At the end of the last song of the medley, Amos leaned in and said something to Dad, which caused him to look over at our table, mustache stretched with a grin.
“I think you’ve been discovered,” Brandon said.
I could already feel my cheeks going red. I was counting on going incognito until the end of the set, rather than what usually happened when I was spotted in the middle.
“Sorry about this,” I mumbled. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“What?”
Before I could explain, Dad leaned over and spoke into the microphone positioned at his shoulder.
“We’ve got a little surprise for you, folks. My daughter, the very beautiful and talented Skylar Crosby, is visiting us from up North. Let’s see if we can get her up here to sing us a little song. Hey, Valentine’s Day’s in just a few weeks, ain’t it?”
That was my cue. As the few patrons in the bar gave a couple of lackluster claps that were supplemented the bartender’s loud hoot of approval, I stood up and left Brandon, his mouth hanging open while I sidled through the tables and chairs and took a seat next at the piano.
“Hey Pippi,” Dad greeted me with my childhood nickname, giving me a brief peck on the cheek as I sat down beside him. “Nice lookin’ date over there with you. Should we make a dedication to someone special?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s just a friend, Dad,” I said with a brief smile. “Let’s get this embarrassment over with, all right?”
We launched into the familiar riffs of “My Funny Valentine,” playing it Chet Baker-style in the arrangement Dad had written for us when I was little. Doug and Amos chimed in with their parts, having been privy to similar ad hoc performances many times before over the years. When the drummer finally caught up with us, we were all in an easy rhythm together, and Dad nodded at me to start singing.
We jammed up there together for five minutes or so. I wasn’t a great singer, but the song fit the naturally low timbre of my voice, and Dad chimed in several times in harmony, like we had done countless times. I let my fingers remember the familiar movements of my solo, practicing the same melodies over the keys. I never had a talent for improvisation. Dad had the good ear; my abilities were rooted more in precision.
I found myself avoiding the table where I was sitting before, instead aiming my gaze squarely at the keys beneath my fingertips. Although I wasn’t normally shy about performing with my dad—it was easy to pass it off as a cute father-daughter act when I messed up, and when I didn’t, people generally seemed to like it anyway—this time I felt unaccountably nervous as I played.
“Each day is Valentine’s Day,” we crooned into the mic, and I waited as Dad added a few final flourishes on the keys in tandem with the Amos’s buttery brass notes. The song finally ended, and the few patrons in the bar all clapped, enthusiastically this time. There was even one couple in the back who had been inspired to slow dance to our rendition, so I figured it wasn’t the worst version we’d ever done.
“Thanks, Pippi,” Dad said, his eyes already half shut as he toyed around with the keys. Doug was tuning his bass while Amos and the drummer made some crass jokes to the crowd. “You guys going to stay until the end of the set? We’ve got another hour left, but I know the guys would love to say hello.”
“Not tonight, Dad, sorry,” I said. “Just to finish our drinks, and then I’m heading home. I’m beat. Will you tell the guys I’ll stay next time? I’ll see you in the morning.”
He nodded, starting a riff for the next song. “Sure, sweetheart. Love you, kid.”
I kissed him on the cheek and walked off the stage, scrupulously avoiding Brandon’s eyes as I approached our table. I sat down and fiddled with my glass after taking an unnecessarily large gulp of whiskey. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me since I’d walked up to the stage, and now he was practically staring a hole through my forehead. I took another slug from my glass.
“Most people do that before they have to get up on stage, not after,” Brandon remarked. “But then again, it usually makes them fuck up. Nice pipes, by the way. And you lied when you told me you suck on the piano.”
I finally looked up at him, and was struck by the obvious awe in his eyes that he was trying very hard to tone down with nonchalance. I wasn’t sure if they were for my benefit or for his ego, but I appreciated his compliments either way.
“I didn’t say I suck,” I said, fiddling with my glass as I looked back at the quartet, which was now covering “So What.” “I just said I’m not as good as he is.”
