Smooth: A New Love Romance Novel (Bad Boy Musicians)

by Hazel Redgate

‘Good girl,’ she says. ‘Momma Lauren knows best. Now you get your ass down here in the morning, OK? It’s about time for us to make you some memories you’ll swear never happened.’

  Chapter Three

  Why I picked the Coeur de Vie, I couldn’t possibly have said, but it was the first good thing that had happened to me all day.

  I had a miserable night’s sleep, but honestly? I don’t think anyone was expecting any different, given the circumstances. Letting Lauren talk me out of my sadness had worked for all of ten minutes once we hung up. Once the kitchen was cleaned (Check… not that it seemed to matter anymore) and I’d nibbled absentmindedly at half a bowl of cold pasta for an hour and a half, I’d decided to go to bed. A lonely evening of watching Netflix just hadn’t seemed appealing for some reason, but in the darkness my brain circled back around to just what Carter had said.

  This just isn’t working.

  It was never going to work out.

  Never.

  Never, never, never.

  It was a two-syllable punch to the gut, repeated over and over until I finally managed to pass out, just about three hours before I needed to wake up to catch my flight.

  The airport was awful, as airports always are. Whether it was normal practice for a flight from O’Hare to New Orleans, I couldn’t have said, but both the terminal and the flight seemed to be filled with happy families and couples holding hands, all of them smiling and all of them utterly in love. No one seemed to have a care in the world except me, even though we were all about to find ourselves cold and cramped and further from the ground than human beings had any scientific right to be. I had never been a big fan of flying, but it was always easier with Carter next to me. Having him there always managed to soothe my anxiety a little, even though he had managed to sleep through every plane journey we’d ever taken together, from wheels-up to the bumpy landing. The flight was far from smooth to begin with, but with my nerves shredded even through my exhaustion I ended up bouncing my leg so hard I can’t be sure that at least some of the turbulence wasn’t caused by me.

  By the time I got off the plane and found my way into the main body of the airport, I was a wreck. I checked my phone the second I was in the terminal, hoping against hope that when I looked down I’d have a missed call or a text from him telling me that he was sorry and that he’d had a momentary lapse of brain function, had made a terrible mistake, wished that we could start all over again.

  There wasn’t one.

  There wasn’t one by the time the cab driver had dropped me off at the hotel either, and as I sidled up to the front desk I almost relished the temporary distraction. For a little while I considered trying to get a refund on the additional charge I had paid to have Carter stay with me, but I didn’t feel like I had the fight in me – and besides, I didn’t want to risk him changing his mind. It was easier just to keep things as they were. All I wanted to do was get to my room, unpack my things, and take an hour or so to myself before facing Lauren. I knew I should have gone down to hunt her out right away, but…

  But I wasn’t ready for that. I needed some time to get my shit together, especially if the rest of Lauren’s bridal party was going to be around.

  The room wasn’t the place for me to do it, that was for sure. In an effort to appeal to the wedding guests, no doubt, the whole damn place looked as though the hotel had hired Cupid as an interior decorator. From the fresh cut flowers in a vase on the dresser to the twin paintings bookending the windows – one, a portrait of lovers kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower; the other, two swans with their necks curled towards each other in the shape of a heart – it was a monument to kitsch romance, tacky at the best of times but absolutely unbearable now.

  A box of chocolates with a note attached to it had been placed on the bed. From one happy couple to another, complements of the Hotel Belle View, the card said. We hope you enjoy your stay.

  Well, there wasn’t much chance of that. I gritted my teeth, picked up my purse, and practically ran out into the hallway and out onto the street. My first thought was just to take a moment and get a little fresh air, but a sea of pedestrians threatened to trample me if I stayed still for too long and so I found myself letting them carry me off down the sidewalk. The air was thick with conversation, a buzzing wall of noise and chatter and laughter that was impossible to break through; everyone seemed to be having a great time, but to my ears it all blurred into one unbearable cacophony. Above me on the balconies overlooking the street, drunken tourists threw down strings of beads despite the fact that Mardi Gras was still over a month away. Some of my fellow walkers grinned up and whooped appreciatively, but I just cast them a stern glare. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, that same tension from the flight building up inside me again, quickening my pulse and setting me on edge.

