Chapter 24 New York City, 1928—Bastien #4
Bastien stepped out of the office, entirely unfazed by the man’s volcanic temper.
The encounter ensured he would remember Bastien, the saxophone, and the claim that his sister’s talent rivaled that of Louis Armstrong.
Should Marcelle arrive seeking him or a position in the band, she would have confirmation that he’d been there.
On the way out, a woman stood at the open side door, waving her cigarette around in a figure eight. “Hey, handsome.” A good inch’s worth of ash fluttered to the floor. “Do you play that saxophone or just carry it around for looks?”
He lifted the instrument to his lips and unleashed the opening notes of “Careless Whisper,” the most seductive song he knew.
She flicked the cigarette out the door and remained motionless, as if cemented to the spot, trapped in the moment. Her eyes glazed over. Driven by the music, her hips writhed, and her back arched into the doorjamb.
Had the saxophone not occupied his hands and mouth, he could have easily reached out. But she scarcely registered compared to the woman he couldn’t stop thinking about. The woman, a vision of cinnamon hair and arresting green eyes, offered a smile that set his world ablaze.
Outside the door. Kaitlyn was staring at him. He quit playing, winked at the chorus girl, and strolled out.
When he reached Kaitlyn, she said, “I’ve never heard anything like that. I don’t know what was going on with that woman, but she would have—”
Bastien put his finger across Kaitlyn’s lips. “It wasn’t going any further than that.”
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.” They climbed into the car, and she pulled out into traffic. “That song is pure seduction. Is that why you played it to her?”
“The manager all but threw me out of his office. I wanted him to remember me if Marcelle showed up looking for a job. He’ll never get that tune out of his head, and it will drive him nuts.”
“I’ll never get the tune out of my head. I want to hear the entire piece. Did you play it last night?”
“I didn’t play any contemporary songs.”
“Contemporary? Does that mean any songs from your time?”
“‘Careless Whisper’ is a 1984 George Michael song. If I play it here, someone might make it their own. If that happens, the rightful artist won’t get the attribution.”
“Then just play it for me.”
He grinned. “I’ll do that.”
“Do you still want to visit the other clubs?”
“This rarely happens to me, but I feel the beginnings of a painful chafe. I need to take off my leg, wipe the sweat off the limb, and rub on some chafing cream. If you want to drop me off at Midtown, I can take the train to the Lower East Side.” He watched Kaitlyn closely while he described what he had to do, but she didn’t flinch.
“I’ll take you to my apartment so you can tend to your leg and rest. I’ll call Papa and tell him where we are and that I’ll take you to the saloon about eight.”
“He probably won’t mind my going to your apartment as long as your roommates are there.”
She lowered her gaze, looking very guilty. “I haven’t had a roommate for two years. I just never told him. He’d worry about me living alone.”
Bastien laughed. “If I go to your place, you better not tell him the truth. Where is it?”
“West 94th Street.”
“We’re not that far. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stop there.
” Bastien closed his eyes, his thoughts consumed by Marcelle.
He wouldn’t be so worried if their parents hadn’t been gunned down on a Chicago street, a memory that still haunted him.
Marcelle was familiar with New York City, yes, but she was stranded, adrift without funds and separated from her trumpet.
“Are you thinking about Marcelle?”
“How’d you know?”
“There’s a slight tightness around your mouth when she’s on your mind.”
Bastien’s jaw tensed, surprised by Kaitlyn’s observation. “You’ve only known me for a few hours, and you figured that out already? I didn’t realize my micro-expressions were so obvious.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m a lawyer. Comes with the territory. But I’m not familiar with micro-expressions. What are they?”
“Brief, involuntary expressions that flash across a person’s face for only a fraction of a second. They reveal a person’s concealed or genuine emotions.”
“Like the slight tightness around your mouth that lasted only a few seconds.”
“Exactly. And I wasn’t aware that I was doing it, and you’re right. I was thinking about Marcelle. My gut tells me she’s okay.”
“There were ten people in Remy’s group when they came here in 1896. Almost all of them landed in different places, but they found each other.”
“Because they had a plan. Marcelle and I didn’t have one.”
“But you know to look for her at a jazz club. If Marcelle is as talented as you say she is, she’ll find work and make friends, and one of them will offer her a couch to sleep on. People in the business take care of each other.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve had clients either in a show or who played in a band and had contract disputes. Artists are supportive of other artists.”
“I agree, and based on what you’ve told me, I’m a little less worried, but she and Remy are the only family I have.”
“If I lost Papa, I’d be alone in the world.” Kaitlyn drove down Broadway until she reached 94th Street. “We’re almost there. Is there someplace else you’d like to go first?”
