Chapter 7
7
BIJOU
S creams and breaking glass draw all eyes to the bar, where a drunken fight rages. Two of the Bow’s bouncers hustle through the crowd, clad in black with wire earpieces. Spectators jeer and taunt the two white brawlers, cheering and applauding the violence.
“Damn, y’all, take it outside,” I laugh nervously into the microphone. Although I stand onstage, there’s no use entertaining until the commotion dissipates.
Instead, the band and I crane our necks like everyone else in the joint, watching as a big black bouncer puts one highly inebriated, tattooed man in a headlock. The other skinnier guy backs off. But that doesn’t stop the burly Hispanic bouncer from grabbing him by the upper arm and dragging him outside.
The back door swings shut, and the chaos evaporates to sporadic applause. Letting the energy settle, I wait for a few moments before continuing.
“This place is trouble. Always has been,” I narrate, as the eeriness of the location presses in. “The former owner of the Bow, Fleur Devereaux, was strangled to death by her jealous lover about twenty years ago, not too far from where I stand now. They say her ghost still haunts the place. And when the energy gets wild and heated, like it is tonight, her pale shadow paces back and forth, reanimated by a spectral bloodlust. What do you say, boys? Shall we sing one for Fleur?”
I move around the stage, waiting for the claps and calls to die down, staring into the sea of people eating, drinking, and hooting. The dark lighting and smoke from machines in the back obscure many of their faces.
I despise those damn smoke machines. They make my throat tight. But Larry, the unmurdered, current owner of the Bow, says he’s going for a torch song vibe.
If he wants a torch song, I’ll give him one.
“Whether you’re a fan of Nina Simone, Creedence Clearwater, or Annie Lennox, you’ll like this next little number, ‘I Put a Spell on You.’”
My eyes lock with the rhythm section as I count off. Sassafras and Roman prepare to come in with bluesy, alluring melodies. My voice crawls over the opening lyrics as the room settles into a sultry seduction. Mike’s dark and dirty bass contrasts with Chuck’s sassy key work.
Screams and shrieks rise from the audience as sex settles into every corner of the room.
I cross the stage slowly, letting my breathy voice roll over the crowd as my eyes continue their unending survey of the room. Swinging my hips, I turn, seductively peeking over my shoulder, before I let my ass swing and drop in the air.
The room pulses, electric and alive. I know I feel it. A familiar energy… It’s undeniable.
Finally, my eyes settle on the cause.
A large man sitting alone in the back of the Bow with unshaven cheeks and messy, blond, bedhead hair. A telltale white Stetson perches atop the table before him next to an amber-hued shot.
My heart pounds in my chest, and my voice catches in my throat. Fortunately, there’s no better song for a little unhinged desperation. I stroll across the stage, breathing hard, the words coming out in pants the audience eats up.
My gaze settles on the careless shock of golden locks again, the brilliant blue eyes like the sky on a cloudless day.
He’s my own personal ghost—a reminder of a time too excruciating to remember and too lovely to forget. Descending the stage’s stairs, I enter the audience with an intoxicating twist of my hips.
Catcalls accompany my singing. So do occasional hands swatting my ass or squeezing my thighs. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t do this, but I can’t stop myself.
As I pass one man, taking me in greedily with his eyes, I reward him with a flirtatious pull of his tie. Another guy in a pink polo gets a pat on the cheek. But all the time, I side-eye the blond cowboy. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and his eyes narrow, branding me with his searing gaze.
I continue my slow promenade in his direction, flirting with the audience and inviting them into the sensual lyrics. Another dude tries to pull me into his lap, but his wife gives him an irate look as I slither out of his grasp.
Behind me, I hear the smack of a palm against a cheek. Half-smiling, half-grimacing, I don’t look back.
The cowboy’s face is unreadable as I stand before him. His jaw is hard as iron. My heart pounds so loudly behind my ribs, I’m certain the entire room hears it. I absorb his glare and darkened face. His nostrils flare, betraying a tumult of emotions—hatred, desire, anger.
Yearning propels me, though I know I should heed the warning in his expression. He’s a former Army Ranger—deadly as they come…
Palming his rough cheek and staring into his face, I don’t know what stuns me more. The sight of him. Or the feel of his warm flesh beneath my shaking hand. My eyes swim, and I strain to finish the song.
Snatching his collar, I pull him into me for the final note. My lips are inches from his. Reflexively, he seizes my wrist, stopping me short. The room goes black as the song ends, and I whisper urgently, “Leave now… before Raul catches us together.”
The snare crashes, and his grip loosens as I reluctantly slip away. I’m out of time. Hopefully, I’ve said enough… Between the bouquet and card, my gut tells me Raul’s on his way. I don’t know how Rutger fits into the events of the evening. But his presence can’t be a coincidence.
And if anything happens to that blond cowboy on account of me, I could never live with myself.
The lights come back up when I’m halfway to the stage. My pulse races, and my breath sounds in shallow pants.
The band swings to Duke Ellington’s “Caravan.” Thankfully, the instrumental interlude lets me regain composure. Still, the wild beats of the music have nothing on my erratic heartbeat. Retaking the stairs, I turn for another glimpse in Rutger’s direction.
The massive Army Ranger’s gone. My stomach free-falls. I’m fearful I’ll never see him again… and convinced our separation is the only way to keep him safe.
If Raul catches us together, there will be hell to pay…
I push the thought from my mind, diving back into the act. Dancing around the stage, I stop by each musician, flirting and teasing them as they play.
The combo’s hot tonight. But not nearly as hot as I feel inside. I glance into the corner again, wondering if it was all a dream…
A percussive pop, pop, pop crests above the sound of the music. Silence and darkness slam into the Bow for one fraught second, like a vacuum sucking the air out of the room.
I feel for Chuck next to me. The lights come back up halfway, and I see the other musicians, their eyes scattering about wildly.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
With the music stopped, the unmistakable sound of gunfire shakes me to the core. The place instantly transforms into a writhing, screaming swirl of panic.
Turning to the musicians, I motion for them to follow me through the trapdoor in the stage below us. It leads to the alleyway behind the Bow. Grabbing my purse stashed by the drum set, I disappear into the tunnel.
The Bow’s a Prohibition-era bar with all the inner workings of a speakeasy, not unlike my family’s many Big Easy properties. Leave it to a Lefevre to find the perfect rat’s hole to snake through.
A maze of darkness leads away from the chaos overhead. More shots ring out. Each ear-splitting blast makes me shudder.
Breathy voices echo behind me. Bursting through the escape door into the cool air of a spring night in Nashville, I barely clear it before Chuck, King, and Mike pile out behind me.
Sass and Roman are nowhere to be seen. My stomach drops into the pavement as I hear more firing.
“Where are the other guys?” I whisper as King eyes me wildly, turning tail to run down the alley with the other two members of the rhythm section.
I kick off my high heels, scoop them up, and feel the rain-covered pavement beneath my bare feet springing after them.
But a firm hand seizes my upper arm, stopping me in my tracks. “You’re coming with me.” Swinging around, I stare into the face of the rough, unshaven blond cowboy from the Bow.