Chapter 7 Chicago, 1928—Remy #5
“You’re kidding?”
Skye turned around on the piano stool. “Is there a problem?”
“Not with me,” Remy said. “Give me a couple of minutes to warm up.” He had to make these drums sound fantastic, or he’d disappoint Skye.
And that would kill any hope he had of impressing her.
He’d start with “Uptown Funk” and move on to “Fool in the Rain.” But after a few measures of “Uptown Funk,” Marcelle slid her index finger across her throat, which immediately ended his warm-up.
“I’ve never heard drums played like that,” Skye said. “But after hearing Marcelle play trumpet, having a friend equally talented shouldn’t surprise me.”
Remy’s heart smiled. “I’ll lay down a beat.” He punctuated the air with a four-beat count, cueing the band’s immediate and powerful start.
Skye unleashed the first words of the song, her voice electrifying.
He pulled back on the drums so he wouldn’t overpower her velvety voice with its uncomplicated style and impeccable timing.
Why wasn’t she already a top jazz singer?
The audience loved her. He’d listened to every 1920s jazz album, and Skye was ahead of her time.
When they finished the song, the audience burst into applause. “Bravo!”
Skye turned to Marcelle, smiling. “They like us. What should we do next?”
“What’s your favorite?”
“‘I Wanna Be Loved By You.’ Do you know it?”
“Yes,” Marcelle said.
Remy nodded at Clay, who nodded back. “We’re good.” After Remy did another count-in, Skye started singing.
“I wanna be loved by you, just you / Nobody else but you / I wanna be loved by you, alone! / Boop-boop-a-doop!” / I wanna be kissed by you, just you /Nobody else but you / I wanna be kissed by you, alone!
“Let’s leave them wanting more.” Skye bowed and then reached out her hand to the other musicians. The audience cheered, “Encore! Encore!” But they quickly left the stage.
“That was incredible!” Clay high-fived Remy and Marcelle but stopped short of high-fiving Skye, who looked at him as if he were nuts. “What now?”
“It’s three o’clock,” Remy said. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow. Let’s head back to the hotel. Are you going with us, Marcelle?”
She glanced at Skye. “They have a suite at The Drake Hotel. I can stay with them.”
“I have plenty of room. Stay with me. We’re going shopping tomorrow.”
Marcelle shrugged. “I’ll stay with Skye. We can meet for lunch.”
“Where?” Clay asked.
“The Walnut Room at Marshall Field’s,” Skye said. “Do you know where it is?”
“State Street,” Clay said.
“Let’s meet at noon.”
“Okay. But let us take you home,” Remy said.
“We’ll take a taxi,” Skye said.
Remy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. “Here. Take this.” He placed most of his money into Marcelle’s hand.
“Are you sure?”
“Clay has plenty.” Remy looked over at Clay. “Unless you spent it all during your walkabout tonight.”
“No, I’m flush. Give it to Marcelle.”
Marcelle removed her flask, tucked the cash into the special pocket, and handed the flask to Remy.
Skye snatched it out of Remy’s hand. “Hold on. Don’t give that away. That’s the best whisky I’ve ever tasted.” She opened the flask and knocked back a drink before passing it around.
Remy tipped the lightweight hip flask and found it empty. “I bet when Marcelle arrived, this was full,” he said, a playful accusation in his voice. “So, who drank most of this?”
Skye and Marcelle shared a look and shrugged at the same time. “Marcelle took the first drink,” Skye admitted, “and I took the last.”
Remy chuckled. “I’ll refill it for you.”
“Is your whisky as good as Marcelle’s Woodford Reserve?”
“You woan complain.” He pulled a flask from his jacket pocket. Skye moistened her lips with a flick of her tongue, and Remy wanted to capture her sassy mouth in a kiss. Instead, he handed over his whisky.
She took a drink. “Ah. It’s better.” She handed the flask to Marcelle. “Try this one and tell me what you think.”
Marcelle took a drink just as Capone came backstage, clapping.
Remy’s heightened excitement flatlined. He wanted to grab both women and run.
“I want all four of you to play here starting tomorrow night.”
Remy looked at Marcelle, resolving to let her choose their next steps. He considered that being visible might improve their chances of finding Bastien.
“Clay and I are leaving town in a few days,” Remy said. “We can’t commit, and when we leave, Marcelle will go with us.”
“And I can’t play every night,” Marcelle said. “My muscles have to rest between performances.”
“I’ll make it worth your while, and you can invite your other band members to play here with you.
” Capone reached into his pocket, causing Remy to step in front of Marcelle and Skye, but it wasn’t a gun he drew.
