Chapter Four
Roe
I was on my last set of the night, already halfway through a song about attraction feeling like a fever when the door suddenly opened.
And there he was.
I almost forgot my next lyric as his dark eyes zeroed right in on me.
It was a look that had impact.
I swear I nearly went back a step.
I mean, attractive men were a dime a dozen.
And he was that. Attractive. Tall, fit, chiseled face, broody brows, neatly styled hair, a tattoo or two sneaking out from his collar.
But it was more than that.
There was an air of authority around him, that deep-rooted confidence oozing from his pores.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just singing the lyrics; I was feeling them.
The stage light felt too hot. My dress was too tight. My skin felt too warm, too constrictive.
All the while, he just stood there staring.
It wasn’t until the last notes of the song drifted away that he finally moved, making a beeline for the rounded booth closest to the stage.
I spent the next three songs trying to focus my attention out toward the crowd in general, never quite focusing on anyone, but also somehow making everyone feel like I was singing right to them.
All the while, though, I felt his gaze on me. I was acutely aware of each shift he made, the way his hand flexed around his glass of whiskey, how the liquid glistened on his lips after he took a sip.
As I sang the last few notes of a song about kissing, all I could think about was walking over to him, dropping onto his lap, and tasting the liquor on his lips.
The familiar chorus of soft applause met my ears as I shot the room a smile and blew a couple of kisses.
I didn’t even get a step away from the mic when a shadow fell over me.
Then there he was.
At the edge of the stage, offering me a hand to help me down. Even though it was hardly more than a step.
My hand slid into his.
I felt the sizzle of it all the way up my arm.
“Thank you.”
“Have dinner with me.”
It wasn’t the first time a guest had asked me out.
It was the first time I actually considered it.
“I’m afraid I—”
“Monroe.”
I barely resisted the urge to growl at the sound of Frank’s voice.
My eyes slid closed, and I exhaled hard before turning to look at him.
“Yes, Frank?” I asked, my smile tight.
His gaze went three places: my boobs, my face, then where my hand was still sitting in the stranger’s.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked, trying to square his shoulders to have more presence. It was no use. Not when he was standing next to a guy like this handsome stranger.
“That’s a good question,” I said with a genuine smile for the man.
“Milo,” he said, addressing me. Then, looking to Frank, “Milo Grant.”
“Frank Martin,” Frank said, thrusting out a hand so Milo had no choice but to release my hand to shake his. But he didn’t do it without first bringing it to his lips for a kiss that I swear I felt in my knees. “And this is the incomparable Monroe London.”
It was a stage name. Well, the last name, at least. My first name genuinely was Monroe. But London had a ring to it that Langston didn’t quite accomplish.
“I was just asking Miss London to join me for dinner,” Milo said, dark eyes going to me again.
“I’m afraid she can’t,” Frank said.
“To Café 72,” Milo added.
That got Frank’s attention.
Hell, it got my attention.
Because Café 72 was the most exclusive restaurant in town. Meaning, yeah, the most expensive. And Frank really liked surrounding himself with the kind of people who would invite a complete stranger to dinner there.
“Unfortunately, Monroe has to stay here tonight. I have a private event she is singing at.”
“Pity,” Milo said.
I couldn’t tell if he was laying the charm on thick or if he was just that smooth. It was killing me that I wouldn’t get a chance to find out. Because a man like him wouldn’t be lonely long. He’d have someone else sitting across from him at the restaurant in no time.
“You’re welcome to join,” Frank said.
“For what?” Milo asked.
“Some drinks. Cigars. Poker. And the company of Monroe, of course.”
God, he made me sound like an escort.
Milo’s gaze slid to me again, taking me in for a long moment before meeting Frank’s again.
“Where?”
Frank waved an arm out at the room that was already getting emptied of the little tables I adored so much.
“In that case,” Milo said, eyes on me again. “I’d love to.”
“Monroe, shouldn’t you be… freshening up?” Frank asked.
