Smooth: A New Love Romance Novel (Bad Boy Musicians)

by Hazel Redgate

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I’m just… glad you’re here, that’s all.’

  ‘Sap.’

  ‘You love it.’

  She nods. ‘Yeah, I do. Now go and get yourself a drink before you shrivel up like a raisin. How does anyone actually do anything in this heat?’

  ‘Air conditioning, iced tea and stubbornness,’ I say. ‘At least that’s the best I’ve been able to come up with. Works pretty well.’

  ‘I can tell. You’re looking great. As much as it sucks not having you around, New Orleans really suits you.’

  She’s right. New Orleans does suit me. Maybe it’s the place. Maybe it’s the people. (It’s definitely the people.) But something about the past six months has made me feel like a whole new woman.

  ‘Sazerac?’ Eddie says, smiling as I approach the bar. It’s his little joke, and – to him at least – it never gets old. I haven’t had much of a stomach for Sazeracs since my first night here. I can’t imagine why, but as far as I’m concerned, the tourists can keep them; they’re no good to me.

  ‘Vodka-cranberry, please,’ I say, gesturing over to the table where Drew and Lauren are sitting. ‘And whatever they were drinking.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  While I’m waiting, I check my phone for what feels like the first time in a long time. It’s easier to tune out the noise of the office here; the New Orleans branch of my law firm seem to have a much less strenuous always-on policy, and once I got used to it, I found I was grateful for the change.

  ‘You know, I really need to have a word with security here,’ a voice growls into my ear – low, soft, smooth. ‘They just will not stop letting pretty girls into my club.’

  Jack’s hands wrap around my waist, and I grin. I spin around and give him a kiss that belies the fact that it’s been no more than about four hours since I saw him last. ‘Is that so?’ I say. ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘You?’ He smiles. ‘Never.’ He casts an eye over to Drew and Lauren, sitting over in the corner booth. ‘Should I be worried? I remember the last time you two got together down here. We’re lucky New Orleans is still in one piece.’

  ‘Oh, hush, you. Can’t a girl have a good time?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s a force in this universe that could stop you.’

  I grin. ‘I seem to recall you thinking I was boring, once upon a time.’

  ‘Me? Not a chance.’

  ‘Mm-hmm. You said I worked too hard. You said I spent too long staring at my phone, when I could have been having fun.’

  ‘Ah, see, that’s different. I said you worked too hard. I didn’t say you were boring. That’s not the same thing at all.’ Is there a tiny bit of him that’s flustered, a small mote worry that’s convinced he’s managed to offend me lurking behind that smooth grin? I hope not.

  ‘You know, that’s a lot of talking when we could be kissing.’

  He grins. ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he says, and leans in to press his lips against mine. I feel a shiver of excitement, as I do every time. No one kisses like Jack. No one ever has. I suspect no one ever will again.

  And I’m entirely OK with that.

  When we turn back, Eddie is placing our drinks onto a tray: a vodka-cranberry for me, a beer for Drew, and a fancy-looking fruit concoction that’s as heavy on umbrellas as I’m sure it is light on booze for Lauren.

  Plus a Sazerac.

  ‘Yours?’ I ask Jack.

  He shakes his head. ‘Not while I’m working. Not this early, anyway.’

  ‘Eddie, I think you’ve made a mistake.’ Or this is your idea of being funny, anyway. Although if it is, I’m not complaining. More jokes should come in drinkable form.

  ‘Nope. Courtesy of your friend over there,’ Eddie says, pointing. He can only spare us a second before he goes off to deal with another crowd of tourists, but I follow the line of his finger down to the other end of the bar.

  It takes me a second for the man’s features to register. He’s an older guy: tall and portly, stretching out a Black Flag t-shirt that looks old enough that it might be an original. A pair of sunglasses is pushed high on his bald head, and I can see that even in the relative cool of the bar, the heat isn’t being particularly kind to him. As he catches my eye, Chuck the Psychic raises his glass towards the pair of us.

