Chapter 2
BLAIRE
God, that man makes me want to pull my own hair out. Then pull his out.
And then grab him, paste our mouths together, and fall against a wall as I let him pound me.
I shake my head to get the fantasy out. Gunnar Healy is not good for me.
I’ve been serious about music since I was seven years old and heard opera for the first time. My grandmother took me to see The Marriage of Figaro. Grandpa was sick, so she had an extra ticket.
I had no idea what opera was. All I knew was that I got to spend the day with Grandma, which would ultimately end with ice cream, so I was all in.
The seats at the theater matinée were luxurious, and Grandma got me a booster, but she told me I didn’t have to pay attention if I didn’t want to, that it was okay if I took a nap. We’d still get ice cream.
But I was mesmerized from the first note.
As I watched the singer playing Figaro measuring the floor and singing words I didn’t understand, something burst inside me. I couldn’t look away.
From the period costumes to the comedic acting to the incredible voices, I was completely enthralled.
When Cherubino came onstage, I giggled, realizing that the actor who played him was actually a woman in what I would later learn was called a pants role.
Cherubino was a nervous teenaged boy dealing with his changing body—a comedic character to the hilt. But that didn’t stop Mozart from writing him a beautiful aria called “Voi che sapete”
in the opera’s second act. The woman who played the role sang with a rich voice that reminded me of the plush blue velvet of the theater chair I was sitting on.
I had always loved to sing, and Mom and Dad always said I had talent and that when I was older they’d get me voice lessons.
After that opera, I begged to begin lessons.
By the time I hit middle school, I was winning competitions, and when I hit high school, I was starring in every school musical.
But, while musical theater was fun, opera was where my heart truly lay.
I majored in classical voice at college, went straight to grad school for a masters, and I’ve spent the year auditioning for the young artists’ circuit, all while still working with my college professor, Corbett Morgan.
I just completed a summer program, and I’m due to begin a yearlong apprenticeship with a nearby regional company in a few weeks.
When Jamie heard me sing and invited me to open mic night here at the Haven, I was apprehensive, but the audience has been very reassuring.
Not so reassuring is Gunnar Healy. Gunnar’s a rocker who looks the part. Wavy dark hair that falls to his shoulders, black stubble, and the kind of searing blue eyes—complete with long black lashes, damn him—you see on the hottest Hollywood heartthrobs.
Not to mention his body…
He always wears the same thing when he performs—dark-blue jeans that hug his ass, black boots, and a tight T-shirt that melts against his chest, showing off all his corded muscles.
And his voice?
It’s a high-lying baritone with a rock-and-roll rasp that makes my knees weak.
I force myself to look away as he sings. Though I respect all genres of music, rock and roll is probably my least favorite. I’ve never enjoyed it much. It’s too gritty, too loud, too dark.
So why am I transfixed by Gunnar’s performance? Why is his music hitting me the same way Mozart’s did years ago when Grandma took me to the opera? Maybe it’s his sheer attractiveness. Or maybe it’s his stage presence. Or his ridiculous charisma as he vocalizes. I swear he can make me feel like he’s singing directly to me.
Music has always given me strength, but when I listen to Gunnar—to the depth and lushness and pure emotion of his voice—vulnerability seems to overtake me. He sings the words as if they’re dripping from him like bourbon honey, as if he’s stripping away my last defense and exposing everything hidden inside me. I want to hang onto every note, commit each sound to my memory, let the music take me somewhere passionate and forbidden.
His music couldn’t be anything further from what I just sang. Today I debuted an aria from the Saint-Sa?ns opera Samson and Delilah. “Mon coeur s’ouvre a ta voix,”
it’s called. French for “my heart opens to your voice.”
A bit on the nose, it turns out. Every single note out of Gunnar Healy’s gorgeous mouth is drawing me closer and closer…
I’m jerked from my hypnotic trance when someone touches my arm.
“Blaire?”
A young woman with dark hair and striking green eyes stands next to me.
“Yes? May I help you?”
She smiles. “I think I can help you.”
I take a drink from my water bottle, trying to cool myself off. Still, my cheeks warm. “Oh?”
What’s she going to do? Help me with the fantasy I’m having about Gunnar Healy?
She pulls a business card out of her purse and hands it to me. “I’m Sarah Leventhal.”
I read the colorful card. Sarah Leventhal. Talent Scout. Agent. Producer.
I stop my jaw from dropping. Professor Morgan told me I wouldn’t get an agent until I was at least twenty-seven, maybe even older because of my low voice type. I’m still considered young for a mezzo, only a year out of grad school. For the next four or five years, at least, he said I would be doing young artist programs here and there. The most I could expect for the time being would be small roles with larger companies and bigger roles in touring educational shows. Maybe I’d bite the bullet and try the European market on for size.
