And the Midnight Trio

by Harper Eliot

  The song was sad, but nowadays, when she sang it, she saw it more as cogs and wheels, intricately interconnected, creating something larger than the sum of its parts. It no longer inspired awe in her, but she enjoyed listening as they performed, lulled on the way the piano fit so perfectly with the rhythm of the drum, and steadfast in her participation, crooning high melodies above their solid foundation.

  During those first few weeks, singing night after night, it was not just learning how to flirt that occupied her mind. Each night, up on stage, she would listen to the incredible music made by the three men behind her, and after every set she would hide to avoid being fired. Sam and his friends were experienced, talented musicians. They had been playing together professionally for seven years. Seven years earlier, Violet had still been at school. Now she was waiting to be found out; waiting for David to spot that she was a fraud, and throw her out by the back door.

  Once secure in her position, and with enough encouragement behind her to let her know she wasn’t in danger, it became harder for her to pretend her youth wasn’t a commodity. David was selling her age, and, she later discovered, at quite a profit. She could have hit flat notes every night and he wouldn’t have fired her. A girl who could still put on a pleated skirt and pretend to be virginal, sweet sixteen was by far the greatest selling point the bar had. But simultaneously, his respect and patience were not things that could be earned with money. Violet sought to live up to her audition, because to be great in David’s eyes was something to aspire to. He knew people, and wouldn’t suggest anyone without talent, no matter how pretty or virginal she was.

  Violet had subtly grown up, but she never hid her age from view. She always let her giggly smile show at some point during the set, and she often came out to the bar after the show and let the patrons buy her drinks, getting a closer look at her unlined face. It was a compromise everyone seemed satisfied with.

  Tonight, a few tables back from the stage, in the middle of the room, sat two businessmen. One was Sam’s age, with brown-red hair and a chin dusted with stubble. He was broad in his shoulders and easily distracted by the waitresses, his eyes glittering across their lithe bodies. But he caught Violet’s eye because she caught his. She spotted him there because, as he watched her sing, his expression became dreamy and his eyes grew wider, shining in the dimly lit room. She played with him, licking her lips between phrases and arching towards him. His expression, when she handed him these glimmers of hope, was wishful, his pink lips an open grin. But he was still distracted, from time to time, by the women milling through the audience, balancing glasses on trays too heavy for them, and as he looked away, breaking eye contact, Violet had found her gaze playing across the figure of his companion at the table. Far more enigmatic, the other gentleman was older, perhaps by twenty years, and Violet soon noted that his eyes never left her figure. But his expression was neither displeased nor lascivious. He watched her carefully, as though she were the object of an experiment he was observing. It both thrilled and unnerved her. This kind of attention was not unheard of, but he seemed particularly good at veiling his thoughts.

  He must be in charge of something, she thought as she watched his self-control. He could have been silently damning her for her sins. But he could just as easily have been imagining the feel of her silken thighs beneath his palm.

  As she caught the edge of that thought, Violet felt the heat of her cunt between her legs, a tiny tingle that sparked up into her abdomen. She clasped the idea between her fingers, and let it course through her body as she sang.

  The rest of the set became a performance for these two men, not so much for their benefit, but for her indulgence. As she played to their movements and whims — bending her leg slightly if she saw a pair of eyes drop to her thigh, or tousling her own hair if one met her gaze — the desire she felt coming from them fed her ego and her arousal. Her breaths became panting, breaking hazy phrases of song as her skin grew slick beneath her clammy palms. Arching under the stage lights, all sensation coursed into her heated cunt, until she could feel the wet warmth pulsing between her thighs. She moved to relieve the pressure, to assimilate some semblance of propriety and professionalism, but whenever she opened her eyes and raised her gaze, she was met by their expressions.

  By the time the final notes played, she was heady with narcissism, swimming on a wave of immodesty. As they left the stage, Sam slipped between the curtains with her and kissed her cheek roughly.

