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“See you on the stage, Butterfingers. Don’t fuck up again.”
He hacks out a loud laugh and the sound of his footsteps die out.
Lyra sits still for seconds to come. I recognize the look—the self-critical, overthinking, deep dive she does that sabotages her performance.
I scowl miles away watching it happen live. She’s let him get to her. She’s going to mess up on stage.
Maximillion is the type of arrogant blowhard that I can’t stand. That ignites my bloodlust to an irrational level. He believes he’s above others due to his talent. His overinflated ego gives him the courage to demean someone already down in the dumps like Lyra.
I snatch my keys off the credenza and storm out the door.
Lyra Hendrix is supposed to be my next kill. But I can’t guarantee I won’t make some detours along the way.
9Lyra
Strange Effect - Unloved & Raven Violet
“You can do this,” I repeat for the fiftieth time. I’m staring in the mirror of the single stall bathroom of the Velvet Piano. I roll back my shoulders and stretch out my arms and then transition into my piano exercises.
It consists of lots of finger and hand motions to warm both up.
I’m splaying my fingers on a five count when the bathroom door swings open and the bar manager, Erma walks in.
A sheepish smile comes to my face, and I pretend I’m running my fingers down my thick braids instead of doing silly exercises in the mirror. She meets my embarrassed smile with a polite one, stepping up to the sink next to mine.
“Are those your piano stretches?” she asks, twisting on the faucet. She might as well be a kindergarten teacher asking her five-year-old student if the scribbles on her paper are a drawing. Her polite smile widens. “I wouldn’t bother tonight. I’ve made some changes to the line up. Rooney is going to play tonight. And since Chantal called out sick, you’ll be hostess.”
“But Rooney doesn’t work tonight.”
“I called him in.”
I stare at her in the mirror. My smile has slid off my face, but hers remains—as patronizing and polite as ever. More so the longer time goes on.
A tingling sensation sweeps over me, down the back of my neck and then spine. It leaves me dizzy with a sudden hyperawareness of myself.
My hot face. My awkward arms. My summer dress I’d hoped would make a good impression on the crowd.I painted my fucking nails.
Champagne pearl.
“Yeah… okay,” I say finally. “Hostess. Right.”
“Just to make things easy. You won’t have to stress. And we won’t have to deal with the crowd booing your performance. A win-win for everyone.” She finishes up washing her hands and then yanks at the paper towel dispenser. “See you out there.”
I don’t bother answering as the door swings shut.
Damn, I wish I had some weed right about now. I’d walk out so high I wouldn’t give a fuck what task I’ve been given to do tonight.
Anything is better than being forced to agonize over the truth.
Erma chose to call Rooney in on a night off just to have him play. She took the opportunity of Chantal calling out to switch me to hostess.
It wouldn’t surprise me if I’m fired next.
The role of hostess is hectic on a normal night, but nothing compares to Friday. I’m slammed from the moment I set up at the door.
Regulars and new patrons alike flood in, requesting tables and spots at the bar. I do my best to keep up with the crowd, seating those with reservations, and sending a steady flow of guests to the bar area.
After a while, the many faces blur and everyone becomes a twin. Everyone looks like somebody else and somebody else looks like everyone.