“Well, I guess that’s what happens when you major in music at NYU, huh?”
I shrugged. “I don’t really play jazz much. Just a couple of things he taught me. Mostly I studied classical. I’m too much of a square for jazz.”
“What makes you say that?”
I nodded at my dad, whose eyes were completely closed again while he hunched over the keys, moving to his own rhythm while he played. I smiled. Try as I might, I could never quite lose myself the way he could. “Look at that. Does that seem like disciplined to you?”
“So, you like discipline, huh?”
I pursed my lips, pondering the question. “I like control,” I said. “Or, at least I like to know what’s coming. Jazz is all about improvisation, all about the moment, whereas with a classical piece, I always play it the way I want, the same way, every time. There’s comfort in that, you know?” I shrugged, taking another large sip of my whiskey. “I guess I’m a stiff.”
Brandon smiled, but it wasn’t the cocky smile I had seen before. This one was calmer, less blinding, and nakedly appreciative of me. It was a slow and gradual across his face, and I watched as one dimple, then two eventually appeared in his cheeks. He leaned over his drink, circling the edge of the glass with his finger.
“Skylar,” he said seriously, his blue eyes wide and magnetic. “I don’t know much about you, but I know you are definitely not a stiff.”
I snorted. “You hardly know me well enough to say that.”
“Maybe not,” Brandon conceded. “But the girl who was up there on that stage? She was something else. You made every single person in this place feel every word you were singing, every note you were playing. It doesn’t matter if you play it the same way every time. Anyone who can do that is no stiff.”
We stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes, as if we were trying to figure each other out. If this was a game he was playing, I had to admit: it was a damn good one.
“Skylar, honey?”
A familiar, gravelly voice broke our standoff, and I looked up to where Nick, the bartender and owner of the establish, stood over our table. His graying black eyebrows were furrowed over his ape-like brow, and he was polishing a glass with a worn bar cloth while he stared menacingly at Brandon.
“Hey,” I said to Nick, who immediately turned back to me. “How are you?”
“I’m good, I’m good, honey,” Nick replied. “How you doin’, sweetheart?” He was born and raised in Brooklyn, with the kind of old-school New York accent that made De Niro look like a phony. “Who’s this fella?”
I shook my head. “Just a friend, Nick. This is Brandon Sterling. We work together in Boston.”
Nick regarded Brandon with a raised brow, and I noticed the way the thick muscles of his forearms flexed just a little bit harder as he polished his glass. He was one of those men who could make any number of kitchen chores look like a threat.
“Friend, huh?” he asked Brandon, who only sat there, stone-faced. I recognized the look. It was the look certain types of men get when they’re not willing to give first.
“Friend,” Brandon repeated with hardened eyes and tightened jaw.
“I hope so, I hope so,” Nick said before turning back to me. “You got a minute, kid?”
Brandon frowned at me in concern, but I shook my head at him as I stood up. “Sure, Nick. I’ll just be a second,” I told Brandon before I followed Nick back to the bar, ignoring the blue daggers staring into m
y back.
“So listen, honey,” Nick said as he took his place behind the bar. He leaned over the top so his big face was closer to mine. “I don’t want to worry you, but I thought you should know.”
My stomach dropped at the words. There was only one issue that Nick would preface that way, and it was one I hoped was finished the last time I’d tried to take care of it. I stared at the bar top, tracing the lines of water stains with the tip of my finger.
“Is it Victor?” I asked quietly before looking back up.
Nick nodded, his deep-set eyes creased with pity. He clasped a big paw over mine and squeezed. “I’m sorry, honey. He’s been showin’ up to Danny’s gigs the last few weeks. I see them talkin’. I don’t know what’s going’ on, but I figure you oughta know.”
I squeezed back before pulling my hand back over my hair. I sighed. “No, you did right. I definitely needed to know that.”
