Chapter 1
GUNNAR
If only Blaire Cavileri weren’t so damned hot.
I never asked for open mic night at the Haven to become a personal competition between the two of us, but that’s what it seems to be since she showed up a few weeks ago.
I used to be the headliner here—Gunnar Healy, rock vocalist and guitarist extraordinaire, waiting for an agent or producer to walk through the door of Jamie Tyler’s enterprise and give me my big break.
I wouldn’t be the first. Performing at the Haven has led to stardom for some amazing acts.
Sarah Leventhal is in the audience today, and she’s shown interest in me time and again, but something always keeps her from signing me.
That something today?
Blaire Cavileri.
She stands onstage singing some aria written a century ago by Mozart or Verdi or some other classical composer.
Classical isn’t the norm here at the Haven, but Blaire’s voice is like a dream—as rich as the dark-red velvet of her gown. The aria she’s singing has lush and seductive lines. It started with a haunting, almost ethereal melody and has slowly increased in intensity. Her voice gradually inches higher, but it never sounds shrieky. Instead it’s full and sumptuous. I feel like I’m taking in a musical buffet, knife and fork at the ready.
As she sings in Italian or French or whatever—does it even matter?—I, like the rest of the spectators sitting at the wooden tables drinking their cocktails, am mesmerized. Sarah’s no exception. Despite having no interest in classical artists, she is as captivated as I am. As is Jamie, watching from the wing.
And I don’t want to be captivated.
Because the woman gets on my last nerve.
“What were you thinking?”
I asked Jamie two weeks ago when Blaire first showed up. “An opera singer?”
“Wait until you hear her,”
he said to me. “And if that doesn’t convince you, wait until you see her. I happened to hear her at a concert last month, and I begged her to come sing here.”
I’d never seen Jamie so taken with an act, but he was on target about Blaire. Her dramatic mezzo-soprano has an earthy quality that sends shivers over my flesh. Besides, she’s gorgeous. Her sable hair is swept up over her shoulders with only a few strands framing her oval face. Her eyes are a warm amber-brown, and her full lips are painted nearly as dark red as her gown. I’m watching a vocal miracle unfold in front of me, and all I can think about is…
Well…things I shouldn’t be thinking about, since I’m up next. My guitar will cover any boner, but it won’t be comfortable.
Every Thursday night is the same—at least it has been for the last couple weeks. The Haven used to be my place. Sure, it’s open mic night, but I was the highlight. People couldn’t wait for me to go onstage. I had fans, even a few groupies.
I still have my following, but once Blaire Cavileri took the stage, she made it her own.
I look out into the audience, and?—
Wow.
Sarah is hypnotized. I’ve never seen her so spellbound by a performer. Her gaze is fixed without interruption on Blaire. Never have I gotten this kind of attention from her.
Perfect. Just what I need.
Also in the audience is an older gentleman who I haven’t seen here before. He’s graying at his temples and wearing a tweed jacket. Tweed. Seriously. In a bar.
Yeah, whatever.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off Blaire since she started performing.
Nothing new there. No one has.
I try to. I dart my gaze around the spectators, but I can’t help myself. A couple seconds later I’m focused on Blaire again.
Watching the movement of her lips as she sings. Watching the movement of her chest as she breathes.
And what a chest it is. Perfectly round breasts with just a touch of cleavage showing.
When she finishes, every person—every person—in the bar rises, claps, screams, and whistles.
A few of them even shout “brava!”
And damn…
I can’t fault them.
I’m next, so I head toward the stage. Blaire passes me without meeting my gaze.
“Nice job,”
I say to her. “Have you ever considered singing in English? That way we’ll be able to tell when you mess up the words.”
She turns and glares at me over her creamy shoulder. “Bite me.”
I raise an eyebrow and give her a half smile. “Don’t tempt me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Just get onstage, Gunnar. Get onstage and slash your larynx to ribbons. Bastardize music the way only you can.”
I exhale sharply. “I’m just glad that the guys who wrote my music haven’t been dead for two centuries.”
She scoffs. “Yes, and their names are still well-known now. No one will know your name a hundred years from now.”
I shrug. “Guess we’ll have to see. In the meantime, take a seat, Donna.”
She wrinkles her forehead. “It’s Blaire.”
“I was referring to your last name. First name Prima, of course.”
She rolls her eyes again, but I swear there’s a hint of a smile trying to force its way onto her mouth. “Aren’t you clever?”
I open my mouth, hoping a retort will come to me when I’m saved by Jamie’s booming voice over the mic.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen. Our next act is someone you’ve come to love, and he’s back again at the Haven and ready to rock the place. Please welcome Gunnar Healy!”
I get the applause. Love the applause. It tingles in my ears like a thousand stars bursting.
My guitar strapped to me, I walk onto the stage, under the lights, sweat already emerging on my brow.
I stroke a few chords, and then I rock.