He held a wad of bills almost as big as his large palm.
“I’ll give you an advance on your first week’s pay. ”
Remy stepped aside, prepared to follow Skye’s lead. If she wanted the advance, he’d support her. “You know your band,” he said. “Do what’s best for everyone.”
“Thank you, Mr. Capone. I need to talk to my band members first. Can I call you tomorrow?” Skye asked.
Capone fixed his steely gaze. “I’ll pay you five thousand dollars a week.”
“That’s extremely generous,” Skye said, “but I can’t commit until I talk to my band.”
“If they don’t want to play here with you and your friends, I’ll find another spot for them.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t give you an answer tonight,” she said.
They were going in circles. The longer this negotiation dragged on, the higher the risk became. Remy had to take control. “Skye will talk to her band tomorrow and get back to you.” Negotiating with Capone made Remy nervous. The last thing he wanted was to get on a gangster’s bad side.
Capone peeled off five thousand dollars. “This should convince your band members that this is the best opportunity they’ll find.” He pressed the bills into Remy’s hand.
“This is Skye’s decision.” Remy handed her the money. “Marcelle, Clay, and I aren’t members of her band.” Remy wanted to shove the money into Capone’s pocket, but that would undoubtedly irritate the gangster, who strode out of the room with his bodyguards.
Skye exhaled slowly, straightening the bills in her hands. Her fingers worried the edges before she looked up. “What should I do with this?”
Remy shifted his weight, scanning the room once more out of habit before answering. “Talk to your band.”
“Wouldn’t they like to play here?” Marcelle asked.
“I’m sure they would, but this offer is because of the three of you.”
“It’s always about the singer,” Remy added, softer but no less certain. He tipped his head toward Skye. “I’m sure you could use your share of the advance.” His expression shifted—regret threading through resolve. “We’ll do what we can to help you, but we can’t commit long-term.”
Skye looked at the money in her hand. “Thanks to my late parents, I have a home and savings, but I’ve never had extra money like this.”
“What will you do with your share?” Remy asked.
Skye chewed her lower lip. “You’ll think I’m foolish, but I want to buy a red Model A Ford sport coupe with a rumble seat.”
Clay chuckled. “Now there’s a Ford girl for you, Remy. She doesn’t just want a Model A. She wants more power than she needs but less than what she wants.”
That piece of information hit Remy hard and fast, unnerving him. Why couldn’t he meet a woman like her in his own time? “Do you know how to drive?” he asked, hoping she’d say no so he could teach her before he had to leave town.
“Of course!” She flashed a smile, lighting up her mahogany eyes as she flipped her sexy bangs off her forehead.
“My father taught me. He wanted me to be ready to drive a car off the lot when I made money from my first recording. I’ll get a real kick out of sitting behind the wheel of a high-powered car and letting it surge over the hills at full speed. ”
Remy laughed. “What is that? Fifty miles per hour?”
Her jaw dropped. “Sixty-five!”
“Oh, wow! That’s fast.”
“Don’t be such a snob, Remy,” Clay said. “Just because your Ford goes faster doesn’t mean you have to look down your Roman nose at a vehicle you consider a toy.”
A warm flush started up his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Skye laced her arm with Remy’s. “I’ll accept your apology if you take me for a ride in your Ford.”
“If I had it with me, I would. I’d even let you drive. Come on. We’ll go find a cab.”
Clay nudged her. “You should feel special. He won’t let anyone drive his truck.”
“A truck? You didn’t say that. I’ve ridden in a Model A Roadster Pickup. Will you still let me drive?”
“Anytime, anyplace.” Remy fantasized about Skye driving his truck and wouldn’t say no to a few more things they could do, but the images shattered like a broken mirror. It would never happen. He led the way through the stage door and into the alley. “Stay alert.”
Skye gently touched his hand, and he instinctively raised his elbow, inviting her hand to loop around his arm.
The simple contact fueled Remy’s intensifying need to shield her and Marcelle.
He tightened his grip, his own large hand covering hers, a silent vow of protection—and a promise of a deeper commitment.
Of course, he wanted to have sex with her, but the connection was deeper than he expected. He felt a surprising pull to understand her completely, beyond the initial attraction.
“Clay, why doan you and Marcelle take the lead?” Remy said, already shifting position so he had a clear line of sight down the street. “We’ll walk along East Thirty-Fifth to catch a cab. I’ll cover you.”
Clay stopped short and turned, disbelief flickering across his face. “You realize neither of us is carrying.”
“I’ve got a Sig,” Remy said calmly. He lifted his pant leg just enough to reveal the edge of a boot holster. “Ankle carry.”