  ‘Who’s the bald dude?’ Jack asks. ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘He’s… yeah,’ I say. ‘Yeah, he’s a friend. Well, sort of.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘He gave me some good advice, once. Twice, in fact. He might even be the reason we’re together.’

  Jack fires off a quick, jokey salute by way of a greeting. ‘You want to go say hi?’ he asks.

  ‘I… no,’ I say. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘You know how it goes around here,’ he says. ‘Any friend of yours is a friend of the Coeur de Vie.’

  ‘How could I forget? But still… maybe just let this one go.’

  ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a strange one, Miss Mossberg?’ he asks.

  ‘All the time, Mr. Robichaux. And you wouldn’t have me any other way.’

  ‘Damn straight.’

  He leans in and gives me another quick kiss. ‘I gotta go, OK? I’m supposed to start… five minutes ago.’ He gestures to the piano, lonesome on stage without him.

  ‘Sure. Sure.’

  ‘I love you, Ella.’

  Six months in, hearing those words never gets old – the sweetest music I’ve ever heard him make. ‘I love you too, Jack.’

  I gather up the drinks and head back over to Lauren’s table as he makes his way to the piano and takes his seat. I watch him for a moment, lost in preparation, as he places his fingers softly on the keys. I recognise that touch all too well. A few quick notes ring out over the conversations in the bar, and the audience hushes and begins to pay attention to him. That’s Jack, through and through: always a showman, always willing to let the music speak for him. That’s all that matters. As long as everyone’s having a good time, so is he.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he says with a wink towards the crowd. ‘My name is Jackson Robichaux, and I’d like to offer you all a most sincere New Orleans welcome to the Coeur de Vie.’

  A round of applause ripples through the crowd. This is it, I think. This is what happiness feels like. My best friend, her soon-to-be babies, and the man I love, all in the same room. Everything I ever wanted. What more could I need?

  Lauren grips my hand gently as Jack launches into the first song of the night: a favoured rendition of Paper Moon. I must have heard his whole set a hundred times by now, but I don’t care. I never get tired of it – not a line, not a phrase, not a melody.

  ‘Cause it wouldn’t be make-believe,

  If you believed in me.

  I smile as my eyes drift softly closed, taking it all in – breathing in every last note.

  I follow the music, and it leads me home.

  I hope you enjoyed the book you just read.

  If you did, please consider leaving a review on the site you bought it from. Reviews like yours will help me keep writing, and will make it easier for me to get my work out to other readers.

  If you’d like to be kept up to date with news of my latest releases, you can join my mailing list at hazelredgate.com.

  To show my appreciation, here’s a sample from another book in the Bad Boy Musicians series:

  Reckless

  Chapter One

  ‘So that’s a ham and Swiss on rye, side of slaw and a coke for Jerry, and… Al?’

  Al looks over his newspaper, squinting at me through bottle-bottom lenses like a character from an old comic strip. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘What’ll it be?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘The specials are good today,’ I say. ‘Tomato soup and a grilled cheese?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Chili? You know… get a bit of fire in you? Muy picante?’

  He sighs a good-natured sigh. ‘Carrie, honey,’
he says. ‘Look at me. I’m sixty-eight years old. The next time I get some fire in me, it’d damn well better be at a crematorium.’

  ‘The usual, then?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘Got it.’

  I scribble the order down on my pad – cheeseburger with an extra egg, hold the onions (they give him heartburn), and a dill pickle on the side, all to be washed down with at least three cups of coffee over the course of the next hour – and send it through to Pete in the back. It’s his turn with control of the radio, and I watch him through the hatch for a moment, killing time by dancing along to some godawful new country band while he thinks no one can see.

  ‘Alright, twinkletoes,’ I say, grinning as I hand him the paper. ‘Time to hit the grill.’

  ‘Buzzkill,’ he replies, and I half expect him to stick his tongue out at me. Pete’s almost as old as the two men at the counter if he’s a day, but he’s got the sense of humour of an eight-year-old boy and the enthusiasm to match. He looks the sheet over, recognising the order. It’s not difficult; the Red Rose Diner might not get many customers, but they’re a loyal bunch, and they go for the same food time and time again. ‘The lunch rush is here already?’

