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Giselle
Aline of young, hip-looking people were lined up along the narrow side street. The queue was long enough to wrap almost around to the front of the building on the main avenue. There was a pervasive sense of anticipation, but of the positive variety. People were jonesing to move up the line and get to the door. Onlookers passed by with questions in their eyes, wondering if they ought to be in line, too. Los Angeles was filled with opportunities, sometimes for a big break, sometimes just for a killer night out. The fear of missing out on something fun was an intense, almost pathological motivator. That same desire to be included, to be in on the secret, to be part of something special filled the air surrounding the bar that night. People chatted excitedly as the door man methodically checked each ID and allowed a slow trickle of patrons inside. He was dressed in all black, but his demeanor was anything but formal. He laughed and joked with patrons as he verified their age, since this was a strictly twenty-one-and-up event.
The venue was a small, hole-in-the-wall bar just off a bustling, ritzy street in Hollywood. One lucky misstep down the alleyway would land you right in front of the bar’s main entrance, which was a very camouflaged, narrow door painted the same matte black shade as the brick wall. If someone didn’t know what they were looking for, the bar was easy to miss. It was called the Maroon Room—not that you could really tell that from the outside. The entrance was left ambiguous for a purpose, meant to cut down on the number of wandering, loud-mouthed tourists looking for a tacky club to tip back overpriced lemon drops. The Maroon Room wasn’t bedecked with the usual touristy LA decor and memorabilia. It was more of a secret handshake than a flashing sign, and on most nights the bar was filled purely with locals. They came to shoot pool, drink some variation of a rum and coke, and hide from the world. Most nights, the music drifted around the bar from the jukebox, playing classic rock and the occasional ballad for the tipsiest patrons to belt off-key together.
But on Wednesday nights, the unassuming bar played host to a rotating roster of local bands and musicians. The acts ranged from a little-known death metal band from the Mojave to a modern bossa nova ensemble to the band performing tonight: Tortured Hearts. This was a surprisingly big name for the Maroon Room, which explained the long line of patrons itching to get in. Normally, it cost a pretty penny to land a ticket for a Hearts show. Tonight, the price of admission was low to match the chilled-out vibes of the dive bar. For diehard fans and half-interested music lovers alike, it promised to be an exciting evening.
Giselle clenched the microphone stand tightly with both hands as she stood on the stage. The dim, reddish lighting of the bar cast a sunset-like glow over the singer’s petite form as she stood back a little, shrouded in shadow. The slowly roving spotlights crossed over her body now and again, sometimes even illuminating her beautiful face. She would assume the spot-lit center stage soon, but at the moment, she was tuning up and preparing for the show with the guys.
“Good turnout tonight,” murmured Jimmy. “Especially for the Maroon Room.”
“I doubt they’ve had this many customers here since New Year’s,” added Matt.
“All the more reason to give them one hell of a show,” said Giselle, with her usual contagious intensity.
Matt grinned. “We always do.”
“Just don’t break anything this time, Giselle. I think the manager down at Frankie’s Bar still winces at our memory,” reminded Jimmy.
Giselle shrugged as she twirled the mic cable around her finger. “Eh, just a few shattered light bulbs and beer bottles. I’m sure it’s not the first time.”
“Yeah, but it’s usually the patrons breaking shit. Not the performers,” the drummer insisted. “You know those signs on the beach that say you should leave it the way you found it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Giselle sighed, rolling her beautiful brown eyes. “I hear you. I solemnly promise not to destroy and/or damage any bar property tonight.”
“Even if the crowd gets really hyped up?” Matt said.
“Uh-huh,” she shrugged.
“Even if they request an encore?” suggested Jimmy.
“I’ll rein myself in. Come on, guys. I’m not a toddler; I have a little self-restraint,” she assured them. Jimmy looked dubious about that.
“Oh hey, look what the cat dragged in,” Matt said suddenly, and pointed to the entrance.
The door man stepped back to allow two even larger, more intimidating men to come through the entry. It was Asher and Blaze, both looking like typical Maroon Room patrons. Blaze wore a faded black band tee, while Asher wore a well-fitted graphic tee with some kind of tattoo-esque rose motif. Both stepped into the bar wearing boots and a jacket: Blaze’s leather, and Asher’s more of a blazer. Blaze had his jet-black hair partially brushed back, with just a few unruly locks perked forward. He looked like a modern-day greaser, and Giselle could almost smell the motorcycle fumes on him from across the bar. Asher’s dark blond hair was neatly secured in a tiny bun, leaving his handsome features on full display. Giselle drank in his rounded cheekbones and thoughtful eyes of green sage, behind a pair of stylish tortoiseshell glasses. They represented two totally different styles, but they were equally entrancing to Giselle.
They moved through the crowd like the parting of the seas. Men spilled out of their way. Women gawked at the two good-looking men. It was plain to see why. Even though the Maroon Room was populated with tons of attractive young men who were a little rough around the edges, Asher and Blaze still stood out. At least, Giselle thought so. Even as she tried to look away to pretend their presence didn’t affect her, her eyes were riveted to their every movement. Each step closer to the stage made her hotter inside.
Giselle’s heart started racing. Funny how the gathering crowd with all eyes on her did nothing to spark her nerves, but the mere sight of the two songwriters made her dizzy. She quickly stamped down the tingly feeling in her chest. She wasn’t supposed to feel that way about Blaze or Asher. They weren’t her boyfriends. Hell, they were only begrudgingly her coworkers. Yet, she felt a fluttery anticipation that she usually only felt right before stepping out onto a big stage in front of cheering fans.
Why would these two guys—who were hardly more than a thorn in her side—make her feel this way? She didn’t know what to do with feelings like that. But fury… now, that was an emotion she could work with. So she decided to get pissed off.
“Giselle? Hello?” Matt broke in, finally getting her attention.
Giselle shook herself mentally. “Sorry. Got a little distracted.”
“No time for distractions,” said Jimmy. “It’s time to perform.”
“Hell yeah. Let’s go,” hissed Giselle.
Jimmy played a drum roll and cymbal crash to draw the attention of the crowd. The Maroon Room was fully packed with people gazing up at the small stage. Matt took his spot to the left of center, his head hanging so that his wild brown hair flopped over his face. His fingers curled over the guitar strings as he strummed a few powerful, reverberating notes. And then Giselle stepped into the center of the stage, out of the shadows and into the glowing spotlight.
A hush and whisper passed through the crowd at the sight of her. Giselle stood with her legs wide apart, clutching the mic stand with both hands. Her glossy black hair fanned out around her face in soft waves. Her amber eyes were round and huge as she looked out over the crowd. Her plush, kissable lips spread open in a devilish smirk. She wore an oversized black and red plaid flannel that fell to her knees, the sleeves tightly rolled at the elbows, and clunky black platform shoes.
Matt continued to softly strum the guitar, eliciting eerie echoes from the strings while Jimmy tapped out a slowly building rhythm on the snare. But the crowd was locked on Giselle. They watched as she leaned in so close that her lips nearly brushed against the microphone. Her soft breaths matched the heartbeat rhythm of the drums.
“Welcome to the Maroon Room,” she purred. “We’re Tortured Hearts.”
