Blue Notes Page 3

  “Head on down. It’ll be more fun here than at Dixon.”

  “What do you look like?”

  “Doesn’t really matter.”

  Now that I’ve adjusted to her blaring words, I can hear that she’s a native of New Orleans, or at least Louisiana.

  She might actually help me adjust to this place. I still feel disoriented here, a feeling that reminds me of the years I spent on the road with my folks. Dad would always make some joke about it—just another family adventure. On the road again! he’d sing, like Willie Nelson.

  I caught on to that bullshit real early.

  “Why wouldn’t it matter?” I ask. “Appearance is kind of a big deal when meeting a stranger.”

  “If you can be here in an hour, I’ll be the dynamic blonde onstage!”

  Click.

  The music is gone and so is the shouting girl. I’m still in my bathrobe, but she’ll be onstage soon. I’m so curious.

  I flip through my closet for something that’s tidy and almost, nearly, could be if you squinted cool. I settle on a baby blue shelf bra tank top under a lightweight midnight blue linen blouse. Gold accented flip-flops and gold hoop earrings. Vintage looking jeans, a remnant from my freshman year, when Clair bought me a whole new wardrobe.

  The bigger challenge still lies ahead: getting there. I really don’t want to miss whatever performance Adelaide was talking about. That means getting there in—I check the clock on my desk—a half hour.

  I Google Yamatam’s, but it doesn’t have a website. That means I have no way to check it out in advance—or to make sure my outfit won’t be out of place. All I find is an address on Carrollton. Less than a mile away. Cool. I plug it into my iPhone and duplicate the directions on a Post-it.

  We’re talking detailed directions. No chancing this.

  I take a deep breath.

  Here goes.

  Three

  The oppressive heat of Louisiana in September never fails to surprise me each time I step outside. I’ve been everywhere, but seriously, it’s like walking into a wet nuclear blast that sits on my chest. I remember it being different in Chicago, when I was little. I don’t know why, but I still miss winter, even the blizzards and the changing seasons, so hard. Southerners don’t get it. I’ve given up trying to explain it to Clair and John.

  Thankfully I find Yamatam’s after backtracking only twice. It’s an unmissable glowing inferno of people and music. I get in the long line like everyone else, glad to feel anonymous.

  A guy is standing next to me. I get a whiff of cologne when the breeze shifts and wipes away the heavy humidity and the beer from inside the club. He smells amazing. I sneak a glance at his profile, trying to keep calm. Because he’s hot. Incredible. Like, please don’t dribble on my shirt perfect.

  Wait. Hold up.

  He’s the guy.

  The guy.

  The one who ignited so many insane fireworks in my mind that I fled like a rabbit—a rabbit who can set off emergency exit alarms.

  I pray. I usually don’t. I gave up on that a long time ago, when the police never came any faster one way or the other. But I pray this guy doesn’t recognize me. I battle a newly resurfaced faint or flight impulse so hard that my knees shake. At least the club’s rhythmic thrumming gives me something to focus on. My knees can shake in time with Dixieland jazz.

  Luckily he never looks my way. We reach the front of the line and he’s ushered right in. My ID is scrutinized more closely. No surprise. I’m obviously a co-ed, while he exudes authority.

  The big uniformed bouncer eyes me some more, then hands back my license. “Whatever,” he mutters, and stamps the back of my hand. Ultraviolet ink equals legal permission to get hammered. Not that it matters to me. I haven’t had a drink since I was a tween—sloe gin is a nasty bitch—and I never will again.

  I follow gorgeous Mr. Arrogant up the steps to the club, which is above a resale instrument shop. The railing is sticky and rusted. I’m one step below him, slogging through the backlog that jams the stairwell. I wish a few people separated us. When did I become such a coward? You’d think staring my dad in the face and sending him to prison would’ve made me immune to fear.

  Or maybe I’m going to be afraid forever.

  I slide down the stairs and quietly slip behind a pair of very, very glitzy girls. I doubt I could ever pull off false eyelashes, midriff tops, and wedge sandals, but they wear the hell out of all three.