  I wish Carter were here, I thought. He’d help me. He’d calm me down.

  The very idea made things so much worse, and I struggled to pull myself out of the crowd, to get some breathing room. Even in February, the temperature in New Orleans was markedly different to the snow that had been threatened all winter back in Chicago, and between that and the stress of the situation it didn’t take long before I could feel a clammy wetness spreading across my forehead like the first stages of a fever. I could probably have gone back to the hotel, but I didn’t want anyone to see me in what might well have been the early stages of a panic attack, and so I kept on walking, turning left and then right and then left again down street after street, trying my best to get away from the crowds of drunken revellers who had already turned up in party mode despite the fact that it was still practically the afternoon. The air was stagnant, like breathing swamp water, and the lights of the bars disorienting.

  I had been in New Orleans for less than an hour, and I’d hated every second of it.

  Maybe a drink will calm my nerves a little, I thought. Just something to take the edge off.

  It certainly couldn’t hurt. I began scanning around, looking for somewhere I could get a quick, quiet drink among the throngs of tourists. A woman who must have been over forty stood in the doorway of a place that didn’t even have enough delusions of class to call itself a Gentleman’s Club, flirting with the crowd in an effort to entice them to watch her strip. Her eyes met mine and I just lowered my gaze, scuttling along down the block until she was safely behind me.

  And so I had walked on, waiting for something to catch my eye. In the end, it caught my ear first.

  Over the corralled chaos of the French Quarter, I heard the high notes of a trumpet coming from one of the doors. A hand-painted wooden sign above the door announced it as the Coeur de Vie Jazz Club, complete with live music. Unlike most of the other bars I had passed, this one seemed to have mostly been passed over by the tourist crowd.

  What are you waiting for, an invitation? I chided myself. My feet were heavy, and seemingly stuck to the sidewalk; the dark entrance to the Coeur de Vie wasn’t as enticing as the other clubs on the street, the staircase down to the basement room seeming almost menacing by comparison to their bright lights and friendly attitude. I must have passed a dozen shops filled with voodoo trinkets since I began my walk, but none of them felt like more than a tourist gimmick – a show for the out-of-towners. Something about this place sent a shiver down my spine, though, like the old wives’ tales about what happens when someone walks over your grave.

  Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself again. Old wives’ tales are all they are. It’s a jazz club, not a mausoleum. Besides, no matter how it might have seemed on the outside, it was a thousand times more inviting than my stupid hotel room.

  I took a deep breath of the stagnant New Orleans air, pushed aside the bead curtain that marked the club’s entrance, and headed downwards out of the light.

  Chapter Four

  Well, I think once I see the inside of the club, at least I’m not going to have to wait long to be served.

  It doesn’t hurt that it’s only a little after six o’clock in the
evening, but compared to the hustle and bustle of what I’ve seen of the rest of New Orleans so far, the Coeur de Vie feels like a ghost town. A middle-aged couple are snuggled up close in one of the booths, and there’s a bored-looking man sipping a beer at one of the far tables who looks like he’s somehow having an even worse day than I am, but other than the band tuning up and the bartender, that’s just about everyone.

  Just what I’m looking for. A little peace and quiet. Not where I expected to find it, perhaps, but I’ll take what I can get.

  ‘Vodka and cranberry?’ I say to the man behind the bar, and he gives me a soft little nod in acknowledgement. I watch him pour a slug of liquor that could sedate an elephant into an ice-filled glass and top it off with a splash of red juice, before he slides it along the bar towards me, and then wince when he tells me the price. Despite the shakedown, it’s worth it; the drink is cool, tart and refreshing, a perfect antidote to the rest of the past twenty-four hours.

