Page 24
Kain breaks away from his conversation with the bass player long enough to raise his glass in acknowledgment when I pass. I lift my drink in return and keep moving, checking in with Dex by the employees-only door to the back rooms.
“Dex!” I call, leaning in a little to be heard over the music. “How did your daughter’s recital go?”
His face lights up. “She killed it. I recorded it if you want to see?”
“I’d love to,” I say, and mean it.
Dex pulls out his phone, flipping through it with thick fingers until he finds the video. On screen, his tiny daughter thunders through a rendition of Beethoven on a piano much too big for her.
I make appreciative noises at the right moments, my attention split between her performance and the room behind me, which I’m monitoring in the reflection of a mirror on the wall.
“No shit she killed it,” I say when the video ends. “She’s amazing.”
Dex beams, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “She gets it from her mom. No musical talent in my family.”
“Sounds like you got lucky.” I slide back into the crowd, drink in hand. “I’ll let you get back to work, but text me when you’re free. I’ll buy you both ice cream!”
The exchange takes under two minutes, but I file away the details. The performance is as much for the bar as for Dex himself. I’ve done this a dozen times in the several weeks with a dozen different people. Each conversation, each memory, each shared moment builds my reputation as an outgoing, harmless friend that’s become another part of the Blue Note’s fabric.
It’s what I wanted. What the mission requires.
But I didn’t expect to enjoy it.
I stop by a table of semi-regulars, listening to their complaints about the weather long enough to satisfy basic courtesy before I move on.
Despite myself, I keep tracking Orien at the far end of the bar, where he sits with his back facing the wall, a glass of dark liquid untouched in front of him.
Tonight, he wears a dark henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing the long lines of his forearms. His hair, cropped close at the sides and a little longer on top, falls across his forehead. Without the cool watchfulness in his eyes, he might appear boyish.
He’s not talking to anyone as he watches the room with a careful attention that leaves me wondering if anything happens in this place without him clocking it.
The band on stage shifts to a slower number, the lead singer’s voice carrying over the crowd without the microphone as she leans forward into the chorus. People shift and settle, a couple near the dance floor swaying together.
With a deep breath to brace myself, I take the last swallow of my whiskey sour, set the empty glass on a passing tray, and strike off across the room toward Orien.
He doesn’t turn as I approach, but the slight straightening of his shoulders tells me he’s aware of my presence.
The band on stage slides into a slower song, the guitarist’s fingers moving lazily over the strings while blue light spills across the back wall. Orien sits with one elbow propped against the bar, his drink resting near his hand. From a distance he looks relaxed.
Up close, the tension riding his shoulders tells a different story.
I slide onto the stool beside him.
“Hey.” I angle my body toward him. “Good set tonight.”
Orien spares me a glance before his attention returns to the stage. “They’re consistent.”
The word lands with enough weight to make me wonder if he’s still talking about the band.
I lift my hand to signal Ghost for another drink. “There’s value in consistency.”
A quiet huff leaves him, as if to say he knows exactly what game I’m playing.
Ghost appears in front of us long enough to slide a whiskey sour onto the bar before disappearing back into the crowd.
I wrap my fingers around the cold glass. “I wasn’t trying to play coy. I just freaked out a little.”
That finally earns me his full attention, and the amber light catches in his eyes as he studies me. “And now?”