  They only get cursory notice because the bulk of my attention is still on the stranger. He’s got his hands in the pockets of his charcoal gray slacks. The fabric is pulled taut across his ass. I catch myself staring. Ugh, I’m hopeless. His back isn’t much easier to ignore. He’s seriously toned. A white button-down shows off the width and strength of his upper back, and rolled-up sleeves reveal toned forearms.

  He’s just so . . . different. Suave. Self-assured. He’s fresh and actually handsome. Not just cute or hot. Handsome. I can’t help but flash another glance up to where he still waits in line . . .

  Right when he glances down at me.

  Our eyes lock. That deep flame heart blue makes me shiver. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. His expressive brows narrow, and his lips flatten. I decide to call that his stern face, since I recognize it now. I shouldn’t be making mental notes on anything about him, but I can’t help it. I’m terrified and excited at the same time. I want him to see me. See me, not examine me like some specimen in a jar. Maybe then I won’t be so intimidated?

  Then comes his smile. He clearly recognizes me too. Oh my God, the smile is so much worse. Or better? Mostly just devastating. It’s slight, teasing, knowing. The surprise of it melts the remaining strength in my knees until I can’t help imagining an impossible evening: I’d smile back, totally assured. I’d say something witty. He’d buy me a Diet Coke. He’d walk me back to my dorm. I’d be a wreck the whole time, wondering if he might kiss me at the door.

  But after the kiss . . . I wouldn’t have a clue about what to do.

  That’d be up to him. All him.

  I grip the railing while my mind spins this useless, graceless waltz.

  “Following me?”

  His words are like a brick through a window. My stupid fantasy shatters. Yup, he still has the upper hand.

  I shouldn’t have been able to hear him over the music and the pair of girls that separate us. But I heard him perfectly. I can feel the words inside my skin. His tone, something between condescension and teasing, soaks into my bones, while he continues to assess me like I’m recovering from head trauma.

  “A little obvious,” I say, shouting more forcefully than the suave cool he’d used. “Yes, I’m following you. I’m totally a stalker.”

  If he keeps smiling at me like that, I can wait forever for his reply.

  “You clench your teeth when you get angry,” he adds casually. “It ruins the line of your lips.”

  Does he unnerve everyone like this? My face flares hot, and I’ve gone from skittish to angry in about five sentences.

  “So when you said I wasn’t much to look at—”

  “I meant you gave me a lot to work with. Your lips being the best of it.”

  He says it so slyly that I find myself doubting what had passed between us. He couldn’t have meant it in a positive way. I’d looked like hell, and he was doing some sneering, judgmental thing with his expression. He’s smiling now, but nothing he’s said feels like a true compliment.

  If I were as talented with people as I am with the piano, I’d have come up with the perfect comeback, hitting that sweet spot between flirty and biting.

  Instead I keep it simple.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “Keep your opinion,” he says. “A word of advice? Next time, turn left out of the rehearsal rooms. Setting off emergency alarms can get a little girl in trouble, esp
ecially if someone tattles. We wouldn’t want that.”

  Oh, shit. Shit.

  “Little girl? I’m twenty-one.”

  He looks me up and down again with an expression akin to pain or longing, as if he’s lost huge chunks of his childhood too. But the shift is brief. He clamps it down. His smug, don’t give a damn expression takes over. “Time doesn’t make a person. Experience does.”

  “Then consider me about eighty years old, and don’t ever call me ‘little’ again.”

  “How about ‘sugar’? You’ve had a few hours to let that one sink in. Have you decided if it’s off limits?” He hesitates with a new, unnerving curiosity in his gaze. Then he shrugs, back to acting as if I’m the least important creature on the planet. “Forget it.”

  He turns his back to me.

  Just like that, he yanks his attention away—the attention I’d found so unnerving but now find myself craving.

  That’s when Mr. Stranger reaches back and takes my hand. In my fantasy, that would’ve been what I spent the whole evening working up to. Just touching him. Instead he makes the moves and I’m running to keep up. I can only hope my stamina holds out.

