Songbird

by Victoria Escobar

  Leave it to her to think of the practical after the fact. She probably only remembered that Bluejay was responsible for my on the job injuries. Such was the lack of importance of bottom of the rung employees.

  “I think I can fix it.” I pushed slowly off the stool. Why not try? I couldn’t make this worse. My brother had a temper like Nicholas Walker. If I could handle my brother than I sure as shit could handle the moody musician.

  I may not read the gossip rags, but everyone in town knew Nicholas Walker had the sweet tooth of a two year old. Setting up to sweet talk him into doing what was needed for the business, I went into the kitchen and put what I needed in a to-go container. A bottle of water went into my apron along with silverware.

  “What are you doing?” Maggie Mae asked when I came back to the bar to grab napkins.

  “Getting Nicholas Walker on stage,” I answered.

  She chewed her lip. This habit grated on my last nerve. She wasn’t the one about to face the lion. “Do you really think you can?”

  “Only one way to find out.” I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Angry men were dangerous. I knew it from personal experience to be a fact. However, Nicholas had also been unfathomably kind. That kindness deserved some in return even if my kindness had an ulterior motive.

  With to-go container in hand, I left the dining area and entered the hall connecting the dining room, concert hall and gift shop. Climbing the stairs I sent any celestial being a quick prayer for luck. Artists had assigned VIP boxes on the balcony above regular setting to watch the show from when they were scheduled to perform. I only prayed Nicholas was in his instead of packing up and heading out.

  Lady Luck often ignored my pleas, even with a prayer, so I was thrilled when I stepped into the partially dark box and saw Nicholas sitting in the corner near the dimmed lamp with a notebook. There were three other guys sitting in the box, but their backs were to Nicholas and they were watching the stage.

  Crispin’s comedy routine blasted through the auditorium and I found the joke he was telling on the crude and uneducated side. Not really surprising considering his behavior.

  Nicholas ignored the stage and wrote quickly, almost frantic, in the notebook held close to his face. His eyes were completely focused on the paper so he didn’t notice my silent entrance. A hand traveled through his hair once and he twisted the chain of his necklace when he paused to read over what he wrote. Nervous ticks? What did the man have to be nervous about?

  I walked over pulling out the bottle of water and sat down next to Nicholas. I waited for him to look up before holding out the bottle.

  “I still owe you a water.”

  His lips quirked and he took the bottle. I watched him break the seal and drink half the bottle in a few gulps. His eyes landed on the to-go box in my lap when he lowered the bottle.

  “What’s that?”

  “This?” I looked down at the box and prayed this worked. My brother was usually susceptible to sweet talk but no two men had the same temperament. “Nobody usually stands up for me—”

  “Well they should.” He cut me off and the edges of his temper could be felt in the snapped words.

  “I grew up in the rough part of Annapolis. You think I’d be used to assholes, but after living here the last couple of years I forget they exist, I guess.”

  “I’m an asshole,” Nicholas spoke quietly. “I would have decked the fucker if Ezra wouldn’t have gone wild.”

  “Your heart was in the right place,” I murmured, and wondered who Ezra was for half a heartbeat but my focus had to be on getting him to perform. I held out the to-go box. “This is a proper thank you for standing up for me.”

  I watched curiosity cross his face as he took the box and then pure greed when he flipped the lid open. I held out the silverware, without a word he took them.

  The triple chocolate fudge mousse cake was diabetes incarnate. I had felt like I was going into diabetic shock just plating it up and drizzling the chocolate sauce over it. The dollop of whip cream was probably the least sugary part of the whole thing.

  When he put the first bite into his mouth his eyes rolled half shut and a little purr sounded from his throat. My mouth went dry and my palms started to sweat. I had to remind myself that he was walking sex and I should not be impressed with his near orgasmic reaction to chocolate.

  He took the second bite a lot slower and when his tongue darted out to lick the chocolate sauce dripping down his lower lip, I nearly lost my nerve and bolted. Imagining licking chocolate off of every inch of him was not going to get me through the rest of this conversation.

  The rock band now on the stage caught my attention and I stood, moving to the other side of Nicholas so I could see the stage. The band below was rocking out hard and seemed to be having a lot of fun considering this was a job for them. I supposed if you loved what you did it wasn’t really work.

  “What is it?” Nicholas looked out toward the stage.

  I shrugged and figured a little truth wouldn’t hurt my cause. “I’ve never seen the live music performance before. I work outside with the vendors usually. This is my first time seeing the stage show. It’s pretty nice.”

  “Average.” Nicholas stuck another forkful of cake into his mouth. “I can do better.”

  “I’m too poor to afford tickets to shows on the norm so this is probably the only time I’ll get to see a live show.” I leaned back against the wall and didn’t take my eyes from the stage. “Since you’re on strike, I’ll have to settle for average.”

  I politely clapped when the band finished their three songs and an up-and-coming pop idol took the stage. I felt Nicholas’s eyes but didn’t look at him and stayed focused on the stage. If I prodded anymore he would likely not perform to be stubborn.

  “Guys.” Nicholas stood when the pop star finished her songs. “Go set up.”