I held back the eye roll.
I was sure I still looked fine.
But I did need a cup of hot water for some soothing tea.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, offering Milo a smile.
I ignored Frank.
He got more than enough attention from me on an average day. And he was the one who wanted me to be flirty with his special guests.
“Give them the fantasy,” he would say. Then, with his usual charm, he added, “But I better not find out you were on your back or knees for them.”
He was constantly suspicious that I was banging high rollers in my free time. Or doing sex work on the side.
He claimed it was because he wanted to maintain an upscale and untouchable aura with “his girls.”
I thought it had more to do with the fact that he couldn’t have me, so he didn’t want anyone else to either.
Typical.
I put a little sway into my step as I made my way back out of the lounge, then hustled through the back web of hallways, grabbing a teabag from my dressing room, and rushing to the kitchen for a cup and hot water.
I kicked off my shoes, carrying them in the crook of a finger on a slow walk back to the stage, sipping my tea, feeling it coat my vocal cords, which still felt pretty good, but I knew were going to feel sore after another set.
“Everything alright?” I asked when I got back to the door and saw Archie leaning against the wall, cradling one of those instant heat packs between his hands, his joints swollen with arthritis.
“New setlist,” he said, producing a piece of paper.
“Seriously?” I asked, dropping my shoes so I could take the list.
“He just gave it to me. I would have warned you sooner.”
“This is atrocious,” I declared, glancing up at him.
“I had to look up that second one,” Archie admitted.
“Did you have enough time to learn it?”
“One listen is enough for me.”
That wasn’t an exaggeration. I’d never met someone like Archie, who could listen to a song once and know it for life.
“We’re slowing it down, though, right?” he asked, dropping the heat pack in his pocket and flexing his fingers.
“Yeah. Slow them all down a bit. They’re almost all too poppy for this kind of event.”
I took the arm he offered me so I could get back into my shoes, then drained my tea, rolled my shoulders, and studied the list one more time before handing it back to him.
“Ready?” I asked.
As an answer, Archie just exhaled hard.
Yeah, I knew the feeling.
Except I wasn’t dreading it like I’d been earlier.
I waited to hear the soft sounds of Archie playing the piano before I moved into the room.
Frank’s usual crowd was gathered: a few local businessmen whom he was forever sucking up to.
Only one gave me the slimy vibes like Frank did: a tall guy with linebacker shoulders and a hangover waist, bushy reddish-blond hair, and an atrocious mustache that always seemed to hold the remnants of his last meal inside.
There were two unfamiliar faces, both of whom turned to rake their gazes over me as I came in.
But I only had eyes for one man.
Milo was leaned back against the bar, his fresh drink in his hand, his gaze lazily sliding over me. But in a way that made me feel appreciated instead of objectified.
When his gaze made it to my face, he lifted his drink in a small salute and took a sip.
My belly flipped.
My pulse skipped.
I didn’t remember the last time I felt such a sudden and overwhelming urge to be with a man. But I wanted nothing more than to grab him by the tie and walk him like a dog out into the back hall and have him screw me up against the wall.
It was those thoughts that added a sexy rasp to my voice as I got to the stage and started my set.
Milo made his way over to the poker table, choosing the one beside Frank because, I suspected, it gave him the best view of me.
It wasn’t long, though, before the game started to require some of his focus.
As much as I’d been enjoying his hungry eyes on me, I was glad for the chance to observe him when he couldn’t see me.
And I was observing, all right.
I noticed the way his fingers fanned his cards, how his lips puffed cigar rings, how his keen gaze flicked between the other players, how he gave nothing of his hand away as he played.
So the whole table erupted in shock when he bluffed everyone out, laid down a nothing hand, and took the pot.
It was hot.
He was hot.
I, in turn, was hot. And bothered.
So when I started to sing about taking it easy on my curves, a heaping dollop of sensuality slipped into my voice. Enough to make Milo’s gaze finally leave his hand and slide to me.