  ‘Yep. And starving, so if you want to wrap up your little recital…?’

  Pete smiles and throws up a mock salute. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says as he slaps a patty down onto the griddle. It hisses at him in response. ‘Can’t leave the masses waiting, can we?’

  Not if we want to keep this place afloat, I think. I know he’s just being a smartass the same way he always is – anything for a joke, anything to raise a smile – but I’m not sure he sees just how bad things have got recently. The lunch rush, as he put it, really is sometimes just Al and Jerry, who’ve been coming here for so long that I’m not even sure they could find the kitchens in their own homes anymore. Even when I was a kid, back when Jerry had hair growing on top of his head and not just out of his ears and Al’s eyes were good enough to see further than the end of his nose, they were there no matter what, propped up at the counter like statues come rain or shine. When I was out in the corner booth, struggling with my math homework, they’d be there laughing and joking with Dad. Even when the place was packed – which it always seemed to be back then – Dad made time for his regulars. Even Mom, who on the surface always did her best to look like she was disapproving of ‘those two old coots’, could be caught smiling from time to time.

  I liked those days. No, more than that. I loved them. If I could go back to them – if I could step into a time machine and walk back out in the summer of 1997, if I could see my Mom and Dad so happy, if I could look into a full cash register and a sea of well-fed customers… God, I wouldn’t have to think about it for a second. Even with everything that came afterwards. All the hurt. All the grief. All the sadness. It wouldn’t make any difference.

  Because of course, I have to deal with all of that anyway.

  I tell myself I’m worrying over nothing, but… well, I tell myself that nearly every day, and that nothing only seems to be getting bigger and bigger. Someday soon that nothing is going to turn into a big ol’ something, and that something is going to swallow me – and the restaurant – whole.

  ‘Carrie?’

  Al’s soft-spoken drawl pulls me out of my daydreams. I look across to him and see him holding his cup, tilted gently to the right. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to recognise what he wants. It’s time for a refill.

  ‘You OK, honey?’ he asks as I pour his coffee. He folds up his newspaper and places it down on the counter next to him, so I know he means business; Al has a better relationship with the Eden Enquirer than he ever did with his wife. ‘It’s like you’re off at space camp today. You got something on your mind?’

  ‘Me?’ I pssh at him, waving away his concerns with the coffee pot; the thick black liquid sloshes almost to the rim. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  ‘Sure?’

  No, Al, I want to say to him. No, I’m not sure I’m fine at all. Because I don’t think I am. I mean, I’m sure I’m still here, working the same job I had when I was sixteen. I’m sure I’m not cut out to be managing a diner. I’m sure that if Dad were still here he’d be looking at me like I was nuts. But sure I’m fine? No, Al. I’m not sure. Not even close.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, and smile my best twenty-percent-tip smile. ‘Everything’s great.’

  He picks up his newspaper and busies himself with the sports section. ‘Goddamn Cowboys,’ he says to himself, or to Jerry, or to whoever else might be listening. ‘I swear, it’s like getting a kick in the head once a week, five months out of the year.’ Nobody else pays him any mind, but I’m happy with his grumbling. Apparently my answer was good enough to put his worries to rest.

  Good enough.

