I spend the next hour scanning the club and come up empty-handed. I’m discouraged. No one stands out as the one and this club is by far my best bet for meeting single women in this town. Maybe I should consider coming back another time when it’s not open mic night. Tonight, the place is crawling with boozed college students.
Tonight’s search has been a failure, but at least the karaoke was entertaining.
I’m finishing off the last of my wine before I leave when an announcer from the club takes the stage and asks for the next singer to step forward. A small group of people across the room nominates one of its own. My view of the poor bastard is blocked by the crowd of intoxicated kids standing between us, but I’m certain this is going to be another delightful train wreck.
The club erupts into cheer and chants. “Do. It. Do. It. Do. It.” A young woman walks onto the stage and stands with her back to the crowd as she takes a guitar from its stand. She lifts its strap over her head and then tosses her long brown hair over one shoulder. When she’s finished settling the guitar into place, she circles around and sits on the stool in the middle of the stage.
She’s beautiful. And somehow overlooked during my search.
She’s wearing a short ivory dress and a denim jacket with brown cowgirl boots. She bares her thighs as she lifts her feet to rest on the bottom rail, but she’s careful to push her dress between her legs so she doesn’t provide a peep show to the crowd.
She strums the borrowed guitar a few times and then leans into the microphone. “Is everyone having a good time tonight?”
She’s American. I think. Her accent sounds different—not like what I’ve heard in the past.
The crowd erupts into a drunken cheer and I hear a man’s voice yell over the crowd, “It’s better now, sweet thing!”
She smiles and adjusts the mic. “I’m not from around here. It’s my first night in Australia.”
“Leave with me and I’ll make you feel right at home!” a man shouts from the back of the room.
She ignores the fat, ugly bastard yelling at her. “I don’t know what kind of music Australians like, but this has been one of my favorites for as long as I can remember.” She strums a few more chords. “This is ‘Crash Into Me’ by the Dave Matthews Band.”
She sings it slower than the original, putting her own twist on it. Her voice is raspy and sexy, her eyes closed. She oozes eroticism. She tilts her head and opens her eyes when she begins to sing the chorus. I swear it feels like she’s looking right in my direction, singing to me.
The stage lights shine in her face and common sense tells me she can’t see me sitting in the dark corner at the back of the club, but that doesn’t stop me from hoping.
She finishes the chorus and shuts her eyes again. Her long legs bounce against the rail of the stool to keep rhythm and I fall victim to her siren’s song. She has bewitched me. And I want her. She’s the one.
She opens her eyes and looks in my direction again as she sings about hiking up a skirt a little more. Man, she can show me her world if she so desires.
The waitress returns to my table, but I don’t glance in her direction when she speaks. I can’t take my eyes from the beautiful brunette on stage for even a second. “Can I bring you another Shiraz?”
My plans have changed. “Yes, please.”
The American girl finishes her song and the crowd is all cheers and whistles. She smiles as she pulls the guitar strap over her head and then leans forward to the mic. “Thank you.”
I watch her leave the stage and return to a table where she is sitting with a blond woman and two blokes. Damn! A boyfriend, perhaps?
My waitress returns with my wine and places it on the table in front of me. “Excuse me, do you know the girl who just performed?”
“No. She said it was her first night in Australia.”
I take my wallet from my interior jacket pocket and remove a hundred-dollar bill. I slide it in her direction across the table. “What about the people she’s sitting with?”
She sees the money on the table and picks it up to deposit in the pocket of her black apron before turning to see who my songstress is sitting with. “The blond guy is Ben Donavon and his friend is Zac Kingston. They’re regulars in here, two or three times a week.”
Why is this American here with those blokes? “She sounds American. Do you know why she would be with them?”
“Ben is a Yank. His family owns a vineyard in California and he’s here to study wine at the uni. I think she’d have to be someone he knows from home.”
I hold up a second hundred-dollar bill between my fingers. “See this? It’s yours if you can find out what she’s doing here and how long she’ll be in Wagga Wagga. And find out if she’s dating either one of the blokes.”
She smiles and I see she’s interested in playing my little game. “I’ll be back to collect that in a minute.”
I sit back and enjoy my Shiraz while the waitress does my detective work. A visiting American couldn’t be more perfect for my next companion. Once our relationship is over, she would be on an entirely different continent, which ensures we won’t have any accidental future run-ins.
My stay in Wagga Wagga is becoming more promising.
I finish my glass of Shiraz as my waitress returns. “Her name is …”
I cut her off before she can finish her sentence. “No, I don’t want to know her name.”
I can see this stumps her, but money is money. “Ben’s sister is her best friend and they’ve come to spend the summer with him. She met Ben and Zac for the first time today.”
Good. That means she isn’t dating either of them.
If the guys are students in the wine science program at the university, I’m guessing they will be at the vintage dinner at the school on Friday night. They’ll be anxious to showcase their wines. I wonder if she’ll be there as a guest.
I pull another bill from my wallet and hold it up for Blondie to see. “This is yours if you can find out what their plans are for the vintage dinner at the university on Friday night. I want to know if the brunette will be there.”
