Smooth: A New Love Romance Novel (Bad Boy Musicians)
Page 8
‘I’m Lauren,’ she says with her sweetest smile, and then counts off the others one by one with a pointed finger, resulting in a cavalcade of smiles and waves.
‘Charmed,’ he says, in that casual barfly way that makes it seem that yes, he really is happy to see us all, that a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet. ‘I’m –’
‘Leaving.’
‘Ella!’ Lauren chides in her best schoolmarm voice. ‘Don’t be rude. Your friend here was just introducing himself.’
‘Jack Robichaux,’ he says, sticking out a hand to each of the girls one by one before finally ending on Lauren. ‘You must be the lucky bride?’
She smiles. ‘What gave me away?’
Jack tilts his hand towards her and gestures to his ring finger. ‘Oh, you know,’ he says. ‘Just a guess.’
‘Don’t you have a set to play?’ I ask. Or someone else to harass?
He nods. ‘I do, I do. I only came here to deliver you lovely ladies your drinks – and to deliver some bad news.’
‘Bad news?’ Paige asks.
‘Mmhmm,’ he says. ‘See, we have a strict rule here at the Coeur de Vie. We’re very much believers in the idea of kicking back and relaxing, you know? Good music, good booze, good company… leave your worries at the door, that sort of thing. But somebody – and obviously, I’m naming no names here – somebody is still stuck in work mode. So I ask you, ladies… how are you supposed to relax if you’re checking your damn phone every five minutes?’
Lauren shakes her head in mock disapproval. ‘I don’t think that would even be possible, Jack,’ she says. ‘I really don’t.’
Judas, I think.
‘So if, for example, that person was real lax about picking up her phone from a bar,’ he continues, magicking it out from one of his jacket pockets, ‘and if that person was equally lax about making sure her phone wasn’t password protected…?’
I make a dive for the phone, but he effortlessly pulls it away, keeping the dance just playful enough to keep Lauren charmed.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘in that case I’d say that she probably needs to have her phone taken off her.’
‘Just what I had in mind. May I?’
‘No!’ I call out, but Lauren gives a nod of assent anyway, and it looks like that’s all it takes: I’m with a bride on her bachelorette party, and she has officially pulled rank.
‘It’s for your own good, El,’ she says as Jack taps a fresh new password onto my phone, and I curse myself for being dumb enough not to set one up myself.
Jack hands me the phone, and sure enough there’s an unfamiliar lock screen facing me: whatever messages Carter might have sent or be planning on sending me, they’re currently locked behind a four-digit firewall. ‘And just to make sure there’s no funny business,’ he says, scribbling down a note on a napkin and handing it to Lauren, ‘here you go. There’s the password. I’m sure I can trust you with this?’
She grins again. ‘I’ll guard it with my life.’
‘Lauren,’ I hiss. ‘Come on.’
‘Hey, you heard the man,’ she says. ‘Club rules. You don’t want to get us kicked out, do you?’
‘Yeah, Ellie,’ Danielle says. Her eyes haven’t left Jack since he sidled up to the table; based on the look she’s giving him, I’m surprised he hasn’t burst into flame. ‘Seems like this might be a fun place to hang out. Maybe you were right after all.’
So that settles it, apparently; whatever complaints I might have, they’re destined to be ground down by the night’s party spirit. ‘Why do you even have WiFi here if you don’t want people to use it?’ I ask.
Jack shrugs. ‘Wasn’t my idea. I’m just the talent.’
‘So modest. And with so much to be modest about.’
‘Hey, don’t blame me. I calls ‘em—’
‘… Like you sees ‘em. Yeah, I remember.’
Behind us, a cymbal crashes; up on the stage, the band from last night are waiting for Jack to join them. ‘Looks like that’s my cue,’ he says to the group. ‘You ladies have yourselves a great night – and if you need anything, you just check in with my man Eddie at the bar. He’ll see you right.’
‘We’ll be fine, I’m sure,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he says. ‘A pleasure, ladies. I hope you enjoy the show.’