“Anytime, honey. You want me to let you know if he keeps showin’ up?”
I frowned, weighing the offer. Victor Messina, the man in question, was a small-time loan shark and neighborhood thug who was just big enough to be legitimately dangerous. It was bad enough that Dad was getting mixed up with him again. I didn’t want to get Nick into trouble if the guy caught wind someone was watching him.
“No,” I said. “That’s okay. I’ll check in with my dad first and see what’s going on.” I stood up from the stool and balanced on my tip-toes so I could lean over and give Nick a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, honey,” he said again. “Don’t be a stranger, you hear? And you let me know if blondie over there don’t treat you like absolutely gold, okay? Only the best for you, baby girl.”
I grinned and pushed off the bar. “You got it.”
Nick winked and turned his back toward a new customer at the other end of the bar. I made my way back to where Brandon was sitting, still watching me intently.
“Everything all right?” he asked when I approached the table.
I reached down to grab my coat off my seat and started wrapping myself up for the cold. “It’s fine. He’s just an old family friend.” It wasn’t anything I could do anything about tonight anyway, even if I wanted to tell my new friend—is that what Brandon was now?—all about it. Which I didn’t. At all.
Brandon cocked his head at me, obviously not buying it. When it was obvious I wasn’t going to say anything more, he tossed back the rest of his drink and stood up too. I turned around to send a quick wave up at my dad, but he was completely lost in his music, eyes still shut as he purred into the microphone. When I turned back to Brandon, he had bundled himself back up as well and was ready to go.
“Come on,” he said, holding out a gloved hand. “I said I’d walk you home. And it’s clearly past your bedtime. Mine too.”
I opened my mouth to protest, ready to launch an argument about being dictated to about my damn bedtime of all things. But Brandon’s expression, earnest and kind, stopped me before a word came out. The condescension or arrogance I had seen earlier that evening or in his office hadn’t made a single return since he’d admitted his idiocy earlier. This was that same look I’d seen that night in the snow. Only concern…and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something I suspected was in my expression too. So after a moment’s hesitation, I finally gave in. I put my hand in his and let him lead me out of the club.
~
Chapter 10
“I can’t believe you would have walked home by yourself in this neighborhood.”
Brandon gazed around the street where I grew up, examining the battered shingles of some of the less maintained Victorian houses as if they were made of cardboard and scrap metal. We were only a short walk from the club, just a few blocks off Coney Island Avenue, but this part of Brooklyn was completely suburban. Six-story walk-ups and traffic signals morphed into gated single-family homes on tree-lined streets, complete with the occasional station wagon parked out front.
I looked around, trying to see the danger he saw in a place that could never be anything but familiar. It was cold, but with my hands shoved deep into my pockets, combined with the brisk walk home, I could hardly feel the freezing weather.
“Yeah, all of these craftsman houses and minivans pose a real threat,” I replied. “Come on, you can’t possibly think this is a bad neighborhood. Not compared to the South end of Boston.”
In response I received a grim look.
“It’s completely empty,” Brandon replied. “Anyone could creep up on you, and there’d be no one to help. You say grew up here in the city, but you don’t seem that street smart, Red.”
I shrugged. I did grow up in the city, and if anyone else treated these streets with such willful nonchalance, I’d probably be saying the same thing. I knew too many girls who had been mugged on a dark corner when they were walking home alone—even one who had been raped in Prospect Park, which wasn’t exactly a terrible neighborhood.
“Okay, so maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “But this is home. I’ll never be that scared here. Not when I know exactly which way to run and keep my hand on my pepper spray.” I pulled my house keys from my messenger bag and dangled the small bottle hanging from my keychain. Stubbornly I omitted the fact that I likely would have taken a cab anyway if he hadn’t insisted on walking me home. I wasn’t ready to admit the reason why I might have allowed for that to happen.
I could feel, rather than see Brandon’s disapproving glare as I stuffed the keys back into my pocket.