  “Nicely done. We’re off. Get yourself a drink; it’s hot under those lights.”

  With that, he disappeared. His staccato run of small orders jarred into her mellifluous buzz, but she liked it. She enjoyed the way he punctuated her consciousness, keeping her awake.

  David was back onstage, welcoming the next band. Sam and Violet were just filler at the club; later sets were reserved for hired acts, for names. Violet put this out of mind as she slipped round the wings and stepped out into the club, heading towards the bar. She preferred to pretend she was the star.

  Fred was working tonight. Fred looked more like a bouncer than a barman, but he was charming and his thuggish appearance put the patrons at ease: it seemed unlikely that any girls would go home with Fred rather than the suave, money-drenched businessmen who affected so much cosmopolitan sophistication. In actual fact, many of the patrons were slimy up close. Once, in her early days at the club, Violet had gone home with Fred. He was a little clumsy, but he gave himself completely to passion and fucked her hard as she dug her nails into his wide back. In true clichéd style they had lain side by side afterwards, smoking cigarettes and staring at the ceiling. Although the sex itself had been more than satisfactory, what she liked most about it was how easily they slipped back into being friends, both aware that it had been good, but that they probably wouldn’t do it again. In the real world they didn’t quite fit. Besides which, Violet had fallen into Sam’s bed shortly afterwards.

  Fred made his way towards her, grinning warmly. “Hey sweetie, nice set. Usual?”

  “Please.”

  Fred poured her a gin and tonic, adding a little more gin than is customary, and Violet took it, immediately drinking deeply through the crooked black straw. She finished it fast and ordered another.

  As she turned back to the audience, leaning on the granite surface of the bar, she spotted the two businessmen, walking in her direction. Now standing, she was pleased to note that both men were over six feet tall, towering above her as they reached the bar and casually ordered. Fred flashed her a warning look as she glanced over her shoulder, but grinned as he retrieved a bottle of red wine from beneath the bar. As he rang up their bill and the older man paid, the younger man shamelessly ran his eyes across her body.

  Up close Violet could see all the flaws in his skin; the rough stubble, the marks and scars — perhaps the remnants of adolescent acne. She observed him carefully, immediately romanticising his imperfections. If he had been the weedy, nerdy boy at school, there was success in his presence and confidence now. In looking her up and down, he held up his middle finger to all the bullies and snide remarks in his school days. She didn’t ask, but in her imagination she could see his entire education, how he grew up, and the girl at university — maybe even Oxford or Cambridge — who slipped into his bed with him. He had filled her with cum and her burning eyes had taught him self-assurance. She would have had to be beautiful, and not self-doubting. Perhaps an amazonian brunette, with a full smile and thick, glossy hair. All of it, of course, had led up to this moment, standing at the bar, filled with confidence, preparing to approach Violet.

  “You were great up there.” He interrupted her reverie, tilting his head towards the stage.

  Releasing her bottom lip from the thoughtful grasp of her teeth, she regarded him evenly. “Thank you.”

  “What did I tell you?” The older man didn’t look up, busy pouring wine into two elegant glasses. “She’s always great.”

  Turning her attention to him she thought, perhaps, she had s
een him before, half hidden in the shadows of the room, watching her perform. There were a few like this — rich, observant, who kept themselves back for fear of being observed.

  “This is Liam,” the older man explained, introducing his companion.

  Violet granted Liam a little smile. “Hey Liam.” Her voice lingered a moment on the minuscule rise and fall of his name.

  “Liam’s very competitive. Knows what he wants.”

  Violet felt a tiny frown crease her brow, but she remained quiet, casting a bemused glance at Liam, who was grinning incredulously at the older man.

  “Well, go on then.” The older man looked expectantly at Violet as he passed a glass to Liam. The moment his eyes settled upon her Violet could feel the weight of expectancy. She shifted uncomfortably.

  Unsure what he wished her to go on with, Violet maintained an expression of good humour and shook her head lightly. “No, no, please, you.”