  A tinkle of notes on the high end of a piano catches my ear and I swivel myself towards the stage. An older man, fifty if he’s a day and with an enormous grey mess of a beard, is running deceptively nimble fingers along the ivories. He plays a quick, easy few progressions before the bass player joins in; she’s dwarfed by her instrument, but her hands walk up and down the strings, providing a steady baseline for the pianist to dance around. It’s soft, easy, heartfelt music – good for the soul, perhaps, but rich with sadness. It feels right, somehow, as if it had been written just for me, just for this moment. The bassist leans over to the drummer at her and whispers something in his ear, something that’s enough to make him laugh and lose his beat, and I realise that this isn’t even the main act: it’s the warm up. This is music at play.

  I’m halfway down the glass before I realise I should probably let people know where I am. I pull out my phone and cycle through my contacts – still no call or text from Carter, obviously no call or text from Carter – and as I find Lauren’s name I feel my finger anxiously stroking the spot on my ring finger where the silver band used to be. It’s been six months since I was last without it, back when Carter had proposed in the first place and had found that it needed to be resized, and I feel naked in its absence. Part of me wishes I’d brought it with me, but instead I decided – in either a last-minute fit of pique or moment of clarity; I’m not quite sure which – to leave it behind. It’s resting on the table for next to my bed, waiting to either be given back to Carter or… what, exactly? Sold? Given away? Thrown into Lake Michigan? What do you even do with an engagement ring when there’s no engagement to go along with it?

  Best not to think about it now. There’ll be plenty of time to focus on that later. My eyes drift back into focus and I realise that I’ve been staring at my phone for at least five minutes, unmoving, just waiting for him to get in touch.

  And really, how pathetic is that?

  All checked in but I left the hotel, I text Lauren. Went for a walk, don’t worry. Just trying to clear my head after the flight. Everything OK? x

  The three dots that signify my message is being sent start their march across the screen, but where normally they would have transformed into a tick mark almost immediately, instead they just carry on: whatever measly signal I might be getting here, it’s not enough for my text to send.

  Maybe that’s why I’ve got no message from Carter, I think. It’s a long shot, but… well, it’s possible, isn’t it? Stranger things have happened? He could have messaged me just as soon as I sat down. That’s ten whole minutes it might have been waiting on my phone, ten whole minutes where my life could have been right back on track.

  I choose to ignore the little voice urging me not to give in, and stand up just in time to collide with the man standing behind me. The Old Fashioned he’s drinking – or was drinking, or perhaps was just about to start drinking – sloshes over the rim and right the way down my arm. I can feel it soaking into my dress, ice-cold and wet and let out a little yelp of discomfort. Apparently I’m not having the best luck recently when it comes to keeping my clothing free of stains.

  ‘Jesus, I’m sorry,’ I yelp. Once I’ve pulled myself off the stool, I only come up to the man’s chest; I have to look up to see his expression. I’m not expecting him to be too happy.

  ‘Easy there, sugar,’ the man says. His voice is rich and mellow, smooth as caramel; even though he’s just had his drink upended all over his hand, he doesn’t seem remotely perturbed by the situation. There’s a wry, easygoing smile on his face as he reaches for a stack of napkins. ‘Why the hurry?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say as he hands half of the stack to me. I wipe as much of the drink off as I can, but the sugar syrup still leaves my skin feeling sticky. ‘I’ll get you another one.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ he says. ‘Really. My man Eddie’s got me covered. Ain’t that right, Eddie?’ The barman – Eddie, I presume – rolls his eyes a little, but he’s already halfway through mixing the man a second drink. Whoever the stranger is, he’s got at least enough connections that he doesn’t pay for his alcohol.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, good. Sorry, again.’ I reach for my purse, all the better for beating a hasty retreat.