But representation? That was far into the future.
“Wow,”
I say. “It’s great to meet you.”
She gestures toward the back of the performance space. “Can we talk for a moment?”
“Yes, of course.”
She leads me backstage to a quiet alcove. No way would we be able to talk in the bar—not with Gunnar blaring and the audience going crazy.
“Do you have representation?” she asks.
I blink. “No, not yet.”
She places a gentle hand on my forearm. “I don’t want to disappoint you, but that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about.”
My racing heart thuds. Why would she even ask if I had a manager then?
Not that I was expecting representation at this point in my career. I’m only twenty-four years old. I’m still a baby as far as the opera industry is concerned.
“I see. What did you want to talk to me about then?”
She redirects her gaze toward the stage. “What do you think of Gunnar Healy?”
I swallow. Does she want me to be honest? Because my honest answer would be something along the lines of “He’s got a great voice and his body makes my knees weak, but he’s a first-class jackass.”
I draw in a breath. “He’s…talented. For a rock and roll singer.”
“He is.”
Sarah nods, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “But his career hasn’t taken off yet. Why do you think that is?”
I shrug. “I don’t really follow rock and roll, so I couldn’t begin to give you an intelligent answer to that question.”
“I can tell you why,”
Sarah says. “He’s talented. There’s no doubt about that. Every audience that hears him falls in love. He sure looks the part. Handsome, rugged, a body that rivals the best athletes in the business. But here’s the truth of it, Blaire.”
She pauses.
“Yes?” I urge.
“I first saw you perform here two weeks ago,”
Sarah says.
Okay. I’m not sure what that has to do with Gunnar Healy, but?—
“Your voice is beautiful,”
she continues, “and there’s something very special about the way you take the stage.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you considered singing pop?”
This time my jaw does drop. “I’m a classical singer, Ms. Leventhal.”
“Please, call me Sarah.”
She smiles. “And I understand that. You sing beautifully. The arias come alive with your interpretations. I’m not a classical music fan, yet I can’t take my eyes off you when you’re on the stage. Just listening to you gives me a new appreciation for the classics.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
She smiles. Sort of. “But let’s be honest, Blaire. You’re not going to make it big as a classical singer.”
My brain stops working for a moment. Did this woman who doesn’t know me from Eve just say something so astronomically rude?
I blink a few times and shake it off. “Why couldn’t I? Classical artists have achieved worldwide acclaim and success. Talent and dedication can transcend any barriers.”
“I won’t argue with you,”
Sarah says, “but I will tell you that they are the exception rather than the rule.”
“Isn’t everyone who makes it big an exception? Thousands of talented singers go unnoticed. Not just classical singers. Plenty of people make a decent living in the arts without”—air quotes—“making it big.”
“You’re not wrong.”
She pauses for a second. “But here’s my question to you, Sarah. Do you want to be one of them?”
I swallow, licking my lips. “What exactly are you saying to me?”
“I’m going to suggest something that you probably haven’t thought about. Something that has likely never been on your radar.”
She widens her eyes. “You’re an incredible talent, but to get to the next level, you need to do something unique.”
“All right. What do you suggest?”
“A collaboration, Blaire. A collaboration between you and Gunnar Healy.”
I have to stop myself from spitting out the mouthful of water I just drank. I swallow, but it goes down my throat with a gulp of air. I stifle a burp before speaking.
“Gunnar Healy can’t stand me,” I say.
Sarah smiles. “I’d beg to differ. I witnessed your exchange after you left the stage.”
I let out a soft huff. “You mean us tossing insults at each other? That’s the only kind of exchange we’ve ever had.”
Sarah narrows her eyes. “That was playful banter, not insults. The kind that is exchanged between two people with a heat between them. That’s what you two have. And it’s not something you’re probably even aware of. But the two of you onstage together?”
She fans herself with her hand. “That would be dynamite.”
The thought intrigues me—turns me on, to be honest—but I tamp down any excitement. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
“Gunnar is the last performer tonight,”
Sarah says. “After that, Jamie brings out the karaoke machine.”
I’m well aware that open mic night turns into karaoke night, but I’m usually gone by then. Listening to amateurs hack out show tunes and top-ten hits is kind of a professional vocalist’s version of hell.
“I know. I don’t stay for karaoke.”
“Stay tonight,” she says.
“Why?”
“Do you know the song ‘Mellow’?”
“LaLa Queen? Yeah, of course. Who doesn’t?”
“It’s a beautiful song, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yeah. But what does that have to do with?—”
She holds up a hand to stop me. “You and Gunnar are going to open up karaoke tonight. With ‘Mellow’.”