“Don’t even joke about that, Skylar,” he said a little too sharply.
The “r” on my name disappeared again, this time more overtly, and I tried not to smile.
“You’re small and sweet. I’d hate to think what might happen—” Quickly, he cut himself off, took a deep breath.
I peered curiously at him to see his expression, but he had turned his face away as he shoved his hands hard into his pockets. Okay, I was short, it was true, but not men had called me a lot of things in my life, and sweet wasn’t one of them. If I had a dollar for every time Bubbe had told me that my sharp tongue was going to cut a man down before he could kneel for himself, I’d never have to pay for the subway again.
“I want to say I’m sorry. Again. About, you know, what happened.”
The abrupt change of subject pulled me out of my thoughts. I blinked. “Yeah. Oh…kay. But…I still don’t understand why you thought you had to approach me like that. You said you’ve only dated a few people since…ah…your last relationship.” I paused, mulling over my thoughts and flexing my gloved fingers as we walked. “I guess…I’m not really buying it. That you just didn’t know how else to go about it. You don’t seem that stupid.”
Brandon jerked to a stop, and immediately I wondered if my sharp tongue had gotten me in trouble yet again. I hadn’t cared about that before, but now something had changed. Somehow over the course of the last few hours, I had come to believe there was a lot more behind that slick facade.
He gave me a wry smile, then grimaced. “I think so. All right, then. I wasn’t lying before. My last relationship—my only serious one, actually—ended badly, and she was after…well…you know. The truth is, I’m complete shit when it comes to dating and women.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” I interrupted him.
Brandon chewed his lip for a moment while he looked at me, measuring his own thoughts. “I…” he started again. “Why do I have the feeling like you’d see through any bullshit besides the absolute truth?”
“Well, look at you. You’re basically Brad Pitt, for Christ’s sake.”
He gave me a sly grin that made my insides flip. “You think I’m handsome, Red?”
I rolled my eyes and started walking again. “Don’t let it go to your head, pretty boy. I’m just pointing out the obvious, which you clearly know. You’re rich, you’re good-looking—yeah, I bet that makes it super hard for you to find women to date.”
“Well, like I s
aid, that’s not always a good thing.” He huffed beside me and kicked a rock aside off the pavement. “I also wasn’t lying when I said I don’t really have any time to get to know someone. Between the firm, and Ventures about to go public—”
“Sterling Ventures is going public?” I interrupted him again, this time in shock. This was major news, and it was probably illegal that he was even telling me.
He darted a quick warning glance at me and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Ah, yeah. That’s privileged information, Skylar. Really, you can’t tell anyone, or we could both be in major trouble.”
I nodded solemnly and gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. You have your interns all sign NDA forms regarding company information anyway. If I breathe a word, you can just sue me.”
He shrugged again, but I could tell he relaxed at the reminder.
“I still shouldn’t have said anything, but you…” He gave me that same sheepish smile, which I found made me want to wrap my arms around his neck. The butterflies in by belly sped up a little more. “You seem to have that effect on me. Getting me to say things I shouldn’t.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
He darted another sideways glance at me. “I’m not sure. I’ve already made a fool out of myself twice with you. I guess…I thought it would be simpler, somehow, if I tried to keep it just to sex.” He smacked himself on the head and grinned sheepishly. “Idiot, right? Obviously someone like you isn’t going to go for a ridiculous suggestion like that.”
I didn’t feel the need to remind him just how close I had come to giving in to his proposal. I remembered all too well the feel of his solid hands around my waist, the warm texture of his mouth on mine. I shook my head. He didn’t need to know how easy it was for me to go to that place with him.
“Is that usually how you approach women?” I prodded him instead. “Propositioning them in your office? Suggesting standing sex appointments and real estate perks?”
He was gorgeous and rich; I had no illusion as to how many women might have been served tea in front of his fireplace. Suddenly, the thought of that prospect sent my stomach rolling.
Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1) Page 10