  ‘You leaving already?’ he asks. ‘Band’s about to start up. Hear they’re really quite something.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ Eddie hands him another drink, and he takes an appreciative sip. ‘In case you’re wondering,’ he says to me, ‘Eddie makes just about the finest Old Fashioned in town. Cheers?’

  He tilts his glass, and I clink what’s left of my vodka and cranberry juice against the rim of his, downing the rest of it in one. Well, I think, I was heading out anyway. Not like I’m going to let it go to waste.

  The man is looking at me the way he might look at a python who just unhinged its jaw to swallow a whole wild boar. ‘Ouch,’ he says. ‘Bad day?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  He smiles, and points over to the stage. ‘You’re in the right place for it,’ he says. ‘No one does music for a sad soul like New Orleans, and nowhere in New Orleans does it quite like the Coeur de Vie.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Mm-hmm. Best live music in the state, believe it or not. I’d trouble to say it was the best in the country, but my mama raised me humble and she wouldn’t like to hear me boast.’

  ‘You’re in the band?’

  He nods. ‘You bet. Got any requests?’

  ‘None that you can help me with, I’m sure.’

  The man grins. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Give us enough of a listen and you might find we cure all your ills.’ He nods down at my drink, now almost empty. ‘Well, between me and Eddie, anyway.’

  ‘I’m not here for the music,’ I say, a little more harshly than I perhaps intended.

  He places a hand on his heart and staggers backwards against the bar. ‘Ouch,’ he says, mock-wounded. ‘You really know how to cut a man deep, don’t you?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Well, whatever you are here for, you’re still here, and the music’s going to be here too. Maybe you’ll find it works for you. Maybe not. Ain’t a harm in trying, right?’ He pauses for a second. ‘Unless you’ve got someplace else to be, of course? Wouldn’t want to keep you from your phone or anything.’

  The way he says it, phone seems like a dirty word. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘You won’t.’

  ‘You having fun with that thing?’

  ‘Not so much.’

  ‘Let me guess: no signal?’

  I sigh. ‘Yeah.’

  The man smiles. ‘Yeah, that’ll do it. Complete dead zone. Not that we mind much, of course. Keeps people focused where their attention should be, you know?’ I follow the line of his finger, pointing towards the bandstand. ‘I hope you stick around for it. We put on a hell of a show.’

  ‘I… I really should find somewhere I can check my messages.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’


  ‘Why the rush?’ he asks. ‘Something urgent?’

  ‘That’s a little personal, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to stop on any toes. It’s just that the way you’re looking at that thing, a person could believe you had some family member out in the hospital, and that I could understand. You’ve got I’m waiting for bad news written all over your face.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that. Nothing so serious.’

  ‘Oh,’ the man says. ‘Well in that case…’

  He reaches over the bar and pulls down a pint glass. Eddie, serving a new customer, doesn’t even flinch. ‘May I?’ he says, gesturing towards my phone. I give him a short, confused nod and he takes it from my fingers, puts it into the empty glass, and upends it on the bar, trapping my phone in its own private forcefield.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘There we go,’ he says. ‘Safe and sound. Now you keep your hands off it for a little while, you hear?’

  ‘I’m waiting for a call.’

  ‘And if it manages to come through, you’ll see it. But until then, maybe you try living in the moment for a little while, OK? Listen to the music. Have a drink. Feel the room. Look up once in a while. Work will wait.’

  ‘What makes you so sure it’s work?’

  He smiles at me, bright white teeth against caramel skin. ‘Let’s just say you look like someone who has a little trouble leaving the office at the office. Think you can manage that? Just for a little while?’

  What the hell gives you the right…?

  The words spring to my lips almost before I can stop them, my defensiveness instinctive; it takes everything I have in me not to shut this stranger down, to pinch off his attempt at charm as unwelcome, to grab my phone and head out of his poxy little bar and back to the hotel, where there’s a hot shower waiting for me before a night of drunken amnesia and a chance to forget the last two days ever existed.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Mr.…’

  ‘Jackson,’ he says.