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1
Gentry
It was a warm, balmy evening in the glittering city of Miami as the sun sank toward the horizon and split the sky into streaks of orange, pink, and gold. Along the dazzling coastline, the sun’s golden rays glinted off the dark waves lapping against the white shore. Elegant high-rise buildings stretched their glimmering heads above the city streets below. The roads were lively with traffic, cars honking and revving their engines, cyclists weaving in and out while pedestrians gathered in laughing throngs at the crosswalks.
There was a sense of magic in the air, like anything could happen once the moon rose to take her shift over the bustling cityscape. It was Friday night, and across the sprawling metropolis, people were sipping cocktails, slipping into sexy evening attire, and prowling for someone gorgeous to flirt with. The scene surrounding Miami Blues was no different.
Miami Blues was a country-blues club, shining like a beacon in the fading light of the day. The stately building loomed over the street and sidewalk, teeming with life and sound from the inside. The brick facade seemed to vibrate with the bluesy twangs and tunes within. The windows were bright white squares in the darkness, and through the front glass entrance one could see the grand foyer of the club, with its chandelier hanging in the center of the vaulted ceiling. From the sidewalk, the place beckoned like an old friend, urging passersby to come in, relax, sip a whiskey on the rocks, and get lost in the music.
Through the glossy double doors, the building swept open, and the sounds of warbling voices, twanging guitars, and thumping bass echoed throughout the grand foyer. Long, dulcet notes plucked from a string instrument hung and trembled in the air. A vocal trill bounced around the upper corners of the great room. The crowds mingled and chattered excitedly as they moved from one part of the club to another. Miami Blues boasted a smaller, rather underground club room with a stage for DJs and small-scale live gigs to the left of the foyer; a dialed-down, moody bar area where local police officers liked to hang out was to the right. Straight ahead through another set of grand double doors made of intricately carved mahogany was the crown jewel of Miami Blues: the blues lounge itself.
The doors opened up to an elegant, airy space with a bar toward the entry, and rows and rows of small tables with flickering tea candles and white tablecloths. The lighting was dim and moody, with only the slow-roaming spotlights illuminating the bluegrass band on stage. The piano player sat off to the side, accompanying beautifully. The audience murmured and admired the performers as they sipped their cocktails, with waitresses winding through the narrow aisles to refill glasses.
But behind the stage, beyond the dramatic red velvet curtains, stood a stunningly beautiful woman in a cornsilk-blue dress. The frock fell all the way down to her ankles, and the scoop-neck bodice only showed the faintest hint of cleavage. Her waist was cinched with a thin ribbon tie, which emphasized the swell of her hips and taut behind.
She anxiously smoothed down the skirt and looked down at her feet. She was wearing a pair of feminine, playful cowgirl boots in a shade of soft cream, with little blue and yellow flowers embroidered on the sides and a slight chunky kitten heel to give her just a little more height. She was a willowy, slender wisp of a woman anyway, but she liked to take a note from Stevie Nicks’ book of stage performance tips and wear heels, just to feel a little more powerful. Around her neck was a delicate gold necklace with a dainty charm in the shape of the state of Tennessee nestled against her collarbone.
The woman sucked in a deep, slow breath and her cinnamon-brown eyes fluttered shut as she tried to clear her mind. Her small hands reached up to gracefully sweep her long, glossy brown hair back out of her face. The shiny chestnut locks shimmered and cascaded like a waterfall down her back as she shook them out. She combed her fingers through to the ends while taking deep breaths. Her full, rosy lips puckered as she exhaled peacefully and dropped her hands to her sides.
“Now introducing Gentry Hays,” she murmured under her breath, as though she was practicing for her debut.
Truth be told, it wasn’t Gentry’s first rodeo—tonight was to be her third official live performance here at Miami Blues. The first two had gone wonderfully, with great reviews and audience response. Gentry knew she was pretty to look at, but there was more to her than just looks that brought people back to watch her perform. She had the skills and charisma to back it up. Gentry knew she was talented, but she wasn’t cocky. She took her craft seriously, but not herself. Music had been her guiding light and inspiration since before she could even remember. So, as nerve-racking as it could be to perform live in front of a big crowd, she felt totally at home onstage, with a mic stand in front of her and a spotlight beaming down on her head.
Gentry sang softly to herself as she stared at the red velvet curtains, the heavy veil separating her from the bluegrass band performing now. She had a few minutes still to spare before her stage call, but she liked to get a head start by feeling out the stage. As she stood there, heart thumping and excitement starting to really kick in, a man in his forties with scruffy ginger hair and a perpetual sheepish grin on his face came strolling into the backstage area through the side door. He was wearing a roomy, casual dress suit that looked a couple sizes too large for his body, as though he was under some illusion about his true build. He seemed to dress and walk like a much bigger, broader man, with his gangly arms swinging at his sides. Hanging slightly askew at his throat was a wide business tie with a tropical palm frond print.
As he strolled up to Gentry, she gave him a polite smile and wave.
“Ah, Gentry! There’s my little songbird!” he exclaimed.
The man threw his arms wide and pulled her in close for a hug, patting her back a little too hard with his flat palm. Gentry pushed away and stepped back, still forcing a smile.
“Hey, Ricky. How’s the crowd lookin’ out there?” she asked.
“Big and beautiful. Almost a full house,” he replied brightly. “They’re lovin’ that bluegrass band. But little do they know that’s just the warm-up for the real show: you!”
“Oh, that’s really sweet of you to say, but…” She trailed off, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Gentry’s soft, rounded cheeks flushed pale pink as she tried to wave off his pep talk before it could begin, but Ricky was already on a roll.
“I mean, look at you,” her manager went on, looking her up and down in a way that made Gentry feel a little underdressed, even in her ankle-length gown. Ricky began listing off compliments on his fingers. “Pretty face, killer body—though I think we could do a little more with the wardrobe next time—and the voice of an angel on top of that? No wonder you’re drawing bigger crowds than any other client I’ve managed before.”
“Well, it certainly helps that this place is so popular with the locals and tourists alike,” Gentry broke in, trying to reroute the conversation. She was confident enough to know Ricky’s compliments were accurate, but humble enough not to want to talk about them.
Ricky lit up at the mention of the club’s success. He put an arm around Gentry’s bare shoulders and used his free hand to paint a picture in the air.
“I remember back when this place was just an idea my buddy Bill Owens mentioned to me over beers one day twenty years ago. He said, ‘I’m gonna open a blues club in Miami, and I’m calling it Miami Blues.’ I thought he was crazy, you know? A business like this is a big risk, even back when it opened. But by golly, we made it work, huh?” Ricky gushed.
“Yes, it’s an honor to be able to perform here,” Gentry said sweetly.
Ricky looked at her with genuine joy in his watery blue eyes.
“Please, Miss Hays. The honor is ours,” he said with a little bow. “Miami Blues only accepts the best, and you’re a starlet waiting to be cast into the stratosphere. That’s what we’re going to do together, you and I. Mark my words, Gentry: you may not be a household name just yet, but once we’re done here, producers will be throwing record deals at you.”
“Yeah. No pressure,” she muttered softly.
“No, no, no! Don’t stress. You got this. You’re gonna knock ‘em dead like you always do. Just focus on the music and you’ll be just fine,” Ricky insisted.
Just then, the bluegrass band drew out their last somber, tremulous note, and Gentry heard the audience erupt into cheers and applause. Her heart skipped a beat. Her moment was closing in.
“You’re up next! Break a leg, baby!” Ricky hissed enthusiastically as he shuffled off to the side door.