By the time he’s turned back towards the stage, Lauren is giving me an enormous double thumbs-up and is grinning at me like a Cheshire Cat. He’s cute!, she mouths, as though cute means anything.
As far as I’m concerned, she’s enjoying herself far too much already.
Chapter Fourteen
Lauren might be enjoying herself, but I am not. Jack’s got the whole damn bar up on the dancefloor, but I’m still stuck in my booth, with a mood like a damp dish towel and a grimace to match.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asks as she slips onto the leather on my right.
‘Nothing’s the matter with me.’
‘You’ve been in a snit all night–’
‘I’m not in a… who even says snit, anyway?’
‘– ever since Jack came by.’
‘It’s Jack now, is it?’
‘El.’
‘Lauren.’
She sighs. ‘I mean it. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Just…’
Apparently that’s enough for her to catch my meaning. ‘Carter stuff?’
‘Yeah, Carter stuff. That’s why I was checking my phone at the bar.’
‘Did he say something?’
‘Nope. No text, no emails, no phone call. Nothing. It’s like he’s just gone.’
Because he is. And not just when it comes to keeping in touch, either. He’s gone, gone, gone.
She scootches up beside me, coming perilously close to spilling her second cocktail of the night. ‘Look,’ she says. ‘Honey. You know I love you, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you know I say this with all the love in the world?’
‘Sure.’
‘Fuck Carter.’
‘Lauren…’
‘No, hear me out. Fuck. Him. You’re young and hot and in one of the finest cities in the country, and you’re letting that asshole live inside your head.’
‘He’s not an asshole.’
‘He is an asshole. For breaking up with you, which is completely ridiculous to begin with, and secondly for ruining your holiday – a holiday, I might add, that you desperately need, and have been looking forward to practically since I told you I was engaged. I thought Jack was just screwing around when he took your phone, but if it stops you checking to see if Carter’s messaged you, I’m all for it. Maybe I’ll even keep the password until you go home.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
She sighs. ‘No, I wouldn’t. You’re a grown woman, and you know what’s best for you.’ She fishes in her purse and holds out the napkin towards me, keeping it folded over so I can’t see the numbers. ‘It’s yours if you want it,’ she says. ‘But for what it’s worth, I think you’ll have a better time without it. Without thinking about him.’
‘Put it away,’ I tell her. ‘Before I change my mind.’
‘Atta girl. When you get home, you can fix this whole Carter mess – but if you let it fester, you’re just going to feel worse. Just… maybe now’s not the time to be planning your future? Maybe it’s OK to just live in the moment for once?’
What future? I think, unable to kick the thought loose.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe I should just go back to the hotel. I’m just slowing you guys down.’
‘Like shit you are,’ she says. She points to the table, and my half-finished Sazerac. ‘Come on, El,’ she says. ‘One more good night, like old times. Before I become a married woman and give up on fun and decide to spend all my time getting fat and making cookies. Remember that time we went out with those foreign exchange students? The ones from Brazil?’
I grin, despite myself. ‘Nope.’
She’s not wrong. She very rarely is; it’s one of her most irritating traits, but that doesn’t change the fact. And besides, I’m sure Carter isn’t obsessing over his phone, wondering why I haven’t called him. Maybe he’s even out enjoying himself now. Maybe he knows I’m tearing myself into pieces, and he’s still keeping up his radio silence, the bastard.
And besides, I have already paid for the drink…
And I really have been looking forward to this break from work for a long time…
And like him or not, Jack’s band really are pretty good…
What do I think?
Well, what else is there to think when you’re in New Orleans?
Laissez les bon temps rouler!
Chapter Fifteen
Lauren is too busy dancing for an I told you so, but I’m sure she’ll collect later on. She’s earned one. I’m not too proud to admit it: she was right, and I was wrong. Sure, I was pretty much faking my enthusiasm when she took me by the hand and all but dragged me over to the dancefloor in front of the stage, but as the music began to work its magic – well, the music and the Sazerac, anyway – I was surprised to find that I was actually having a pretty OK time. The band had read the room, and the soft, maudlin refrains of the night before had been replaced by something jazzier, more upbeat, with a real swing to it: the Big Band stylings of Glenn Miller and the Count Basie Orchestra, brought to life by the five men and women on stage.
