Chapter 13
Ronan watched as Claudette’s gaze roamed the bar and her nose wrinkled with distaste.
“Beau-frère,” she began, speaking loudly to be heard over the volume of the piped rock music. “If you miss the seediness of Bourbon Street so much, come home.”
“Even the worst dives in the Quarter have more charm than this,” Jules drawled.
“Neither of you had to come along,” he reminded them.
“And leave you to wander Manhattan by yourself while the NYPD investigates you?” Claudy countered. “I don’t think so.”
“You should have someone with you at all times,” his brother agreed, looking completely out of place in their surroundings.
“The alibi of siblings is unlikely to carry much weight,” Ronan drawled.
His sister’s chin lifted obstinately. “It’s better than nothing.”
Ronan wasn’t impressed with the place, either.
The matte black walls were scuffed, chipped, and marred with the stapled corners of old posters that had been carelessly removed.
The tile floor was worn with age and grime.
The ceiling fans were coated in dust and wobbled out of balance.
Round wood tables and captain’s chairs were spaced too close together, and a small makeshift stage had been erected in front of a street-facing window.
It was nearing four in the afternoon. Times Square and Vidal Records were within walking distance. Tourists swarmed along the dirty sidewalk, few bothering to look inside the sparsely filled “tavern.”
Ronan selected a table near the stage and bar, which also put them close to the entrance.
Snagging a handful of napkins from a metal dispenser on the table, he pulled out a chair for his sister.
He wiped the seat, worried about Claudy dirtying her elegant cream-colored dress. Jules followed suit with his own chair.
Claudette sat gingerly, making sure not to touch the back. “Please explain why we’re visiting this dump.”
“They have live music from four to seven.”
Jules arched a sardonic brow. “If you’re looking for Vidal Records’ next breakout performer in this place, you’ve no business running a record label.”
Ronan gave a gentle tug on one of the dark curls spilling down Claudette’s back. “What do you want to drink?”
She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Since I have doubts about the cleanliness of glassware in this place, I’ll stick to light beer in the bottle.”
“Moi aussi,” Jules said, making eye contact with a table of women wearing not much more than bikini tops and miniskirts.
Ronan weaved through the tightly packed tables to the bar and ordered three of the same.
A few more people wandered in while the heavily made-up female bartender filled his order. When she leaned forward to set the bottles on the scarred wooden bar top, her breasts overflowed the tightly laced corset she wore and threatened to escape their confinement. She gave him a saucy wink.
When Ronan returned to the table, Claudette was looking at her phone.
She glanced up when he set the bottles down. “Does Ireland not want to see you? Is that why we’re killing time in this place?”
His lips pursed as he considered what to say and how honestly to say it.
“I spoke out of turn earlier and pissed her off,” he admitted.
“But she didn’t break it off between us, which I’m fairly sure she would’ve done with any other man, so I’ll head her way after this and hope I can grovel enough to sweeten her temper. ”
Jules shook his head as he lifted the bottle to his lips. “I really wish I could enjoy watching you finally struggle to woo a woman.”
Ronan’s sidelong glance made his brother grin.
The table of women toasted each other with inebriated shouts before tossing back what looked to be shots of tequila.
Claudette set her hand over Ronan’s. “Again, why in hell are we here?”
He licked a cold drop of beer from his lip. “We’re not the only ones who’ve set their sights on the Vidals, petite s?ur. And one of those other people the police should be talking to will be here any minute now.”
“And what are you thinking you’ll do when they get here?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Jules straightened with alarm. “You don’t think this person has anything to do with her kidnapping, do you? You shouldn’t be anywhere near anyone you even suspect is capable or culpable of the abduction! Do you want to be seen as guilty by association?!”
“Calm yourself, Jules. I just want to get a better look at him.”
“Was Ireland intimate with this man recently?” Claudette asked, her face a mask of worry. “Is that really what this is about?”
Ronan ignored the question because it irritated him to even think of Ireland with anyone else.
“I saw the man only briefly the night I met her in Jazzie’s, but I don’t like the way he looked at her.
He wants to hurt her. Perhaps not physically, but certainly in every other way.