She smiles again. “I could play this game all night.”
Ten minutes later, she returns with another Shiraz and an update. “The guys will be presenting their wines at the dinner, and both girls will be guests.”
I slide the well-earned bill across the table. “Perfect. Thank you.”
“It’s been my pleasure. Would you like me to keep the Shiraz coming?”
“Yes.”
I spend the next hour stealing glances at the beautiful American through the crowd of people between us as they shift. I’m disappointed when the foursome gets up to leave, but I see the perfect opportunity for a convenient face-to-face encounter when she moves toward the restrooms.
I migrate in that direction and wait for her to emerge for our chance meeting in the hallway. When the door to the ladies’ room opens, I walk toward her, but she’s looking down into her purse. She attempts to dodge right, so I move with her. “Pardon me.”
Her accent is so unusual. And endearing.
She steps to her left and I move with her like a mirror image. “So sorry, Miss.”
Look up at me.
“Wanna dance?” she laughs as she lifts her eyes from her purse.
“I’d love to.” Her smile spreads with my reply. We lock eyes and I try to identify the color of hers, but I can’t. It’s too dark in the narrow hallway.
I was right. She is the one.
She seems embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Asking someone to dance is an expression we use where I’m from. You know? Like when two people try to get around one another as we just did.”
“I’m familiar with the expression, but one can always hope.” I step around her toward the door to the men’s room. “I think I would have enjoyed a dance with you.”
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Excerpt: A Necessary Sin
The Sin Trilogy: Book I
Prologue
; Stella Bleu Lawrence
* * *
Age Seven
I’m wearing my pretty pink princess apron and chef hat while doing my most favoritest thing in the world–baking chocolate chip cookies with my mama. I inspect the shiny plastic roll of dough, studying the picture of the white fluffy pastry boy on the package before turning it around for her to see. “Mama, look. He’s wearing a puffy hat just like mine. Except mine’s prettier.” Everything is prettier when it’s pink.
My mama sprays the pan we’re using for our cookies. “He sure is, Bleubird. And I think you’re right. Yours is much prettier. Did you know only the best chefs in the world wear hats like yours?”
Wow. This hat makes me one of the best chefs in the world so that means these cookies are going to be the most delicious I’ve ever baked.
“It’s your favorite song,” I squeal when “Amanda” begins to play. Mama says Boston sings that song just for her. I think she could be right since Amanda is her name.
We always listen to music when we’re cooking so I’ve heard this song a million times. I know every word by heart but I don’t understand what it means. Mama says it’s all about grown-up stuff and I’ll understand one day. I’m not sure I ever want to understand. Grown-up stuff makes my mama cry. A lot.
I’m singing my guts out because it always makes her crack up. I love seeing her laugh because it means she isn’t crying. She’s too pretty to cry so much.
She holds the plastic roll of dough to her mouth and pretends it’s a microphone. She sings so pretty. Everything about Mama is pretty. I hope I grow up to be just like her.
The song gets to the part where there are no words, only guitars, so she puts her pretend microphone on the counter and slices into it with a sharp knife. She always does that part because she says I’m still too little to use knives. My job is to roll the dough into little balls. I’m not always great at it, though. Some come out big, some little. But she always tells me I’ve done a great job–even when I know I haven’t.
“Can I have a bite of dough?” She’s making her “no” face. “Please … with lots and lots of sugar on top.”
I can’t remember why she said it’s okay to eat the cookie dough after it comes out of the oven, but not before. “Hailey’s mama lets her have cookie dough.”
“Maybe one little bite will be okay, but we’re not going to make a habit of this, little lady.” She pinches off a tiny ball and I almost jump up and down because I’m so happy. I’ve always wanted to taste it because Hailey says it’s delicious.
I miss cooking with Mama. We used to do it all the time but that was before she started her new job. She works at night so she has to leave me with our neighbor. Amelia’s nice to me but she’s old, smells funny, and never wants to play. All she does is sit in her chair with her feet up and watch that news show where the same stories repeat over and over. It’s sooo boring.
I finish my tiny ball of cookie dough and immediately want more. “Another? Please, with sugar on top.” That worked the first time.
“No, Stella. I said one bite and that’s what I meant so don’t ask again.” I knew she’d say no but it was worth a try.
I line the balls of dough on the pan and she puts them in the preheated oven. “We’ll check them in ten minutes.” She sets the timer on the stove because we don’t want to burn them. We love our cookies gooey. “What do you want to do while we wait?”
I look at the roll of leftover dough in the roll. “Umm … eat cookie dough?” I grin and bat my eyelashes, as if that’s going to get me what I want but she doesn’t budge. I only succeed in making her laugh, which is better than making her mad since I asked again after she told me not to.
I sit at the table in our kitchen, tortured by the smell of baking cookies. “They smell sooo good. How much longer?”
I’m not sure why I asked. I can plainly see the timer counting down. “Five more minutes.”
I huff and blow my hair out of my face and prop my chin on my hands. “I wish they’d hurry up. I’m ready to taste those ooey-gooey cookies.”
