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Gentry stood in the center of the stage, forcing slow, deep breaths as she listened to the footsteps of the band exiting the stage with their instruments. The lights behind the curtain went dim and the crowd fell to a hush.
The piano player-turned-emcee announced, “And now for our final act of the evening: introducing the beautiful, the bluesy, the bombshell Gentry Hays!”
The curtains began to lift as the bright white lights of the stage glared in Gentry’s eyes. She didn’t flinch as she walked confidently up to the mic stand. Even though the spotlights caused so much light pollution in the room she couldn’t see past the third row of tables, Gentry could easily tell that the room was nearly packed to the brim. A full house, like Ricky had said, and there was no doubt all eyes were on her. Gentry’s dress swished around her ankles and her hair bounced on her shoulders as she wrapped one dainty hand around the cold metal mic stand.
Even though one could’ve cut the anticipation in the room like butter, Gentry took her time. She loved this moment: the deep breath before the plunge. The calm before the storm. She soaked up all the gazing eyes and expectant faces. The pressure to put on a perfect show settled around her like a weight, but she carried it well. This audience demanded excellence, but she knew full well she could deliver on that. And then some.
Gentry found her center and glanced over at the piano player, giving him a slight nod to strike up the first song. The pianist spread his long fingers across the black and white keys and began to play a beautiful, flourishing opening. Gentry filled her lungs with air and seemed to almost swell with the music as her voice joined the piano’s chords. Oohs and ahhs trickled through the audience, hidden behind the ring of fuzzy white light. Gentry felt the beat as intimately as a second heartbeat. The thrumming vibration of the piano notes under her kitten heels grounded her. She relaxed her shoulders and smiled into the song as her beautiful, sultry soprano voice wove in and out, around and through the melody, making it her own.
This was the moment Gentry lived for. She thrived in the thrill of exhibitionism, of putting herself on a pedestal for others to gawk at and scrutinize. She loved knowing all eyes were locked on her sumptuous figure and pretty face as she sang. Her voice was more than just an instrument of sound; it was a spell, an incantation to whisk her audience away to a distant, lofty realm of magic and sensuality. Pure electric emotion. She craved having this sway over the crowd, knowing that her beautiful voice thrilled the bored and comforted the broken. Her voice was a tool of pleasure and escapism. Her song was a hand through the darkness and mundaneness of life. Through her music, she could enchant and titillate a crowd. She could wrap them up in velvet layers of vibrato, make their ears ring and their hearts sing long after the last notes faded out.
It was a massive turn-on, the way she had to give herself completely over to sensuality. Abandon all insecurity, any hesitation. Offstage, Gentry was modest and quiet. But on this stage, she was a siren, seducing the audience with every honey-toned note. Before the first song was even over, Gentry felt that familiar singer’s high settling into her bones. Her toes curled. Her fingers tightened around the mic stand. Her heart quickened its pace, and she felt warm all over. She felt a tingle of desire fill her veins. The thrill of being watched so closely made her feel sexy and exhilarated. It was almost better than sex, the way she felt standing onstage with her voice belting blues into the night.
But through the golden haze of the spotlights, Gentry was just starting to take notice of some strange movement. There were two young men sitting at the table closest to the stage, their mouths slack and eyes bleary as they watched Gentry perform. She realized with a jolt that they had been there since before her set even began; they had to have been there all evening, judging by the growing collection of empty beer bottles and cocktail glasses. She wondered what they were here for. What were they waiting to see?
Was it her?
Gentry loved to perform. The exhibition, the drama, everything about it. Jealous, admiring, and lustful eyes watched her. She could imagine any strapping, handsome prince out there in the audience, falling in love with her through her song. But it wasn’t just the good guys who were out there; Gentry had no control over who came to see her perform.
Sometimes it was a strong, sexy, hulking beast of man who could spin a million steamy fantasies in her head with one meaningful glance. And other times, it was a couple of tipsy ruffians eyeing her like she was the last plate at a buffet. Gentry forced herself to look away from that table and keep singing, even as alarm bells began to sound in the back of her mind.
2
Seth
Bright headlights and blinking turn signals danced across the brick facade of Miami Blues, competing with the moon hanging luminous in the indigo sky. SUVs bumped by with the bass thumping the asphalt beneath them. Convertibles rolled by with the tops down, their passengers grinning against the beachy breeze whipping through their hair. The parking lot that expanded from the front of the club out toward the road contained a constant trickle of customers coming and going. The clientele ranged from elderly couples looking for a classy night at the blues lounge to younger people piling into the underground club space—and, of course, the regulars showing up to drink at the bar. There were the day drinkers and night-shift workers heading out on wobbly feet, while the nine-to-fivers traipsed up the steps in search of a relaxing end to a long work day. A satisfying finale to be found at the sticky bottom of a whiskey glass.
