2. I Hope You Fall On Your Face
CHAPTER TWO
I HOPE YOU FALL ON YOUR FACE
Ruby
“Break a leg.”
I glare up at my little brother who’s not so little anymore. He’s grown two more inches since he and Grandma visited me last summer. He might’ve grown up, but not out. He’s as skinny and lanky as ever. “Thanks a lot, Blake.”
“No, I’m sending you all the good juju like they do on Broadway.” He lowers his voice but doesn’t lose his cheesy grin. “Don’t screw it up. Trip on the curtain. I hope you fall on your face, and the audience throws rotten tomatoes at you.”
“You’re freaking me out.”
We’re in the middle of the enormous atrium of The Manor at Winslet.
It’s been a while since I’ve been home. I came back for Blake’s high school graduation, but it was a flyby.
I was in and out of town so fast, I barely had time to change clothes.
Grandma wasn’t happy, Blake pouted, and I felt like the absolute selfish asshole I’ve become. But being back here is painful.
Blake pulls me into his bony frame and pins my arms to my sides when he hugs me tight. My brother has always been lovable. That was all Grandma. He never knew our mom, and definitely not his father.
Once he squeezes the air out of me, he grips my shoulders, holds me at arm’s length, and shoots me a wolfish grin. “Try not to die out there.”
“Stop it!” I hiss. He has no idea just how close to home that hits.
Blake lets go of me and stuffs his hands in his pockets.
He’s dressed in all black—black suit and black dress shirt but sans the tie.
It’s similar to what he wears in the dining room when he’s the ma?tre d’ of the five-star restaurant, The Greenhouse.
“See there? I’ve bestowed you with all the luck.
Not that you need it. This is Winslet. No one here is better than you.
And, with me at your back, how can you go wrong? ”
I reach out and give his forearm a squeeze, because he’s not wrong. He rehearsed with me for hours over the last two days. “I appreciate you so much.”
“You must be Blake’s sister.”
I jerk when I hear a deep English accent behind me.
I spin on my heel and almost stumble to the side in the process.
A tall gentleman wearing a suit that’s way more expensive than Blake’s stands in front of me with a blonde bombshell of a beauty next to him.
I assume this is Devon Donnelly, the owner of the manor, but I know who she is.
Hell, ninety-nine percent of the world knows Harlow Madison—I mean Donnelly.
They were married not too long ago. Their reception was the talk of the internet for days.
I look up at the blue-eyed Brit. “Yes. That’s me.”
Blake turns on the charm. “Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly, this is my sister, Ruby Sinclair. Sis, this is my boss, Mr. Donnelly and his new bride, Mrs. Donnelly.”
The bride offers me her hand. “If you don’t call me Harlow, I’ll revolt. It’s so nice to meet you. Blake was my first friend at the manor.”
Devon frowns at his bride. “You met me before you bloody met Blake.”
Harlow smirks at Devon. “Yes, but you were never my friend.”
He wraps a hand around her hip. “True. I’ll take that.”
I focus on Devon. “Thank you so much for the opportunity. My brother can be persistent.”
“Blake might just run the damn place someday. It seems his talents are never ending. I had no idea he could play the piano,” Devon says.
Blake beams. “Hey, I’m a team player. I do what I can. Grandma taught me to play. I spent the last two days brushing up on my skills. Not to toot my own horn, but I was the showcase performance at Grandma’s piano recitals every year. And nepotism had nothing to do with it.”
“I can’t wait.” Harlow leans into her husband. “Should we get settled so they can do their thing? Jett and Lennon grabbed a table for four and are waiting for us.”
Devon and Harlow are night and day but they make a striking couple. Devon leans down and presses his lips to hers for a fast kiss before turning to us. “What do they say in show business? Survive the night?”
I groan internally but smile at my potential boss. “That’s exactly what they say. Thanks.”
I peek around the corner where Devon leads Harlow into The Speakeasy. It’s a posh lounge that features rare whiskeys. “Is it always this busy?”
Blake has the nerve to look sheepish for the first time since he threw this idea at me.
“I might’ve let it slip that you’re going to do your thing, and I would be doing my old thing.
There are more locals here than normal tonight.
But if this is any indication as to what to expect, Mr. Donnelly will surely hire you.