  Surprisingly his stage band didn’t seem all that surprised with his swift change of mind and filed out without comment. I received a curious glance but no one spoke as they walked out.

  Nicholas took my arm lightly and steered me to the chair closest to the balcony rail. “Sit here, Songbird.”

  I blinked at him confused. “Songbird?”

  He held up the notebook he still clutched in his other hand. “New music thanks to you. So, yeah. Songbird.”

  “Oh, well. Congrats on new music?”

  He laughed and traced a finger lightly down my face on the uninjured side. “Watch a real show.” And then he stepped out.

  If I had assumed that country musicians couldn’t showboat on stage the way rock stars did I would have been totally wrong. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what to expect from the country boy. I liked the genre—I liked all music really—but I had no idea how they made a performance of it.

  There were screams of “I love you” when Nicholas stepped onto the stage. He looked formidable in his black ensemble and I stood to lean against the rail for better viewing.

  “Thank you everyone for your patience,” he spoke into the microphone with a smile that surprisingly didn’t show the dimple. I knew there were varying degrees of smiles and wondered if the dimple only showed when he was outrageously happy or something. I was too far away to see any if there were other lines in his face that would shout any other emotion preventing a full smile.

  “Songbird helped me write some new music.” He continued, “Thanks for letting me have the time to get it down on paper. Maybe if you’re good tonight, I’ll sing one for you.”

  He performed in a completely comfortable manner. Sometimes he played the guitar over his shoulder, sometimes he didn’t. Nothing of his temper or discomfort showed in any of the songs.

  At the end of the third song he looked up at me and flashed me his smile with his dimple. Had he been faking his smile before? For his grin to light up so easily and make that wonderful accent appear just as quickly he almost had to have been faking, but why?

  I nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. His smile widened. Boys
had to impress. That I understood at least.

  “Is everyone having a good night?” he asked and received shouts and whistles. “So that new music I was talking about? This is ‘Broken Glass’.”

  He played his guitar and I realized it was an acoustic performance. Only he was playing. His band was breaking down quietly as he played.

  He sang about life being hard, about being deliberately knocked down by hard times, about shattered illusions and the cuts of broken dreams. More importantly he sang about getting back up, about standing in the wreckage of broken glass and still being strong enough to clean up the mess and start over.

  Tears streamed down my face by the end of the song. I had a feeling I wasn’t the only one either by the sound in the hall.

  When he finished he looked right up at me. “For you, Songbird.” Then he stepped back, waved to the crowd and disappeared backstage.

  My job here was done. Backstage manager, Vincent, would have a buffet table set up and there would be a short interview session to be edited in to the podcast before publishing. I left the box and went back to the dining room to finish clean up and close out. If luck continued to bless me, I might actually get home before three am.

  I made it home by two. I was accustomed to working on four hours of sleep or less—thank you nightmares—but that didn’t mean I would be Sally Sunshine the next morning. There were no bad dreams when I worked until my exhausted mind could do nothing other than shut up, so there was a perk to working an eighteen hour day with little sleep.

  Though I loved my actual job, I hated that I had to be on site at seven in the morning. When the alarm went off I didn’t curse, or moan into my pillows. I was mature enough that I didn’t even sigh. I sat up, slammed my fist on the annoying trill of bells, and climbed out of bed to start the day.

  The sidewalk vendors in the courtyard commons of the entertainment hall satisfied some of the craving to be needed. As their liaison for Bluejay, I was often running around checking them in, checking them out, maintaining the rules and decorum, changing money when required and generally keeping everything running smoothly. While far from my dream job, the craving desire to help maintained and kept—mostly—a roof over my head and food in my belly. The position also offered the greatest amount of hours—not quite full time but close enough to be worth it—as for some reason the other employee’s hated being outside. The sun and I were besties and I reveled in the heat and light.

  “Good morning, Miss Sheridan.”

  I smiled and nodded to Bailey. He never actually needed my assistance and was more a gossip than anything else but he always said hello. His Hats and Caps Salon as he called it did brisk business. I wore one of the hats myself with my braided hair tucked up in it against the early morning light. I loved this hat and was glad the older man had insisted I accept the gift.

  Though the weatherman had called for low seventies as the high today, I had compromised on my wardrobe. Usually seventies of any kind had me in shorts, but since there had been a warning of early morning frost I went with jean to tuck into my Americana boots. I didn’t like any kind of cold.

  Mornings were usually brisk and by the time the courtyard was open for business my grouchiness at being awake had all but faded. I would need to nap between shifts since I had to work the entertainment crowd again tonight.

  Business was brisk; it almost always was on the weekend. A fight between vendors about the proper way to wear a hat broke out and was the highlight of excitement for my morning. By afternoon, I dragged and dreamed of my bed.

  However, before my nap there were errands to see to and I mentally ran down my list of chores. By the time it was time for Lance to take over, I had cut the list in half in favor of just going home and dropping until this evening. Chores didn’t go anywhere. They would be there later to do.

  “Ms. Sheridan?”