  “He’s handsome, don’t you think?” The older man addressed Violet directly, his expression unwavering, unreadable.

  “Okay, thanks John. We get the picture,” Liam cut in, laughing off the compliment. “I’m sorry. He likes to be in control. My boss, you know.”

  Violet raised her chin in agreement. “I know the feeling. Someone else in control.” Liam and John simultaneously swept her body with their eyes and returned to look into her face. “So what’s your business? What do you do?”

  “Oh, it’s very dull,” John said dismissively, waving the thought away. “We’re in advertising. The money side.”

  “Does that mean you’re rich?”

  John laughed, a warm chuckle that rose in his throat and spread across his lined face. Within arm’s reach, Violet decided that her assessment of him was correct. He was at least fifty, possessing the kind of self-knowing contentment that comes with age. Compared with his lithe, toned companion, John was a little thicker around the waist and neck. But this only served to cement him, in her mind, as an unmoving powerhouse, a quality that was growing ever more attractive as she looked between the two men.

  “It means I’m rich. It means that, if he plays his cards right, Liam will be rich,” John nodded, his expression still warm and amused.

  “What do you do for him, Liam?” Violet sipped from her drink, the straw caught between her teeth.

  “I’m an apprentice. You could say I’m learning how to be him,” Liam glanced at John, as if to check that he was correct.

  “And that’s what you want, is it? To be him?”

  It was Liam’s turn to laugh. “Well, you know, I….” He broke off and started again. “Of course. Who wouldn’t? John’s a big deal, you know.”

  She nodded. The room broke into a light round of applause and their attention turned, briefly to the stage. The singer, a blonde woman with an hourglass figure clad in rich red, bowed her head lightly in thanks before the next song began to play.

  “What did you tell him about me?” Violet asked, curiosity getting the better of her cool demeanour.

  “That there was a beautiful, boyish girl who sang sultry, seductive songs in the heart of Soho.”

  Liam took a sip of his wine, watching Violet over the curve of his glass. “He was right.”

  The unmoving weight of their attention pressed into Violet as she crossed her left arm over her body and clasped her naked shoulder, massaging it lightly with her fingertips. It ached deeply where it had cracked earlier, coursing hot lines of pain down her back as she arched her spine lightly.

  “Are you okay?” Liam seemed concerned.

  “Just an ache,” Violet turned to show him her shoulder and her naked back. “Just here.”

  John cleared his throat, the grating noise catching Violet mid-pose. “We were going to find a booth. Would you like to have a drink with us?”

  She nodded carefully and they made their way to the back of the club. The booths were all taken, overflowing with suits and girls in expensive dresses. At one end, a jocund group of young men lifted their beer bottles to toast a young, blonde-haired man. A stag party, Violet guessed. In another booth, a short, dark haired man bristled lasciviously against the body of a demure brunette. Violet had seen her here before, with other men, and been introduced to her in a nearby bar once. A prostitute. High class, of course. After their introduction Violet had lain awake all night, wondering if she would ever fuck for money. It was in her early days singing at the club, when life seemed a little unsure. She hadn’t found her allure yet and was waiting, day by day, to be fired. And if I am, she thought, I wouldn’t want to give up my flat. A girl’s got to eat.

  “Nothing free,” Liam frowned, looking around once more.

  Feeling the buzz of the gin in her veins, Violet looked at the back of John’s neck, where his hair was neatly cropped, and liked the attention he gave to his own detail. “I have somewhere we can go,” she said.

  ♦♦♦♦

  Balancing on the chair, Violet leaned over her dressing table to flick the radio on. It crackled awake and piped something audible into the room. It would do, she decided, to negate any awkward silence. Behind her, John and Liam sat comfortably on the frayed, blue velvet sofa, pouring more wine. Having not yet decided what her intention in bringing the two men to her dressing room was, Violet hovered over the radio for a moment, downing her third gin and tonic. As the nighttime DJs took over the station, the music became less recognisable, yet more atmospheric. It seemed to conjure up some sense of darkness and unease. Strangely, Violet felt more comfortable with it, as though labeling her own uncertainty helped her consider the situation. For a few minutes she waited, wondering if perhaps it was close to the hour, hoping the DJ might give her some indication of the time.