And Ireland humiliated him that night, in front of the woman he was with, which added fuel to the fire. ”
His sister winced. “I know the kind of nasty fellow you’re describing. But, Ronan, you’re in a precarious position. You can’t afford to get into any trouble, and that’s what this is—it’s you looking for trouble.”
Positioned so that he faced the front door and the stage beside it, Ronan saw Graham Teller the moment the man passed in front of the window. A moment later, Teller entered the bar with a guitar case in one hand and the hand of his blonde girlfriend, Gail, in the other.
“That’s him?” Jules asked. “If so, Ireland’s taste in lovers has improved considerably.”
Ronan’s mouth curved. “Merci, beau-frère.”
“Tais-toi, fonchock. This is complete foolishness.”
Teller was dressed like a stereotypical rocker in black leather pants with open stitching down the sides and a black vest over his otherwise bare chest. Adorned in a profusion of necklaces and braided bracelets, he had sleeves of tattoos covering both arms and eyeliner rimming his blue eyes.
Gail wore a sleeveless denim dress that barely covered her nipples at the top and threatened to show her butt cheeks on the bottom.
She was fit, her muscles clearly defined all over her body, which made her breast implants very obvious.
While it was easy to see that Gail was pretty, gauging another man’s attractiveness was not a skill Ronan had.
Still, he tried to assess Teller with some objectivity and concluded that he’d describe the man as pretty, too.
The musician also had an air of arrogance, which could be mistaken for confidence.
“He’s handsome,” Claudette noted. “And well-built. If he has a good voice, that could tip him over the edge into very attractive territory.”
Ronan had found Teller’s website quickly, which was how he learned the man was scheduled to perform from four to seven, Monday through Wednesday.
He played later in the evening at another bar on Fridays and Saturdays.
Teller listed his regular gigs as “residencies” and otherwise did a passable job of inflating his qualifications and performance history.
He also had links to his music on streaming platforms and media store apps, which Ronan had used to hear a sample of his talent, which he’d say was pedestrian.
He was a better guitarist than a singer.
“His woman’s attractive enough,” Jules said.
“Enough for what?” Claudette queried. “Non, don’t answer. I don’t want to know.”
Teller took a minute to give Gail a rather raunchy kiss before getting to work setting up for his set. Gail sauntered over to the bar and began chatting with the bartender.
“How long do you think we’ll be here?” Jules asked, smiling at the group of women, some of whom were eyeing him appreciatively.
“Well, I’d like to hear him play at least a song,” Claudette said, “since we’re here.”
A very tanned brunette in a yellow sundress entered the bar on short-heeled sandals, pushing her sunglasses atop her head as she stepped inside. She carried a large white tote bag, wore her hair in a sleek bob, and looked overall too classy to patronize a sleezy joint like the one they were in.
She looked immediately at the stage and Teller, who was crouching to set out a basket with a sign that read, “Tips.”
“Excuse me,” she said, walking up to the musician. “You wouldn’t happen to be Graham Teller, would you?”
Teller looked up and flashed a big, cocky smile. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m meeting a friend of mine at a bar that she says has a great singer named—you guessed it, Graham Teller.” She returned his grin. “And I’m just not sure I’m in the right place.”
“You found the place,” he told her with a roguish wink. “And the singer.”
“Oh, that’s great!” She thrust her hand into the tote bag on her shoulder and withdrew a large envelope covered in pink hearts. She handed it to him, and when he took it from her, she said, “You’ve been served.”
She was out the door as quickly as she’d walked in.
Jules huffed out a laugh and jumped to his feet. “I like her,” he pronounced, and quickly left the bar in pursuit of her.
“Ah, mesye!” Claudette muttered, looking at Ronan. “Did you know this was going to happen?”
He shook his head without taking his eyes off Teller. When he felt Claudette’s gaze remain trained on his face, he glanced at her. “Non,” he reiterated.
Frowning at the envelope, Teller stood and opened it, pulling out a sheaf of papers stapled together. As he read, his expression turned into a scowl. “What the fuck is this?”
“I don’t like this,” Claudette murmured, leaning toward Ronan.
Gail returned from the bar with two lowball glasses filled with a clear liquid and blocks of ice. “What’s that, baby?”
“It’s…” His eyes darted back and forth as he read. “It’s from Gideon Cross. It says, ‘notice of breach.’ Whatever the fuck that means.”