“No.” He was hurting and upset that he couldn’t give her the attention he wanted to give.
She turned right and found a parking space on the street. “I’m in the second Tutor-style building.”
“I don’t suppose you’re on the ground floor?”
“Second. Can you make it upstairs?”
“If I go slow, I can.”
They traversed the sidewalk, slipped through a lone wooden door, and ascended the second-floor stairs. It was slow progress, and Bastien ached for a fully functioning ankle. When they gained the landing, she pointed toward her front door, and he steered in that direction.
He exhaled deeply when he crossed the threshold. The scent of lavender and sunshine permeated the front room, and the immediate sensations wrapped around him, solidifying a sense of security and belonging.
“Come this way. I’ll show you around.” She took him past the kitchen to the first bedroom. “This is my former roommate’s room. You’re welcome to use it. The bathroom is that way.” She gestured down the hallway with her thumb. “My bedroom faces the courtyard. Tell me what you need.”
“Let me use the guest room and remove my leg. I always carry some cream with me. After I get settled, I’ll play for you.”
“How about a cup of tea?”
“Sounds great.” He walked back into the bedroom and dropped onto the bed, a wave of heartsickness washing over him.
A fraction of his anxiety was for Marcelle.
But his gloom stemmed from a sense of inadequacy—of being half a man, unable to meet the desires of an amazing woman.
The thought was irrational. Kaitlyn had given him no cause to think that way.
He unhooked his saxophone neck strap, then shed his jacket and vest.
The pivotal moment loomed. How would Kaitlyn respond?
A flicker of pity in her gaze would be devastating.
Steeling his nerve, he pulled up his trouser leg, detached his prosthesis, and saw to his residual leg.
He then pushed himself back on the bed to lean against the headboard.
Once settled, he played, filling the room with the melodies of “Killing Me Softly with His Song,” “Fallin’,” and “You’re Beautiful. ”
Kaitlyn balanced a tray with a teapot, cups, sugar, and cream as she strode into the bedroom.
Her face was flushed, and Bastien wasn’t sure if it was from heating water for tea or a physical reaction to the sultry music.
Then her gaze swept from the prosthesis to the empty pants leg to his face, and her smile conveyed genuine concern, not pity.
She sat on the opposite side of the bed and put the tray between them. “What do you want in your tea?”
“Nothing, but why is your face flushed?”
“Your music is erotic,” she said without hesitation.
“You associate the sound with romance and smoky clubs.”
“Maybe, but it’s a sensual sound and deeply evocative.
” She poured hot water into the cup, holding a tea bag.
“And it’s the way you play. The man you are, your heart, your soul, comes through the saxophone.
And you make it easy to care for you. Not as an amputee, but as a man.
” She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips.
Then she sat back and smiled. “I imagined your lips were hard from all that playing, but they’re so soft. ”
“I’m happy to disappoint.” A tempest of feelings roared within him. Many women had kissed him first, but this was a different time, and—fuck, he liked it.
She grinned.
He choked back an overwhelming tide of emotion. A feat of sheer will. “Why are you so accepting of me, of my leg, or absence of one?”
She handed him a cup and stirred sugar into hers. “I know men who returned from the war with missing limbs. They’ve always been heroes to me. So have Remy and Patrick for what they did for Papa.” She kissed Bastien’s cheek. “You are so much like them, at least from what I’ve heard.”
“Those two guys are hard asses. I’m a creampuff.”
She kissed him again and then took the cup out of his hand. “You might be a creampuff, but you’re an amazing saxophonist. Play another song.”
There was only one song to play—“Careless Whisper.” The music instantly ignited a sensual and romantic atmosphere.
He held her gaze throughout the song, and she feverishly licked her lips.
As he moved further into the song, she inexorably moved closer to him, her head tilted, and her breathing became quicker with anticipation.
When he finished, time froze, and their gazes burned with intensity.
The last breath of his saxophone faded, replaced by the clatter of the tea tray against the wood floor.
He moved with a sudden, desperate grace, his hands leaving the cool metal and porcelain to find her, pulling her against the silk of his shirt.
A fire sparked deep in his veins, and the thought of her soft skin beneath his grip sent a hot pulse through him.
A primal hunger for her consumed him, a yearning that battled with his conscience.
The scent of her hair, the softness of her skin against him, threatened to shatter his resolve, but the image of Tony’s face, his trust, held him captive.
Honor was a brittle shield against the tide of his desire.
He quelled the tempest within, his control a hard-won victory, yet he knew with certainty that the next time, the fragile dam of his restraint would surely break.