  His hand is cool and smooth and makes the disorientation totally worthwhile. His fingers are even longer than mine. My hand in his makes me feel feminine and small, as if my troubles aren’t all mine anymore. How can anyone do that?

  The unbelievably hot, chocolate haired god of a man pulls me through the throngs and into the club . . . then lets go. He casually returns his hands to his pockets. “All right, I got you in. Now stop following me. If I want you, sugar, I’ll come find you.”

  “You’re an arrogant asshole.”

  “Yeah.” His eyes are so very blue. They reflect the club’s disorienting flash and dance of lights, gleaming, like I’m watching a kaleidoscope. “As for me coming to find you . . . you can’t wait to see if I do.”

  “You think so?”

  “Because now I’ve put the idea out there. You’ll be looking for me all night.”

  I swallow. He could have any girl in this club, but he’s zeroing in on me. “Why me?”

  Did I say that out loud?

  “You’re dressed to blend in, not stand out. But at a nightclub, natural stands out. Does that make you plain or . . . intriguing? I’m hoping for mystery, Miss Fire Drill.” He grins, and I want to claw his beautiful eyes out. “Or maybe to see how your lips look when you’re not pissed off.”

  “Then don’t piss me off.”

  His grin widens, revealing perfect teeth. A lot about him warrants the word “perfect,” including a perfect movie star exit. He slides into a crowd large enough to field two opposing football teams and a marching band. I’m speechless. No one could expect otherwise. I become a tree or a part of the wall or a complete idiot, because I can’t move. I watch his bright white shirt until I can’t see him anymore.

  His words are still ringing in my head.

  You’ll be looking for me all night.

  My pulse is through the roof. My stomach is fluttery and won’t settle. I’m curious, angry, and mortified . . . because I know he’s right.

  Four

  During my trip to Never-Never Land, where a handsome stranger alternately bickers and flirts with me, the jazz band finishes its set. The loud, dissonant whir of the crowd is interrupted by the tinkle of a lone piano—the work of a girl with bright blonde curls. She’s sitting on a bench onstage. Her back is enviably straight, completely at odds with her hippie meets Goth clothes. I could never pull off that look, ever, not with a hundred years of practice and a Mississippi bargeful of confidence.

  She adjusts her mic.

  That sound rouses me from my stupor and helps banish the confusion of the past few minutes . . . no, hours. Time to forget some unexpected playboy with a devastating smile and unnerving personality. I make myself use that word, “personality,” because calling it “charisma” would make him irresistible.

  I will not look around for him. Nope.

  I rivet my attention to the young woman who’ll look to me—a transfer on scholarship—to guide her through her first year in the music department. Four semesters at a satellite campus means I’m as clueless as she is, despite the fact that I’m a junior. Maybe more clueless, if I’m right in thinking her accent means she’s native to New Orleans. One of my professors had mentioned her in passing, that she was the recipient of a music fellowship like mine. She has to be good. No university is in the habit of throwing money at students who aren’t supergifted.

  No way am I missing this. That means front row. I spot a lone chair between two couples—you know, that awkward place where a single person would have to sit and appear kinda desperate and alone because, hey, no date.

  I scoot down the aisle and try to appear inconspicuous. Of course, I step on someone’s foot, but I make it to my seat. The couple to my left will absolutely head to the nearest bed when they quit Yamatam’s. The woman, wearing a camisole with a shelf bra that does little to conceal big boobs and perky nipples, is practically sitting in her date’s lap. He’s a total jock type, solid and tan. Why they’re sitting in the front row baffles me. They don’t fit with my idea of music aficionados. She slings her legs over the guy’s lap and wraps her forearms around his neck.

  I’m equal parts annoyed and envious.

  With tons of willpower, I conquer the whitewater rush to scan the crowd for the provocative stranger. The last thing I want is to give him the satisfaction of making good on his assumption. I feel like he’d wait all evening to see the moment I give in and seek him out.