Danielle and Jessica are the first to be approached by strangers, both overeager (but undeniably hot) men in their early twenties, still with that youthful swagger and cocky charm. Paige is next, despite her protests. ‘I can’t dance!’ she insists, but she’s obviously flattered by the attention, and the guy who asks her is kind of cute.
Lauren pushes her up from her chair. ‘Get up there,’ she says with a grin. ‘No one’s going to notice except for you.’ She’s right, of course; every few minutes Paige looks back at us and cringes, having put her delicate (but astonishingly uncoordinated) feet square on the toes of her partner, but he’s too busy noticing her cleavage in the low-cut dress she’s wearing to pay any attention to any pain she might have caused him.
Then it’s just the two of us.
Lauren is more insistent than Paige, turning down a handful of offers from the whole spectrum of drunken men, but they all take it in good humour; the mood of the room is so light that it’s hard not to. After all, isn’t that we’re here for: good times, good music, good booze, and good company in equal measure? I don’t know whether it’s for my sake or because of some sense of hyper-loyalty to Drew, but it doesn’t take long for me to realise that she’d much rather be out there on the floor than on the sidelines; she’s always been the one who loved to dance, always the first one out of her chair whenever the music started. By the time a charmingly bashful groom-to-be from one of the many bachelor parties in New Orleans comes up to ask her if she’d like to step out, I can see her resolve faltering.
‘Go on,’ I say. What are you waiting for?’
‘Are you going to be OK?’ she asks.
‘Go,’ I say. ‘Have fun.’
And she does. Her new partner’s groomsmen let out a loud collective cheer when she takes his hand and lets him pull her into a fun, drunken twirl, and before long they’re dancing a sweet, entirely platonic series of loops and spins, the way dancing is supposed to be: two people just enjoying the way their bodies can move, with no promises beyond the joy of the music.
I order another drink, and watch it all with amusement: Paige’s apologetic, pigeon-toed awkwardness; Danielle and Jessica apparently trying to compete on just how much male attention they can get; Lauren having more easy, casual fun than I’ve seen her have in months. I wonder if Drew is a dancer. He doesn’t look like he’d enjoy it, but who knows? The truth of it is, I know very little about him. Maybe he makes her just as happy as the groom-to-be does. Maybe she’d swap them out in an instant if she had the chance. Who can tell?
The band ends one number with a burst from Jack’s trumpet, and immediately launches into another fast-paced song. The lead singer, a slim blonde with an enormous voice, laughs and smiles through the garbled opening lyrics. Must be a hell of a strong drink, I think, but then it hits me: the reason the words don’t make sense isn’t because I’m drunk or because she’s not enunciating properly, but because they’re not in English.
Tu vuò fà l'Americano!
Americano! Americano!
Siente a me, chi t'o ffa fa?
The woman has a thick local accent, but boy, can she sing. She wraps her mouth around the words like she was born to it: a native musician, playing the crowd as well as any of her bandmates play their instruments. Just for a second, I wonder what it would be like to have that sort of a life – to earn a living from the approval of an audience, to get up there on stage night after night and sing your heart out, to hear that applause and know it was all for you. Perhaps, in another world, that could have been me up there next to Jack, with a crowd of dancing people in front of me. I can almost see it: hair up in a tight bun, smoky eyes and a dress that hugs my curves like I was sewn into it. A smile on my face and a drink in my hand, like a showgirl in a Prohibition speakeasy.
Maybe not. It doesn’t fit, somehow – and yet it’s a nice thought regardless. Comforting. Fun.
At the end of the first verse, she pulls Jack close to her and leans the microphone towards him; he’s almost a foot taller than her and so he has to stoop, but even though he rolls his eyes he plays along, to whoops and cheers from the crowd.