  One song came to an end and another started, timeless and endless and finally, slipping from the chair, she turned to smile at her two companions, one hand resting on the dressing table, her nails tapping the surface.

  “Would you like some?” John asked, holding up the bottle.

  She thought for a moment and nodded. All the stupid things she couldn’t take back had, effectively, already been done. At least alcohol would lubricate whatever happened next. Taking up the empty teacup that stood in amongst her make-up and jewelry, she walked across the room and held it out for John to fill.

  They drank in relative silence, only exchanging the briefest of remarks as the evening wore on, the radio filling the space with white noise.

  Draining his glass, John set it down on the floor and sat back, his fingers splayed across his knees. He looked up at Violet as though she were a piece of artwork being assessed for value. He nodded briefly.

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  Violet raised her hand to touch her bare skin. “A little sore.”

  “Liam can help you with that.” He turned to his young apprentice who quickly swallowed the wine he was sipping and put down his glass.

  Placing his hand on the sofa between the two men, Liam beckoned Violet with a gentle tilt of his chin. “If you’d like.”

  There was something about the angle of his wrist that put her in mind of her first boyfriend. Boyishly clumsy, he had been confident enough to make the first moves. At the tender age of fifteen — or maybe fourteen, or thirteen — they had sat on the wall outside a dying party, sharing a bottle of cheap beer, and he’d slid his hand across her lap, warm and firm with drunkenness, kissing her waiting lips.

  Violet took her place between the two men, settling on the edge of the sofa as Liam’s hand came to rest on her back, slipping the thin strap of blue silk over her shoulder and letting it fall a little way down her upper arm. His thumb explored the shape of her muscles, seeking the knots and easing them out into her soft flesh. Breathing deeply Violet allowed herself to relax into his knowing fingers.

  His touch was full of promise and electricity and, as he massaged the small spot, releasing the burning pains that had shot into her chest throughout her set, Violet half held her breath, waiting for him to explore further, across
the expanse of her naked back. It didn’t take long. Soon he was smoothing her skin, skating his fingertips over the butterflies, tentatively moving to her lower back and inside the silken material of her dress. She girlishly wondered if he could see the tear under her arm, where the material was slightly darker, and if he would mind the frayed hem if she was out with him properly.

  As he reached the angular shape of her hip, he kissed her shoulder, pausing there to let her feel the rough stubble on his chin.

  It was moments like these, always moments like these, that allowed Violet to escape the mundanity of day to day life. She wasn’t sure when exactly she had agreed to sit and live with boredom, but she went to sleep each night with the wish that she was living a more extraordinary life. Meanwhile she made no attempt to create any constant excitement, living instead off feelings such as these, the stubble of his chin grazing her milky flesh.

  She liked the way his tongue darted from between his lips, so soft and wet, in stark comparison to the rough touch of his palms as they slipped around her waist, easily finding their way inside the loose, slinking material of her dress. He pressed his fingertips under the gentle curve of her lowest rib and she giggled at the suggestion of a tickle. She felt his mouth smile with her delight and one hand pressed down, towards the V of her upper thighs. Parting her legs a little, an invitation to his exploratory hands, she became more aware of herself, her body lighting up in hazy arousal. She could feel the minuscule movements of her dress against her breasts and felt her nipples harden as Liam put one hand, decisively, over her pubic mound.

  The intimacy of his touch was heightened and exaggerated by the presence of John, sitting quietly to her left. As Liam slid his mouth against her shoulder and pressed his palm between her thighs, Violet looked at their voyeur questioningly.