  He’s clearly used to being right, used to winning. That self-assurance had heated the air between us, and I’d wanted to be wrapped in his confidence as tightly as the couple next to me pressed limb to limb. Could my mysterious stranger, so sarcastic and intimidating, ever loosen up enough to let a girl drape across his body? Could I, in public no less?

  And when did I decide on calling him my stranger?

  He was a guy I’d never see again, because I’m not looking around. I’m not looking for him. Definitely not.

  Turns out I don’t need to.

  “I’d like my seat, if you don’t mind,” comes that low, smooth New Orleans drawl.

  I look up and catch my breath. His sharp, aristocratic features are easygoing, but a muscle at his jaw bunches with perfectly masculine power. His Caribbean clear eyes are pinned on the man currently covered by five and a half feet of double-D female.

  “You’re joking, right?” the jock asks.

  “Not at all.” He glances at me. “I plan to sit with my companion here.”

  His smile is slight, as if I know what the hell he’s doing and I have his personal invitation to laugh along. I grip the metal folding chair and watch the drama with what must be a stupidly confused expression.

  “Yeah, sure.” The jock skims his hands down his date’s sides, with his thumbs rubbing her nipples. “I’ll get right on that.”

  That irresistible smile widens. I can’t help but join him, although I hide my grin behind my fingers. I turn away, but it’s just for show. There’s no way I can take my eyes off him. I keep slipping him glances, and he keeps catching them.

  “You’re moving,” he says quietly but firmly to the jock. “You just don’t know it yet.”

  “Look, freak show, if you think I’m leaving my girl here with you, you’re a whole ton of crazy.”

  “Forget him,” the woman says, glaring up from under eyelashes thick with blue mascara.

  My stranger shrugs. It’s a show of restrained tension—a hint of what he can do, what he’s holding back—no matter his seemingly carefree demeanor.

  “I didn’t ask you to leave her or take her with you when you go. I want that seat, and that seat only.” He leans over at the waist, nearly eye to eye with the couple. He’s wearing the expression of
a father who’s nearly lost his patience and speaks to them just that way, parent to child. “Time to run along. You’ll thank me after.”

  No way. No way will this bullshit work.

  His stare hasn’t wavered since locking eyes with the jock. They square off in silence. The jock has the advantage of probably forty pounds of free-weight muscle. But it doesn’t matter. Amazingly, he’s the one at the disadvantage and I can’t figure out why. He blinks, defeated by steady, glacial blue confidence.

  “Come on, Livvy,” he says. “We don’t need this crap.”

  He shifts so that Livvy can stand on her own. She’s sputtering quiet profanity and tugging her skirt into place. The guy stands just as my stranger straightens to his full height—at least two inches taller. He looks so sleek compared to his bulkier opponent. I shiver thinking that, if forced, he’d be able to hold his own in any fight. Something about his posture. His fluid, powerful grace. I can’t help but take him in from head to toe. He’s treating me to the sweet privilege of another long, appreciative look, when I’d thought pride would keep me from soaking in him again.

  He catches me in the act. He winks. My cheeks burst into flames, embarrassed like nobody’s business. The humor in his smile takes on a sharper edge.

  If I want you, I’ll come find you.

  Yeah, he found me. He’d won some weird duel between us. Or, he’s in the process of winning.

  He extends his hand to the jock. “No hard feelings. Go put two rounds on my tab,” he says, handing the girl Livvy a business card fished out of his wallet. “Jude Villars.”

  Her eyes widen. “No way.” Then she tosses her hair and puts on a defiant expression. “We have a lot of friends here, you know,” she says, like a dare. “Could get expensive.”

  “Then the bartenders will be busy. Enjoy your night.”

  “Thanks.” The jock stops mid-motion. Just as predicted, he’d thanked this man Jude for the trouble of vacating his own seat.

  “Don’t worry,” Jude says. “I won’t rub it in.”

  There’s no huge change to his bright smile, except it suddenly seems dismissive—some change behind his eyes, where his interest winks out. He doesn’t shove them aside. He doesn’t gloat. He simply sits beside me with quiet nonchalance, as if the jock and his girl had never existed.