  A blond man in a black suit and reflective sunglasses smiled at me. Men in suits meant cops to me. Worse—FBI or CIA agents. And those meant the men that I was forced to call family had been up to some shit again.

  I felt cold chills run down my spine in an instant. My hands shook and my stomach clenched to the point of nausea. I hadn’t done anything wrong, I reminded myself; I had never done anything wrong.

  Then why did you run? A little voice asked. I mercilessly squashed it.

  I forced a smile that I hoped looked convincing. “Yes, that’s me.” My voice wavered and there was no hiding the nervousness.

  He raised a brow and held out a hand, “Ezra Carter, President of Eclipse Arts Management, ma’am. I manage several of the top musicians in Nashville.”

  Relief turned my knees to jelly as I shook his hand. Not a cop. A manager.

  What the hell would a manager want with me? I buried my past so deep no one should be able to dig it out without my help. There couldn’t be any reason for him to be here for me.

  Ezra. Wasn’t that the name Nicholas had used last night? Did he manage the country boy?

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, but I’m not a musician of any kind. Well, unless singing in the shower counts.” I gave a nervous laugh and ordered myself to shut up. The briefest flash of a dream came and went leaving a bittersweet squeeze in my heart. I ignored it.

  He studied me a moment, “I’d like to discuss a job with you if you have a moment.”

  “I have a job,” I waved automatically to encompass the courtyard.

  “That you are technically overqualified for, Ms. Sheridan.” His lips curled in an almost derisive fashion. “Maggie Mae was kind enough to show me your resume when I asked. Business Science with a concentration in Management. Isn’t that a terrible waste here?”

  My hands fisted so tight I knew there would be blood from my nails. Maggie Mae was generally harmless, and sadly as blonde as they came. My records were supposed to be private, I thought.

  I lifted my chin but didn’t trust my voice to speak. Using my degree connected to my old life—the one I wanted to leave behind. Checking into my qualifications could lead to questions. And if they asked enough, they would eventually discover the disaster in New York. The two weeks in the hospital—at my own father’s hand, no less—wasn’t something I wanted to think about, let alone explain to a potential employer.

  Ezra pulled off his glasses and I watched his sapphire eyes scan over my face. He stopped on my speckled eye, and then continued to study the slight bend in my nose. I had my lips pressed together to keep them from trembling but that didn’t hide the scar from the injury that required stitches to close the flesh back up on my lower lip—courtesy of my old man.

  “I know what happened in New York.” Even though his tone was low, I looked around frantically to make sure no one was listening. The world still moved around us, and we stood in a tiny piece of stopped time.

  “How?” I whispered finally. New York had been—I thought—conscientiously buried. No one should be able to find my history so easily or quickly. The fact this man could made keeping the vomit down even harder.

  Ezra’s smile was quick and friendly. “It’s my job to know people. Especially people I’d like to hire.”

  “If you know everything then there’s no reason you’d want to hire me.” I gulped and forced the rising bile down.

  “We can’t pick our family, Ms. Sheridan. However, I believe you did the right thing and the only thing you could have. Your strength is admirable.” Ezra tapped his glasses against his hand. “You get off in a few minutes don’t you? Let me take you to lunch and explain the predicament I’m in. Free food, Ms. Sheridan and all you have to do is listen.” He offered his arm. “There’s a restaurant down the street and it sure is a pretty day for a walk.”

  I studied him as I bit the inside of my cheek. Smart men were dangerous. Since he was obviously aware that any opportunity to brush him off would be taken, he was leaving very little room to politely decline.

  “I enjoy my job very much and I’m not in the market for a new one. Thank you, but no thanks.” I
had every intention of walking away and was forced to a stop by his hand on my arm.

  My free hand dipped to my concealed weapon. I didn’t like being touched without permission and while I wouldn’t pull the gun unless I did truly feel threatened, I wanted it within easy access.

  After New York my guns were as every day as my shoes. If I went out, hell, even at home, I always had at least one of them. The habit was so ingrained now I didn’t think about them unless I needed to draw one.

  “No one in my experience has ever kicked a gift horse in the mouth. I’m offering a real job, in your studied field. You’ll have extremely good pay, benefits, and bonuses if you accept. All I’m asking right now, is you come to lunch and listen.”

  I brushed off his fingers and felt my shoulders relax when his large hand fell away without protest. “I have to grab my purse and clock out.” I could avoid his lurking about and dash for my car without being seen.

  His smile never faltered. “I’m more than happy to walk with you.” He stepped forward. “I don’t believe I’ve ever visited this place from an audience’s perspective.”

  Trapped, I sighed and turned. “All right.”

  I leaned back in my chair and studied the man seated across from me. I hadn’t bothered to comment on the fact he’d already made a reservation or that he’d already had water and appetizers ordered for the table by the time we were seated. There was no reason to waste time on the obvious. His message was clear; he got what he wanted.

  Ezra kept the lunch conversation light and impersonal. He talked about the city, the weather, and the music but never about what he really wanted while we ate. There wasn’t enough of a breach in the conversation for me to excuse myself and bolt. I resignedly responded where polite but held my tongue and waited.