn paper.

  Clara’s hands began to shake, and some of the martini sloshed out of the glass. Not here, not tonight, she thought. She ripped the note off the spear.

  I see you

  In her mind, she could hear him saying it. Over the crowd, over the band, over Gloria’s voice at the microphone, each word resonated like an alarm in Clara’s head. She wanted to remain calm and collected, but she felt panic rising within her, about to burst in a hundred directions. Frantic, she scanned the room. There were people everywhere, in every corner, but they were all watching the stage.

  All except one.

  The pair of eyes was devastatingly familiar. Those same eyes that had once held so much love and now held so much betrayal.

  She turned back toward the bar, taking a huge gulp of her martini. She had played and replayed this moment in her mind endlessly. Her journal was filled with unsent letters, saying everything she’d never said. Settling scores and placing blame. Granting forgiveness. She was the one who’d left the city without a goodbye—she had been too hysterical to face him. Hysterical and heartbroken. And scared.

  “Excuse me, miss, but did you drop this?”

  She could feel him next to her, the sleeve of his suit against her arm. He placed the crumpled note on the bar in front of her. She turned to him, wanting to appear hard as rock, to look unshaken and over it. But his presence undid her.

  “I told you I never wanted to see you again,” she managed to get out.

  “Clara. Clarabella.” He took a step closer and folded her into his arms.

  She wanted to push him away, to beat her hands against his chest—what if Marcus and Lorraine saw her?—but it was futile. The more she resisted, the weaker she felt, until she collapsed against him and heaved a small cry, letting go of everything she had been clutching so tightly all these months.

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment since the day I last saw you,” he said into her hair. “I’ve been thinking about you every second since you left me.”

  “I left you?” Of course, it was so like him to twist everything. Lies. Yes, she had run off, but that was only after he had turned her away.

  “If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had to track you halfway across the country.”

  “You’re unbelievable.” He looked older than she remembered, though it suited him. Still that same overpowering stature. That same Cheshire-cat grin deepening the cleft in his chin. “If you really wanted to see me, you would have called me. Directly. Not played your sadistic games and sent me cryptic notes.”

  “Cryptic? I thought they were nice. I was trying to give you some space.”

  “You’re delusional,” Clara snapped.

  “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me,” he said, his voice deepening.

  “I didn’t.” She swallowed her resolve with another gulp of her martini. “I
don’t.”

  She was different now. Stronger. If playing Country Clara had taught her anything, it was to have a little self-respect. To regain the dignity she’d had before he ruined her life.

  “The least you can do is have a drink with me.”

  “I already have a drink.”

  “Clara,” he said, “when has that ever stopped you before?” He kissed her then, on the corner of her mouth. As his lips lingered there, soulful and soft, she didn’t resist. Her head was screaming No, no, no, remember what he did to you! But she was hostage to her body, which had a memory of its own.

  For a moment, the room around her dissolved, and those months of raw, red heartbreak were forgotten. It could have been spring in New York City again, when she was seventeen, wild, reckless, and hopelessly in love with Harris Brown.

  All before she’d learned the truth about him. And the truth about herself.

  LORRAINE

  Lorraine felt like the eel’s hips.

  She’d made peace with her best friend, she was feeling quite slender, and she was sitting in the most coveted spot in the Green Mill: next to Marcus Eastman.

  She even felt a swell of maternal pride, watching Gloria onstage. Yes, she was jealous, but even she had to admit the girl could sing.

  She knew Gloria was taking a huge risk. She’d muttered something to Lorraine about the pianist’s sister threatening her, and something absurd about how performers here lasted only as long as they were in good with the gangsters who ran the place, but Lorraine had only laughed. She was Gloria Carmody, for Pete’s sake! What mobster—or black girl, for that matter—would dare mess with society’s darling?

  Look at her up there now.

  Even though Gloria was nervous, there was a serenity about her. Her face was still, but her body seemed fluid, swaying with the music, her voice spinning into gold as she closed her eyes and sang.

  The black pianist was now in the middle of a rousing solo, sending jolts of electric shock through the crowd. Gloria stepped away from the microphone and rocked from side to side while he tickled the keys. Lorraine could practically feel the music in her bones. There was no greater aphrodisiac than hot jazz.

  Time for Lorraine Dyer to remind the world who the daring one was here.

  She slid a cigarette out of her case and brought it to her lips. “Scorch me?” she asked, trying to rein in Marcus’s attention.

  He lit her cigarette with a silver lighter from his jacket pocket, but his see-through-blue eyes were focused on something behind her. Not wanting to seem paranoid, Lorraine tried a different tactic. “Doesn’t Gloria sound divine?” she asked, taking a deep drag. “I had no idea she had it in her.”

  “Yeah,” he said, distracted. “She’s hitting on all sixes.”

  “Remember the last time we heard her sing, at that unbearable Christmas party—Marcus!” Lorraine interrupted herself. “What the hell are you looking at?” She followed his gaze to Clara at the bar. “Geez Louise, do you need another drink that badly? Are you on a toot?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s that guy. The one she’s talking to. Doesn’t he look familiar?”

  Lorraine rolled her eyes. “She’s allowed to talk to other men, Marcus. Just because she’s a hick doesn’t mean she can’t flirt.” Lorraine gave the man a second look. “You weren’t just feeding me a line—that’s Harris Brown!”

  “Who?” Marcus clasped his hand on Lorraine’s wrist.

  Now she had him. If Marcus needed gossip, Lorraine was the source. “Harris Brown? Second son of the famous New York millionaire politician? He’s a big-deal playboy in the naughty New York high-society world. And looking at him, I can certainly see why. Rowr.”