  Because in a place like Eden, Texas, ‘good enough’ is all that matters.

  ~~~

  ‘I’m going to head off, OK?’

  I look up from the super-important work with which I’ve been keeping myself busy – namely tracing a looped series of infinity symbols in the grains of salt that have spilled onto the counter – and give Pete a wordless nod of approval. Jerry and Al left two hours earlier, and we’ve had barely a handful of customers since. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t ask if he could leave early – but even if he did, where would he go? Back to his drafty little one-bedroom apartment on Sycamore, where there’s nothing for him to do for an hour in the afternoons except maybe watch a Quincy rerun and wait for the diner to open up again? For that, he might as well stay at the Red Rose with me and Mom, when she’s around. At least here he has some company. Usually, that’s exactly what he does, of course. He’ll help me bus the tables down, loading the plates into the dishwasher alongside me, or he’ll just stay and chat. And why wouldn’t he? He’s been here for over five years now. The Red Rose is practically his home as much as it is mine.

  But not today. Today, apparently, he’s got somewhere else to be.

  I feel a slight twinge of resentment as he gives me a quick shoulder-squeeze and then walks out of glass-fronted door onto the main street. I watch him through the window as he disappears, and then I’m alone.

  What would happen if we didn’t open up again at all?

  Would that really be the end of the world? It seems like a heresy to admit it, but… no. Probably not. Almost certainly not, in fact. What if I just didn’t set out the cutlery for the time the early-bird special was due to start? What if I didn’t bother to unlock the doors at all?

  Not today.

  Not tomorrow morning.

  Not for the rest of the week.

  Or the month.

  Or…

  I could probably be gone by the time anyone realised it wasn’t some sort of family emergency. I could just pack a bag, get myself a bus ticket and ride right out of town, straight to who-knows-where.

  You’re only twenty-six, I tell myself. Who cares if you never made it to college? You’re smart. There’s time. You’d just have to figure it out, that’s all. Plan your own future for a change, somewhere far away from Eden. Far away from anywhere.

  It’s tempting. Jesus Christ, how tempting it is…

  I mean, Jerry and Al would have to find somewhere else to eat, unless someone else bought the place. They wouldn’t like that.

  And Pete would have to find somewhere else to work, of course. Not that that would be easy for a man of his age. Who else in town would need a short order cook?

  And then there’s Mom. Mom, whose savings might last her for a few years, if she lived even more frugally than she does now. Mom, who’d have to see the last little bit of my father – his pride and joy – sold off to the highest bidder. Maybe turned into a Denny’s, if we were lucky.

  But I’d be free. Yes, I’d be free.

  Suddenly the thought doesn’t seem quite so enticing. I hate how selfish I feel just entertaining the idea, and I hate how I can’t quite get rid of it completely.

  No.

&n
bsp; I’m here. That’s all that matters. Why even think about what might have been? There’s no way that leads to anything but misery. I mean, I have a good life. I’m comfortable. Happy, ish.

  Good enough.

  I sigh deeply. The restaurant isn’t going to clean itself.

  I pull myself away from the counter and smooth down my apron. It’s not a big job – we didn’t have enough customers for it to get out of control, after all – but it feels as though someone just told me I needed to strap on my hiking boots and go for a quick jaunt up Mount Everest.

  Something jostles against my elbow, but I don’t see the coffee cup spiral downward off the countertop. It’s not until I hear the crack of ceramic echo through the empty diner that I jump backwards, hoping to avoid the splash of what’s left in it before it hits my shoes. No such luck.

  Shit.

  I grab a rag from under the counter and duck down to wipe up the mess before it leaves yet another stain on the linoleum I know we won’t be able to afford to replace any time soon. The shards of the white ceramic cup have spread out across the floor like prisoners scattering during a prison break, each of them making a run for freedom, but piece by piece I pick them up and scoop them into the trash. As each one clangs against the metallic base of the bin, I feel the prickly heat of annoyance begin to spread out across the back of my neck. It’s just a cup, I try to tell myself, but what’s the use in that? It’s not just a cup. It’s the latest – but I’m sure not the last – in a long series of minor upsets in a life that feels like it should have been smoother than it has.

  The chimes above the door jingle as a customer walks through the door. ‘We’re closed,’ I shout up from the floor. ‘Come back in an hour.’

  I hear the latch click into place as the door falls shut, but rather than the eerie silence of the diner at rest there’s a steady beat of noise: footsteps, and they’re coming towards me. Great, I think. Someone here for the early bird special who managed to leave their hearing aid at home. Just what I need.

  Unless it’s not, of course.

  Unless it’s someone about to rob the place.