Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
Adele
I leaned against the counter, my hand braced under my chin as I listened to the woman onstage singing the blues. Her voice was slightly husky, this deep tone that went straight into your body and tugged at your heart. I was drowning in her notes, in the way the emotion was laced in the words that spilled fluidly from her lips.
“Yo, Adele.”
I blinked a few times and looked over at Bishop, Lyrics bartender and the owner of this establishment. Maybe people thought it was weird the owner tended the bar, but Bishop was a hands-on guy when it came to this place, and I had a feeling that’s why it was as successful as it was.
“Here is table six’s order.” He gave me a wink and set the last drink he’d just made on my tray.
I looked down at the drink order.
Two Bloody Mary’s, a Long Island iced tea, and a whiskey sour. This order was going to the table off to the side, a bachelorette party, where the girls were already good and drunk, a little too loud, and clearly not in the right establishment. The way they were dressed, the way they were drinking was more fit for a club, not a smoky, darkened bar in the basement of an older building almost on the outskirts of the city.
I’d been working at Lyrics, a small jazz bar, for the past year. Of course, my passion wasn’t serving people drinks, but I loved the atmosphere and the people who worked here. I was a singer at heart, so I was right in my element, and well, I lived in a city that was expensive as hell, and I had to pay my bills.
So waitressing was what I did to make rent.
But this was my scene, my people, and being able to work at Lyrics made my heart sing.
So when I wasn’t working at the bar, I did open mic at some of the other local establishments. I loved Lyrics but had never felt comfortable singing here during their open stage nights. But that would change come Sunday, when I signed up for their open mic night. In this city, everyone and their mom were talented singers. I was just another person who sat up on those stages and told a story in melody. I didn’t see myself as anything special, anything different.
But then I’d seen him three months ago. I don’t know what it was about Oliver, but the way he talked about my singing, the genuine awe that came from him made me feel like I wasn’t just another body who hoped to make their break.
I took the tray and gave the girls their drinks. They were good and buzzed, so when I set down their order, they were overly excited, ecstatic that I just saved the night for them.
I made my rounds, checking on my tables, refilling orders, and all the while I kept glancing at the stage, at the next singer belting out a slow, desperate song about love and loss.
He played an acoustic guitar, his longer hair tied up in a messy man bun, his beard thick. His mouth was close to the microphone, his eyes closed. His jeans were faded and worn, his boots old and scuffed. He wore a distressed leather jacket, a dingy-looking white shirt underneath. He had that “starving artist” appearance going for him, but I knew Broderick was anything but starving.
Being a trust fund baby, Broderick broke the family mold of his CEO father and supermodel mother. He made his own way, worked as a barista—much to his parents’ disapproval—and in his spare time, he sang at Lyrics. He was a regular, a favorite among patrons and the staff.
He gave me hope that no matter your upbringing, the life you might have been meant to lead, if you had a passion, you went for it.
And that’s why I found myself doing open mic, why I didn’t give up on my dream and desire. I didn’t want to be some big rock star. I didn’t want to be a celebrity.
I just wanted to sing and make people feel from it.
“I’m heading out,” I said to Bishop as I set my tray on the bar. “Cheryl is taking over.” Bishop nodded and gave me another smile before serving the next customer who stepped up to the bar.
“Have a good night, Adele.”
I smiled at him and took off my apron before stashing it under the bar top and grabbing my purse.
I headed out of Lyrics, the city bustling. It was ten at night, late for other parts of the country, but for the city, it was just waking up. I ended up securing a small ten-minute spot at Tate’s Boon, a new bar that just opened a couple months ago.
To say I was terrified of sitting onstage with a full house was the understatement of the century. This would be the biggest crowd I’d ever sung for.
I didn’t bother heading home to change. I didn’t have time anyway. The bar was a good fifteen-minute walk, and I was due onstage in thirty minutes. I wanted time to stay calm, to just… breathe.
Fifteen minutes later I found myself approaching the bar. There was a line outside, wrapping around the side of the building, and a bouncer standing in front of the door, letting in a couple people at a time. The bar was always packed on the weekends, and not just because it was a brand-new establishment, but because they had some incredible shows every weekend.
They hosted no-name artists, local bands, and I even heard they had one or two singers who actually made it big.
After getting the all-clear from the bouncer, allowed entrance, and told where to go, and after weaving my way through the already congested crowd, I found where I was supposed to be backstage.
The nerves started really climbing then, but I found a semi-quiet corner, leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and tried to breathe. And the first thing, the first person I thought about was Oliver. Instantly I felt calm, relaxed. I pictured him, the smile he’d give me that night, the way he made me feel. I felt the stress leave, and when I opened my eyes, I knew I had this. I could do this.
I regretted leaving him sleeping in that massive hotel room bed those three months ago. I hated I let my fear take control, my anxiety claiming me over the strong emotions I felt so profoundly for a virtual stranger. I knew I fucked up as I walked out the door. But what I felt for him was so foreign. I’d never felt that way about anyone before in my life.
Did I believe in love at first sight? I never had… not until I’d seen, spoken to, been with Oliver.
And that scared the ever-loving shit out of me.
I’d be lying if I said every time I went onstage, no matter what bar, what venue, I always hoped I’d see him out in the crowd, that he’d find me, that we’d find each other again.
I hoped like hell that would be my reality.
It was wishful thinking though. The city was huge, and when I’d been with him, he’d taken me back to a hotel room, leading me to believe he wasn’t a city resident, probably just passing through. Our paths would probably never cross again. And I couldn’t even explain how that made me feel, the sheer desperation I felt that I would never see him again.
Before I knew it, they were calling me up onstage. I exhaled slowly and headed out of the back room. I’d done this many times, sung my heart out, but never had I felt so nervous before. I knew it was because I’d be performing a song I’d written myself. One about the night with Oliver, the passion and emotions, the connection and yearning.
Of course, nobody knew that but me. No one would ever know that. It was the only song I’d ever written, inspiration striking me after my night with him. He was my muse, I’d come to realize, as the words spilled from me after being with him.
I stepped onto the stage and kept my focus on the floor, not wanting to see how full the club was, not wanting to let my nerves take over even more. But when I sat on the bench behind the piano, when I ran my fingers over the ivory, I did look up then. The lights were aimed at me, thankfully blinding me to the point I really couldn’t make out exactly how many people were here tonight. Was Oliver out there? Was he watching me, waiting until I was done to talk to me, to reconnect?
Or maybe my hopeful fantasies were just that… in my head. Maybe what I felt had only been one-sided. Maybe he’d seen me as a one-night stand and nothing more.
I closed my eyes and pushed those thoughts out of my head. They’d been a constant for three months. And now wasn’t the time or place for them.
I focused on the here and now, smoothed my fingers along the piano keys, and played my heart out. I hoped wherever Oliver was, he could hear my bleeding heart and know I wished we were still tangled in the sheets together.