But tonight, the parking lot was especially busy. It was Friday, and everyone was feeling the weekend anticipation. There was a line forming at the double doors, the list of attendees growing longer by the second.
There must be some special event going on tonight, mused the tall, handsome man making his way through the giddy crowds. Standing at six-foot-three, he had no trouble seeing over the heads of his fellow club-goers, and it wasn’t long before he was able to cut a zigzag through the masses. He paused for a split second at the entrance to take a breath, smooth down his spotless white shirt and casual brown blazer, and run his fingers back through his short, golden hair to give it a good tousle.
As he walked into the great foyer at Miami Blues, the man exuded pure confidence and charm. Without having to say a word, he caught the eye of many a woman he passed on his way toward the bar area to the right of the foyer. His white shirt and blazer made him look put-together, while his jeans and brown boots brought a little grit to his appeal. He walked with the cool, roguish swagger of a cowboy, a man who never needed to rush, who knew exactly where he was going and how to get there. Women turned their heads to check out his handsome, angular face, athletic build, and impressive height. Occasionally one might even be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of his thousand-watt smile or his striking green eyes. If he spoke, to say “excuse me” or “thank you” as he passed, people were instantly drawn to his smooth, low voice that seemed to be always teetering on the edge of a laugh. His charisma emanated from him, more potent than the delicious, slightly spicy cologne on his skin.
He crossed the grand foyer and took the small hallway to the right. It led to an old-fashioned saloon door with the words DRINK UP emblazoned in gold across the paneling. Again, the man paused at the door. This time, he simply shook out his shoulders and assumed a big grin as he stepped into the bar.
Immediately, he was hit with a rush of familiarity and comfort. This area of Miami Blues had a much more relaxed vibe than the manic energy of the clubroom or the formal blues lounge. It felt more like a regular dive bar. The place had relatively low ceilings compared to the vaulted heights of the foyer and blues lounge, and the dim amber lighting gave it a cave-like, cozy feel. A canary-yellow jukebox sat dazzling in the corner, its glittering lights and shiny chrome a spectacle all their own. Well-known old country and blues tunes radiated from the jukebox at a perfectly low, humming volume, so that it underlined the level of chatter throughout the little bar. There were two pool tables, wooden and turf, where groups of tipsy, laughing men crowded around, gripping their cue sticks and ribbing each other.
The blond man took all this in with a warm smile and swaggered up to the bar. It was at least ten feet of varnished wood. Several bar stools, all occupied, lined up there. Behind the counter was a short, curvy woman with tanned skin and dark hair. She looked to be about twenty-five, and her nametag read DANIELLE. Even though she’d been handling her middle-aged, slightly rowdy clientele with ease, even she did a double take at the new guy. Her brown eyes widened as she looked him up and down, then blushed and looked away, embarrassed at herself. But the man simply smiled and leaned one elbow on the counter. He was no stranger to this reaction from women; he knew he was good-looking, and women were drawn to him like a moth to a flickering flame.
The man gave the bartender a nod and she instantly put down the glass she was cleaning to rush to him. Her cheeks were flushed as she bit her lip, looking up at him.
“Hi there. Welcome to Miami Blues. What can I get started for you?” she asked cheerily.
“Rusty nail, on the rocks, please.”
“You got it,” she chirped.
He gave her a wink and a smirk. “Thanks, Danielle.”
She blushed a deep pink at the sound of her name on his lips, and he knew he had her wrapped around his finger already. It was a special gift: his ability to charm and seduce pretty much any woman he met. One gaze into his jade-green eyes, and she was hooked. Luckily, he tended to use his powers for good. He knew the effect he could have on a girl, and he treated that power with respect. And women, he treated with even more respect. Sure, he had a reputation for playing the field, but he made sure not to shatter any hearts in the process. He was upfront about his desires, about his preference for short-term flings and casual dates. He never led a woman on, always making sure she knew that there was an expiration date on their affair.
Danielle returned with a glass of fragrant Scotch and Drambuie on ice, and slid it across the counter. The man picked it up and lifted it in a silent toast before taking a first sip. He groaned with pleasure and nodded at her in approval. Danielle beamed.
“Like it?” she asked.
“Oh yes. I needed this. Well done,” he replied. “I’m Seth, by the way. I’m here for the private party.”
Danielle perked up even more. “Oh! You’re a police officer, too?”