“Good things come to those who wait.” She tells me that all the time but I don’t understand why good things can’t come sooner instead of later. I hate waiting. “Do you want milk with your cookies?”
“Yes!” I run to the fridge and swing the smaller side open. I hope we have mugs in the freezer. I love that milky ice that forms in the glass.
The doorbell rings and Max, our ginormous German shepherd, barks as he runs toward the door. I bounce up from the kitchen table to follow him. “I bet it’s Hailey wanting to play.”
Mama puts her hand out and catches me by the back of my shirt. “That’s not Hailey. Her mother wouldn’t let her come over this late.” She goes up on her tiptoes and spies through the peephole. She jerks back and twists to look at me before placing her finger to her lips. “Shh.” She tiptoes to me and takes my hand. She grabs Max by the collar and takes us down the hallway.
She goes to her knees so we’re face to face and holds both of my shoulders when we are in my bedroom. “Listen to me very carefully. We’re going to play a little game. I want you to hide under your bed and be very, very quiet. Stay there until I return and tell you it’s okay to come out. Do you understand, Stella?”
I nod, afraid and confused, but I do as I’m told and crawl under my bed.
“Max, stay,” she commands. I see him obey, his butt sitting on my carpet, but he doesn’t understand that he’s supposed to be quiet. He’s whining the way he does when he wants to disobey. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear,” Mama says.
I watch her feet leave my room and she pulls my bedroom door shut. I lie silently on the floor beneath my bed, waiting for her to return so I can come out. This game is not fun.
The music gets super-duper loud. Loud enough that I’m sure the neighbors will call and complain to Mr. Johnson.
It’s another song I know by Boston. “More Than a Feeling.” The guitar is screaming so I know we’re going to get in trouble with the landlord. Our neighbor, Mr. Benson, likes to turn us in every chance he gets. He doesn’t like us much and I don’t know why.
The carpet is making my cheek itch so I lift my face to scratch it. In the process, I bump the back of my head on the railing of my bed. “Oww.” I put my hand over my head and rub it where it burns.
Max gets up from where he’s sitting and scratches at the carpet, trying to get out of my room. He whines louder and begins barking as he paws at the door. “Stop, Max. You’re gonna make Mama mad if you scratch the paint.”
I hear a bang, the loudest noise I’ve ever heard in my life, and my heart beats faster than I can ever remember. “Mama?” I whisper but stay put because it’s what she told me to do. Don’t come out until I say it’s okay.
What was that loud sound?
I smell the burning cookies. Mama wouldn’t let our cookies burn.
I think something bad is happening.
Max howls, now clawing to get out, and I press my face into the carpet so I can see between the floor and my bed skirt. I think about letting him out so he can go to Mama.
I don’t have time to do it before my bedroom door opens slowly. Max backs away and then lunges for the leg of the person coming into my bedroom.
I hear that same bang again, this time even louder, before seeing Max fall to the floor.
Red. It’s splattered all over my beige carpet and I know what it is. I want to scream at the top of my lungs but I can’t. My breath is gone and it feels like there’s a person I can’t see covering my mouth with a hand to quiet me.
I want to squeeze my eyes shut but I can’t because I’m watching the big, black shiny shoes come toward my bed. It’s a man and his pants are torn where Max bit him. He’s bleeding.
His feet go still next to my head. I hold my breath so he won’t hear me but I can’t do it for long. It feels the same as when I’ve been under water too long. My body forces me to take a breath. It’s louder than I intend. I hear
it so I’m scared he did too.
His feet don’t move and then the bed skirt next to my head lifts. “I see you under there,” he says and I recognize his voice. He’s that man that talks funny.
My mama has never let me meet him but I know it’s him–the man who comes here to see her at night after I’ve gone to bed. She calls him Thane. “You can come out, wee darlin’.”
I squeeze my eyes and scoot away. “Mama told me to stay here until she comes back.”
He crouches next to the bed. I still can’t make out his face but I see the bloodstain getting bigger on his pants where Max bit him. “She says it’s okay. Your mum sent me to your room to get you.”
I don’t believe this man. He’s bad. He killed my dog. “No.”
“How old are you, toots? Six? Seven?” he asks.
I back away until I’m pressed against the wall.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment but when he does, it’s loud. “Fuck! Why did that wench have to go and have a bairn in the house?” he yells in a growly voice as he kicks my bed. I’m shaking because I’m scared. I squeeze my hands over my ears because I don’t want to hear him yell.
He reaches beneath my bed and grabs my ankle, yanking me from the safe place. I have nowhere to go so I curl into a ball and wrap my arms around my head. I know what comes next. I’ve seen what bad men do. They hit.
“Oh, toots. I really don’t want to do this but I have no choice.”
I squeeze my eyes tighter and wait for the pain to come. But that isn’t what happens. He flips me to my back and presses something soft and feathery into my face so I can’t breathe.
I kick, struggling for air, but he presses it harder. I fight with every ounce of strength I have but it’s no use. He’s a grown-up and I’m only a little girl. I don’t have the strength to make him stop and I’m afraid. I’m about to die.
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