Page 34 of Passion’s Song

“The show starts at nine, but I won’t go on until ten,” she said.

He nodded.

“Why?” April asked.

He shrugged. “I just wanted to know exactly where I’m spending my Sunday night,” he said.

“You don’t have to come out to see me,” she said. Her gigs with Electric Funk were meant to be relaxing. Having Damien there would be the complete opposite.

“No, I don’t have to,” he said. He looked up from his beer bottle, a wry smile tilting up the corners of his lips. “But I will.”

* * *

The low-key entrance to the nondescript building between Magazine and Camp Streets belied what waited just on the other side. Damien felt as if he’d walked into an entirely different world. Or, more accurately, as though he’d walked into a building on the other side of the world. It was as if he’d crossed the threshold and stepped into a London club, leaving New Orleans behind.

Low-seated couches and chairs, done in an eclectic arrangement of various fabrics and colors that surprisingly didn’t clash, but rather created a picture that blended well together, took up the bulk of the narrow space. Soft burning candles centered on the various sofa tables that dotted the room helped to set the laid-back, unostentatious vibe.

A crack of laughter brought his eyes to an alcove just behind the entrance, where a foursome of twentysomethings huddled close together on an ottoman draped in the flag of the United Kingdom. The windows were covered by thick wine-colored velvet drapes, their loose tiebacks allowing only a tiny sliver of New Orleans to show beyond the double-paned glass. One wall of the alcove was made up of Andy Warhol–esque pictures of music icons like Jimi Hendrix, Mick Jagger, Aretha Franklin and Van Morrison. The opposite exposed brick wall held black-and-white shots of London streets, along with a large framed photograph of the icon of them all, John Lennon.

In the center of the room, a spotlight shone on two empty armchairs and two erect music stands. A deejay stood behind a slim table just to the right of them, providing a smooth mix of early 90s R & B.

“You actually came?”

Damien whirled around and had to do a double take at the sight of April standing before him.

What the heck?

If she’d walked past him on the street, Damien doubted he would have recognized her, even though she’d done nothing to change the appearance of her face. It was everything else that was different. Her jeans were well-worn, with several rips and tears peppering her thighs, knees and shins. The vest she wore was equally worn, the soft leather lighter in some places. She wore nothing underneath it. No shirt—just bare skin.

Her cello was slung over her shoulder like a huge backpack, encased in a dark purple nylon carrying case. There was a bright yellow button that read Yo, Cell Out, Dude! stuck to the front of it.

“I seriously thought you were kidding when you said you would be here tonight,” April said.

“Why would you think that? I tried to see you play whenever I could in the past.”

“Yeah, but that’s when I was in my prime.”

“Your prime? What, are you ready to collect Social Security or something?”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “I’m not the April Knight here. These little jam sessions are just for fun.”

“Well, that’s perfect then. I always thought you played best when you just allowed yourself to have fun.”

“Hey, April, we’re ready.” The guy who called to her looked to be about their age. He carried a set of bongos. A blonde woman with dreadlocks down past her rear end followed just behind him. She carried a tambourine in one hand and had a harmonica harness around her neck.

The trio went over to the vacant furniture in the center of the room.

The crowd, which had grown steadily since Damien had arrived, applauded as the musicians took their spots.

Damien found an available seat on one of the couches that faced the group of musicians.

April set the instrument case against the wall next to the deejay table and gave the deejay a kiss on the cheek before returning to the brushed velvet armchair. She positioned the cello between her legs, then leaned forward and spoke into the microphone that had been set up in front of her chair.

“Good evening, all you beautiful people.” Her voice was low and husky, complementing the club’s subdued vibe. “I want to thank you all for coming out tonight. We’re gonna just sit back, relax and let the music take us wherever it feels right.”

She counted down and started with a sound Damien had never heard from a cello before. It had a jazzy vibe to it, with hip, swanky notes that had the patrons seated around the room tapping their feet.

He was completely mesmerized.