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But downstairs, the sound of a stringed guitar danced on the air, beckoning me deeper into the house. The metal, winding staircase led to cement floors and more stringed lights, with various tables and chairs littering the open space in front of a raised platform.
A lone musician sat atop the wooden stage, holding his guitar while he sang a moody melody into the microphone. There were at least thirty people squeezed in between tables, while at least fifteen others were hanging out at the bar, which stretched along the back wall.
I took my coat off and hung it on a hook reserved for participating artists and wandered to the bar.
“Hey, Jack!” I waved at my favorite bartender. He was old and cranky, but I loved him.
The best part, he had no club affiliations whatsoever. At least that’s what he told me while we bonded over organizing a huge shipment that came in, half of which busted all over the floors. It took us hours to clean up all the glass and liquor. He vowed to never charge me for a drink for the rest of my life after that night five weeks ago.
I left him tips instead.
“I’ll get your usual ready, but you better go set up.” Jack called over the noise of people clapping for the singer who had just wrapped up his set.
I nodded, then ducked around a few people standing and drinking, walking along the wall until I was able to get into the back of the stage area. It wasn’t large, at all, just big enough for two people to stand, but it helped me with my nerves before walking out on stage.
“Up next we have a local favorite, Daisy White!”
The crowd erupted with cheers and applause. I smirked at the stage name I gave myself and pushed through the curtains.
The house lights nearly blinded me as I waved and headed toward the Yamaha piano set up near the edge of the stage. It took me back to when I was a kid, and my mom had entered me into a thousand different beauty pageants, and how when I was old enough, I started singing, which was not what my mom had intended.
She had planned on me playing the violin or classic piano pieces, nothing contemporary and certainly, no singing. Not when it cast a spotlight on me instead of my father. Not when it stirred crowds, and clogged emotions, moved people in a way that had them straying from certain political platforms my father stood upon.
My life had been lived in a cage, and singing was the door I carved open to escape.
I sang for fun, never wanting to make an actual career out of it. I was too zealous for a life lived without parameters to ever chase singing professionally. It was just something I loved doing.
The piano gleamed under the house lights. Sometimes I sat in front of it, but tonight, I was feeling the need to stand. I adjusted the microphone until it was just the right height, and then I smiled at the audience.
“Hi everyone, thanks so much for coming out tonight. Be sure to order a drink and leave a fat tip for my man Jack back there.”
A few people applauded, and I used the sound to help me focus.
“Tonight I had a special song I wanted to play for you, so I hope you enjoy it.”
Closing my eyes and moving my hands over the keys, I slowly began to play “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis. It was one of my favorite songs, and it always managed to soothe me whenever I started feeling stressed out or worried.
Sure enough, as I allowed the emotion of the song to cut into me, and the lyrics to swell along with the keys on the piano, my stress from the day began to wane. My worries over Killian, the files, the apartment. It all just melted into every single word I sang into the microphone.
Once I was finished, I sang two more songs and ended with the crowd begging for another. I had sung “Paint it Black,” and Sia’s “Chandelier,” both of which always felt heavy to deliver, especially when I allowed myself to get lost in the music. So I thanked everyone, soaked in the cheers and shouts, then exited back through the curtain where I came from.
I was practically floating on a cloud when my eyes caught on a familiar face.
“Hey!” I walked over to Natty and threw my arms around her.
She squealed. “Laura, you are so incredible! I can’t believe this is the first time I’m seeing you perform.”
Untangling from her, a tiny tendril of worry worked itself into my stomach.
“Do you come here often?”
She shrugged, turning toward the bar with me. “Not as much as I'd like, but tonight I was over at the coffee shop, prepping some ingredients for tomorrow, and decided I’d stop in.”
“What are you drinking?” Jack asked Natty, flicking a concerned gaze at me as though he was silently asking if I was okay. I didn’t make friends here, and I never usually talked to people, so he was probably worried I’d had an aneurysm or something.
“Just a shot of crown and a diet coke, please.”
Jack turned away, and Natty tucked a piece of hair behind her hair.