Tu vuò fà l'American!
Tu vuò fà l'American!
It’s been a while since the semester of Beginner’s Italian I took as a college freshman, but even I can tell that Jack is woefully out of his depth when it comes to the language – but no one seems to care, least of all him. And why would they? He’s obviously having fun up there, one hand on his trumpet, the other around the waist of the blonde woman at his side, and his enthusiasm is contagious. By the end of the song, it feels like everyone in the crowd is singing right along with him:
Tu vuò fà l'American!
Tu vuò fà l'American!
The song cuts out with a flourish, and the audience claps their approval. Out of nowhere, I raise my fingers to my lips and let out a wolf-whistle that catches Jack’s ear. I watch him scan the crowd, looking for the source, and when he sees me he drops an easy little salute my way before raising his trumpet back to his lips; apparently his singing session is through, and he’s ready to let the professionals take over again.
It feels kind of nice to be acknowledged by him, and I’m not sure why. For a moment or two it’s like being back in high school – the nerdy girl, picked out by the leader of the band for… what, exactly? It’s not as though he did much. It was only a wave – a nothing little gesture that he must make to a dozen customers every night, all to make them feel better. After all, isn’t that the New Orleans way? Make everyone feel at home, comfortable. Leave every customer feeling like they’re the centre of their own personal party – every customer out of the hundreds of thousands who must pass through every year. A hundred thousand snowflakes, each one led to believe they’re unique with a wink and a smile.
I feel stupid for buying into it, even for a moment, but what can I do? I’m only human, after all.
When I look away from the stage, there’s a man standing next to me. It takes me a second to realise that he’s standing there for a reason.
‘Hey,’ he says over the music.
‘Hey.’
‘Would you like to dance?’
I look around, making entirely sure he’s talking to me, but he must be: no one else is paying any attention, hard as that might be to believe. He is, by any stretch of the imagination, an extraordinarily attractive man. Everything about him is preened to perfection: designer shirt, designer sh
oes, designer stubble. He might have stepped right out of any number of clothing catalogues, but there’s something in his eyes, in the way he’s looking at me…
Sure, he seems charming enough – but that charm seems painted on like stage make-up; it has a fake, phony quality to it, almost too good to be real. Is it a snap judgement? Absolutely. Is it based on anything? No… nothing but a feeling, but with these things often that’s enough.
Sorry, I’m engaged.
The words come to my lips readily now – after all, it’s been six months of wearing a ring, and years and years of dating before that where I had an easy out for any chat up line from a stranger – but even the idea of invoking Carter now puts a bad taste in my mouth.
‘No, thanks,’ I say.
‘No… thanks?’ He repeats the words back to me like they’re in a foreign language, and then again like they were some sort of insult directed at his mother. ‘No, thanks?’
‘I’m not looking to dance,’ I say. ‘Nothing personal. I’m sure you’re great, but… you know. No, thanks.’
I watch as his pretty-boy jawline clenches – not so rugged and masculine now; instead, childish and petulant – and his brow furrows as he debates making a scene. Does he really think that’ll help? I think. Like he’s going to persuade me otherwise? It’s not like there aren’t other girls for him to try and hit on. There’s a whole bar full.
But he’s still here.
Please, I think, please just go away. Laugh it off. Be the bigger man. It’s not some slight against your honour. I just don’t want to dance with you, that’s all.
But he’s still here.
‘Whatever,’ he says at last. ‘I figured I’d do you a favour… throw the fat friend a bone, take one for the team. I don’t know why I bothered. You’re obviously the boring one, but all your friends were taken, you know?’ He smiles cruelly when he sees his words hit their target, and gives a hateful little c’est la vie shrug as he heads back to his friends, no doubt to tell them all that I wasn’t his type anyway.
Prick, I think as I watch him go – but that just what they do: prick-prick-prick, myriad little needle punctures up and down my spine, creeping across my skin. Death by a thousand cuts, delivered by a stranger who came out of the blue.