My stomach tightened.
Then I did something I tried to never do.
I sang to just him.
The world narrowed to just the two of us for three minutes, save for the quick second he called on the game he was playing. But even then, he kept his gaze on me, just flicking coins into the pot without looking.
When the final note ended, our gazes finally broke.
I lost his focus.
But the impact of it lingered, leaving me fluttering and pulsing as I finished my set.
I could hear Archie losing control of his fingers by the last song and was glad it was almost over so he could get a break.
“Monroe, don’t rush off,” Frank said, even as Archie did just that, giving me an apologetic wince.
But it wasn’t like he could defend me anyway if something did happen.
“Come here and say hello,” Frank demanded.
I exhaled hard through my nose and made my way to the table, choosing to stand near Milo, which unfortunately put me right next to Frank as well. But at least I was away from his one ass-grabby friend.
“Monroe, can I get you a drink?” the ass-grabber asked.
“Our Monroe here doesn’t drink.”
That wasn’t true. But I let Frank believe it because I never wanted to consume anything that would let my guard down around him.
“That’s one hell of a voice you have,” one of Frank’s new friends said.
My gut said he wasn’t one of the bad ones. He wasn’t raking his gaze over me. He genuinely seemed a fan of my performance, not my looks.
“Hell of a body too,” one of the others piped in.
If I wasn’t looking, I might have missed the way Milo’s fingers tightened on his glass. It was such a small movement. It might not even have had anything to do with the comment. Or me. But, God, it was hot if it did.
“We’re lucky I persuaded her to perform for us tonight,” Frank said, puffing up as he reached to snake an arm around my hips, grazing my ass in the process.
I forced myself not to stiffen.
I plastered on a smile that ached.
But the new guy, the one who liked my voice, his eyes narrowed.
“Speaking of. Didn’t you do several sets earlier?”
“I did.”
“Shouldn’t you be off resting your voice now?”
It was a question, but it was clearly also an offer of an exit for me. Without my being rude.
“You’re right,” I agreed, pulling away from Frank. “I don’t want my next guests to be disappointed if I’m all raspy. It was a pleasure singing for you all tonight,” I said, pressing a hand to my chest.
“A pleasure,” Mr. Mustache said, holding out a hand.
I had to take it.
Not only because I knew a tip would be passed to me in it. But because Frank was watching.
When he lowered that bristly lip to the top of my hand, though, it took actual work not to recoil as I grabbed the cash with my thumb.
I casually moved around the table as I discreetly shoved each tip down my bodice.
“Monroe,” Milo finally called. And, damn, if my name didn’t sound like it belonged on his lips.
“Mr. Grant,” I said, giving him a genuine smile as he took my hand.
I wished he’d kiss it again. But I didn’t blame him for not wanting to after Mr. Mustache did.
His fingers did linger on mine for a beat longer than necessary, though.
I felt scorched.
I pressed my thumb to the cash, then pressed my palm again to my chest.
“It’s been my pleasure, gentlemen.”
With that, I walked off.
As soon as I was out of sight, I damn near ran to my dressing room.
I wanted to get changed and out of here before Frank excused his guests.
As soon as I was behind a closed door, I kicked off my shoes and then started to put the cash from Milo down on the table. When I noticed something tucked in with the money (a lot of money, too).
A little sliver of white folded between the bills.
I dropped the cash and reached for the paper, unfolding it and finding a note.
Café 72. Tomorrow, 3pm. - M
I was pretty sure Café 72 wasn’t even open for lunch. But he clearly had pockets deep enough to make the manager and chef open just for him.
For us.
I mean, I wasn’t going to go.
Right?
Even as I tried to tell myself all the reasons it was a terrible idea, though, all I could think about was the way his gaze lingered, how his lips felt on my hand, how he crooned my name.
Yeah.
I was going to be there.
I just had no idea it was a damn job interview.