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"Did you like the concert, Mr. McAllister?" She drops to the couch, her skin still flustered from performing.
As she says my name, I can tell she's not quite at ease in my company, but I find the way she speaks it strangely appealing.
I nod, vaguely distracted by her fingers running through sweat-soaked red hair as she gathers it into an unruly ponytail.
I nod, unable to tear my eyes from her. "I did," I confess, my gaze drawn to her every graceful motion. Then, I lower to the other end of the couch.
The dressing room exuded old Hollywood glamor with its plush couches, oversized vanity, and vintage-style dressing screen, but Andrea is all I see.
She opens one of the water bottles. She sits cross-legged on one of the couches and takes a long sip.
Her intense gaze lands on me. I can see it again, beneath the blue and the submission, the fire that burns deep inside her.
I remind myself that I'm not facing a sneaky mouse but a lethal feline prowling its prey.
"What was the song you enjoyed the most?"
"Broken," I answer without hesitation.
Andrea's eyebrow arches, and she leans in, her eyes shining with curiosity. "Not many people consider that one their favorite."
"I'm not most people."
Andrea's on my mind, a constant loop that won't shut off. I try to focus on the club's business, the numbers, the deals, but she's there, behind every spreadsheet and phone call.
I replay her concert, her voice wrapping around me, an echo in the otherwise silent room. Melodies that made me sit at my piano for the first time in years. If only to feel closer to her.
It's that one song though, "Broken," that haunts me. The raw emotion in her tone, it resonates somewhere deep.
All I have to do is close my eyes, and I'm there—the stage, the lights, her. Each note she hits, it's like she's reaching out, and damn, how I want to reach back.
The lyrics cut too deep, too real for anyone's liking. They clash with her usual innocent, flawless facade in other songs.
"Why precisely that song?" she asks.
"Because I understand what you mean by the lyrics," I admit.
"Broken" is a song about the force with which we sometimes break ourselves until we feel we can't rebuild ourselves again.
The song shifts to a somber, plaintive melody, painting a vivid picture of a bird that sacrifices its feathers for love. As the music swells and then fades, you're left to wonder if the bird ever regained its wings to soar or if it plummeted into the endless darkness, destined to miss the dawn's warmth.
"My soul needed it," Andrea admits.
Her serious response and her beginning to play with her hair, braiding a strand and then undoing it repeatedly, make me realize that she’s uncomfortable.
But not with me, but with herself. Something about that song hurts her deeply.
"Tell me why you composed it." I sink back into the plush couch, my body heavy with relief as the muffled music from the club below creates a soothing backdrop.
Andrea looks at me, shrugging her shoulders. "Because I was broken."
I take in every detail of her: the messy bun atop her head, the faded vintage t-shirt hugging her slender frame, and the way her high-top sneakers peek out from beneath her tucked-up legs. It's a mix of innocence and raw femininity, but it's different from anything I've ever known.
My life usually attracts women who thrive on the high life: designer dresses, expensive shoes, and faces caked in makeup with enhancements to match. They're all about flattery, flirting, and mindless sex.
Not conversations about song lyrics.
"It was the kind of breaking that made me feel like I'd never be put back together again. Like I shattered into a million pieces, and even if I managed to pick up the shards, the cracks would always remain."