  Marcus’s eyes grew wide. “What the hell is Clara doing talking to him?”

  Lorraine shrugged. “Who cares?” It certainly was odd that such a catch would be making time with Country Clara, but the girl had gotten a new look, and a darn sweet one, if Lorraine did say so herself. “Good for her, I say.” She glanced back at the bar in time to see Clara pulling away from a kiss. “Looks like our very own Mrs. Grundy is getting quite a healthy dose of loosening up.”

  Marcus was out of the booth and on his feet, his mouth twisted into a hard line of anger. “I’m going to take that joker for a ride.”

  “You absolutely will not!” Lorraine pulled him back down. “Our plan is finally kicking into gear! Clara is dipping her toes into scandal. Now, would you stop getting yourself into such a lather, and …” The words were barely out of her mouth when the truth hit her. The more she looked at Marcus’s face, the deeper the realization sank in. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “This isn’t a game for you anymore, is it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marcus mumbled into his glass.

  “Do you need me to spell it out?” Lorraine persisted. “You’ve fallen for her. For her. For Clara.”

  “Stop beating your gums—”

  “Oh, I’m the one? This was part of our plan, remember?” Raine’s head was swimming. She had to say something, anything, to get Marcus’s attention away from Clara, to focus it back on her—where it belonged, whether he knew it or not.

  “I’m going to New York next year,” she blurted out.

  Marcus pulled his eyes away from the bar with a flicker of curiosity. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to Barnard next year. Barnard. It’s a college.”

  “I know what it is.”

  “It’s in New York. Barnard College of Columbia University in New York City.”

  “And I know where it is, Raine.”

  Now that her secret was out, she couldn’t make herself shut up. Her mouth just motored along on its own. “I got accepted and it’s really a big deal—I mean, I don’t need to tell you it’s a big deal, you know it is—and I just thought you might want to know. Because, well, since you’ll be in New York, too, you know. At Columbia. Across the street from me—I mean, Barnard. It’s across the street from Barnard. And—” But she was thankfully saved by a loud burst of voices from the front of the bar. Equal parts embarrassed and infuriated, Lorraine turned see what was going on.

  It was none other than Sebastian Grey.

  He was like a man on fire, waving his arms and shouting. “Do you know who I am? I can bring all of city hall down on this den of sin with a snap of my fingers!”

  “Oh my God,” Lorraine gasped, impulsively clutching Marcus’s arm.

  Marcus had already caught an eyeful. For the first time that evening, they were on the same page. “Talk about a crasher.”

  The guy Bastian was yelling at was the same one who had tried to pick up Lorraine the last time she was here. Carlito Maccarelli. Lorraine wanted to warn Bastian, but it was more fun to watch.

  Carlito looked irked but calm. “I’m the manager here. I’m asking you to quiet down.”

  “I will not quiet down! Because of that!” Sebastian pointed at the stage, where Gloria stood, a hand shading her eyes. She was trying to see past her spotlight and into the darkness of the club. “Do you know what that is?”

  Carlito straightened his tie. “Yeah, a shapely pair of stilts with some pretty fair pipes.”

  A half dozen thugs who’d quietly gathered behind him all snickered. Suddenly, Bastian seemed to take them in and come to his senses: His face paled. He cocked his arm back, but the gangster’s men were one step ahead.

  A woman screamed, and there was an earsplitting crash.

  Bastian had been shoved backward and sent sliding across a table, glasses tumbling off and smashing onto the floor. He fell to his knees, then shakily got up.

  “That’s it!” he shouted. “I’ll have you closed down for violating the Prohibition!”

  “Good luck with that, you stuffed shirt,” Carlito said. He combed back his hair with the flat of his hand. “In the meantime, what can we do for you? You’re upsetting our customers.”

  “I’ve come for what’s mine,” Bastian told him, stalkin
g off toward the stage, Carlito’s goons following.

  Lorraine’s brain was racing—she hadn’t said anything to Bastian when she had gone over there drunk, had she? No, she would never do that to Gloria, even in her most incoherent state. “You didn’t tell him, did you?” she asked Marcus.

  “Me? Are you kidding? He and I hate each other.”

  “I don’t get it—who would do such a thing?” She looked up at Gloria, luminously absorbed in the glow of the spotlight. After the initial ruckus, the band had kicked into a rousing rendition of “Ain’t We Got Fun,” playing as if there were nothing wrong at all. A handful of couples took to the dance floor.

  “Marcus,” Lorraine pleaded, “we can’t just sit here!” But it was too late.

  Gloria spotted Bastian ripping through the crowd and stopped singing midverse. The musicians continued playing, but without a vocalist the music sounded stripped bare and lost, just a car crash of individual noises.

  Jerome frantically signaled to Gloria to keep singing, but that powerful version of Gloria, who’d just been onstage commanding the room, had vanished.

  Bastian pounded up the stage’s steps, and the music came to a jumbled halt. He violently grabbed Gloria’s arm. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice carried over the microphone to the entire club.

  “I’m singing!” Gloria replied, trying to break away from his grip.

  Jerome shot up from the piano.

  “Don’t you dare touch me, boy!” Bastian barked.

  “Jerome!” Gloria shouted, catching Bastian’s arm as he cocked his fist.

  Jerome seemed to grow taller. He placed a protective hand on Gloria’s back and gently positioned himself between her and Bastian as if to shield her. “What do you think you’re doing with my singer?” he said to Bastian, remaining calm. The club had gone silent.

  “Please, Bastian. Please, let’s talk about this later. Not now. Not in front of all these people!” Gloria cried. “I beg you!”