The Speakeasy is more profitable than The Greenhouse, and that’s saying something. ”
“Great,” I mutter.
“Why are you nervous?” Blake demands. “It’s not like you haven’t been doing this every day for the last decade.”
I bite my lip. “That was in New York City. I might’ve lived there for years, but people come and go. This is Winslet—my home. It creates a different kind of nerves.”
Blake bumps my shoulder harder than necessary. “You’ve got this. You’re better than you’ve ever been, and everyone in there is about to find out.”
I pull in a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
“That’s the spirit! I’ll introduce you.”
Before I have a chance to change my mind, Blake hurries into the lounge and grabs the mic.
When I hear my name, I know there’s no going back. It doesn’t matter how many memories I have in this town. The amazing ones, the painful ones, and everything in between.
I smooth my hands down my fitted black dress, adjust my boobs, and put one spiked heel in front of the other.
The Speakeasy is dark, moody, and has a vibe that I do not hate.
Dark stained wood surrounds me. There are more antique chandeliers in the room than I ever dreamed of in one place.
One hangs over every table, creating an elegant, private spot for its guests.
The lights are set to low other than the spotlights on the grand piano and mic waiting for Blake and me.
This is good. I can sing and perform every night if I have to, which I did to make enough money to make it in the city.
Though making it is a stretch considering my one-room basement apartment was sketchy, and I had even sketchier neighbors.
Singing in front of my hometown and tourists shouldn’t be a big deal.
But after fleeing across the country and feeling like I had flames licking at my heels, my nerves are frayed. Being in any spotlight is the last place I should be right now. But jobs in this town are few and far between. My gig at the Combover is only until Winnie gets back on her feet.
The Combover doesn’t exactly pay the way bars in the Big Apple do, and I have bills. Hell, my bills might as well have bills in the form of interest. And since I skipped town and have four months left on my lease, I can’t even think about what I’m going to do about that.
The opportunity to sing at the manor a few nights a week is not something I could turn down, even though I don’t officially have the job yet. But it’s not the live audition that has me in a sweaty mess of knots.
It’s that this gig will not help me fly under the radar. I’ve seen the social media pages for this place. Devon Donnelly does not mess around. Not that he needs a social media presence when he’s being highlighted in every print and online publication across North America.
There is no stage, but the spotlights in the front of the lounge are so bright, I can’t see the back half of the room.
This is good. A faceless audience. Just what I prefer.
I’ll get lost in doing my own thing and not have to worry about watching people talk, ignore me, or worse, getting up to leave.
Blake is in the middle of the most drawn-out and unnecessary introduction I’ve ever had.
“If you’re a local, you may remember her.
If you’re visiting the manor on vacation, then you’re in for a treat, because she’s back, and she’s ready to do her thing like only she can. Welcome to The Speakeasy, Ruby.”
Blake hands me the mic and shoots me a wink before taking a seat at the piano.
I turn to the audience and can barely see anyone other than Devon and Harlow sitting front and center at a cocktail table. They’re with another couple, a devilishly handsome man whose arm is around a younger woman with the darkest hair and fairest skin. She’s exquisite.
It’s time I get this done. With a small smile on my ruby-red lips, I glance back at Blake and give him a small nod. His fingers work magic on the ivories, and I turn back to the darkened room. “Let’s get this going, shall we?”
There’s nothing I love more than slowing down a modern rock piece and making it sultry. It took me an entire hour to get Blake on board, but he proved to be the student our grandmother made him. He kills it. The notes start soft. I give him the intro we rehearsed before I join in.
And the words from Do I Want To Know by Arctic Monkeys slip through my lips as smooth as French butter.
When I was putting my set together for tonight, I dug this one out of the archives.
I can’t remember the last time I performed it, but when I was scrolling through my best of the best of Ruby, this jumped off the screen and slapped me in the face.
For some reason, it fit.
And I was right.
By the end of the song, the notes are no longer soft, and I’ve shifted from whispered lyrics to belting it out with my whole being. When I sing the last line about slithering back, Blake ends the song abruptly, just like I taught him.
The room erupts.
I have to swipe a strand of hair from my face that stuck to my lipstick when emotion took over.
I turn to look at my little brother who’s beaming. I hold my arm out to him and say, “Give it up to the man at my back, ladies and gents, Blake Sinclair. Your ma?tre d’ on the keys.”