Blue Notes (8 page)

He grins—the same one that first grabbed my attention. But it doesn’t feel the same now. It feels . . . like trying to gauge my dad’s moods.

I shiver.

“Don’t worry about it. I was just bored and trying my hand at being spontaneous.”

I nod. I don’t want to be around him. He’s become the human equivalent of rubber cement that I can’t entirely pick off my fingertips.

“I’ll see ya,” I say woodenly.

Later that night, a knock at our dorm door reveals a pizza delivery guy. Janissa and I protest until he says it’s already been paid for. By Brandon. A note on top reads:

“I know it’s second best to ramen, but I thought you’d be busy working. How about Saturday night?”

 Twelve 

Y
amatam’s isn’t the only club in New Orleans. It isn’t the only place with an open mic, frequented by both college students and locals. And it isn’t the only jazz bar.

On Thursday night, when I walk up the stairs with Janissa at my back, it might as well be the center of the universe.

It has its own unique scent. Sure it has all the usual smells of a bar and fried food and sticky floors. Lots of bodies, sweat, cologne. Only a few years ago, the whole place would’ve been overlaid with a fog of smoke too. But there’s something else. Earthy? Not damp or musty. No, it’s as if part of this place has always been here, wrested from land so close to the possession of the sea, and that it always would fight the Gulf for its right to stand at the intersection of so many cultures and history.

It’s sandalwood and mint.

It’s potential and fear.

Janissa grabs my arm from behind and utters a quiet “Whoa” in my ear just before we reach the top step.

Thursday night is the unofficial start of the weekend. Plenty of people are here to drink and grab a few hours of entertainment. Still, it takes me only a few moments to find Adelaide. She may as well have a spotlight shining on her all the time. She’s at a high two-person table in a far corner, with her feet dangling off the tall bar stool. She’s wearing a colorful floral camisole layered over with a bright gold lamé peasant blouse, tucked into black jeans as tight as a parting embrace. Giant gold hoops dangle almost to her shoulders and glitter against her sunshine skin, with her hair pulled up in a ’50s-style ponytail, cute bangs and all.

None of it should work. All of it does. She’s a performer the moment she steps out of her house each morning.

The guy she’s sitting with isn’t Jude, but he looks familiar. It takes me a few minutes and covert glances, during which Janissa grabs me a cranberry and soda and a Diet Coke for herself, before I make the connection. Adelaide is having drinks with Dr. Saunders, our music theory prof. He’s hot for being in his late thirties, but he’s very, very married. Like, so married that his wife’s about fourteen seconds from having their first kid.

I manage to tear my gaze away from the duo, although not before I catch the prof slipping his hand up her leg. She giggles and twirls the straw in what looks like the same frothy pink drink she’d had Friday night.

“Is that her?” Janissa asks.

“Yeah.”

“But sure as hell not Jude.”

“Um, no,” I say, rolling my eyes. “This isn’t
Game of Thrones
. That is, however, one of our professors.”

“With his wedding ring on. Classy. He’s a creep for taking advantage of her.”

Janissa’s comment eases the tension where I store it between my shoulder blades. I feel easier, calmer around her. Maybe one day, she can become a confidant. Until now, I didn’t realize how much I want one.

A pair of singers with rough beards and acoustic guitars is warming up for their set. Janissa spots a four-person table to the right of the stage. I make to follow, but she shakes her head. “Go say hi to her at least. Maybe it’ll remind that prof to keeps his hands off damaged jailbait.”

“Okay.” But ever since Janissa and I stayed up past midnight, fitting in another two episodes of
Lost
, I mostly wanted to hang with her. She’s familiar and comfortable and happy.

The night has other plans.

“Okay,” I say, turning to walk away. “Be right back.”

“Or maybe you won’t,” comes a sleek masculine voice.

The club is warm with so many people. Windows open to the street below don’t help circulate air. The idea I can get any hotter—in an instant—should’ve been absurd. But I know that voice. Or I think I do. The almost week since my Friday night performance accomplished the thankful magic trick of blunting its harmonic power and smooth New Orleans confidence.

But it was just that—a trick. The power is real and stunning all over again, especially now that I know who he is . . . and who
isn’t
his girlfriend.

Jude Villars stands with his back against the wall midway between Janissa’s table and Adelaide’s. They seem like distant female islands, one of refuge, one of drama, but they call to me as being safer than meeting Jude’s eyes.

I take up the challenge anyway.

He smiles, then mock salutes with a foreign beer that’s mostly full. A drip of condensation rolls down his hand and travels the inside of his forearm. He’s wearing another broadcloth shirt, with the sleeves rolled and buttons undone at the throat.

My enthusiasm for the night, which had been building all week, is burnt crispy in moments. Everything has gone wrong in the span of a few heartbeats. First Adelaide, who is supposed to be ready to talk music with me. Then Janissa, who sits alone at a table for four.

Now Jude.

Who is so stunningly magnetic.

How did I manage to downplay his effect since Friday? How did I think I could come here and remain upright while weighed by the curious aloofness of his blue, blue eyes? Maybe it was a self-defense mechanism. Or I’ve gone temporarily insane.

I hope it’s temporary.

I make my feet move forward. Adelaide can wait. She’s occupied anyway. Leaving Janissa twists me with guilt. I don’t dare look back for fear of seeing a reminder of the truth in her eyes.

Drama. Bad boy.
You don’t have time for this.

“Hello, Mr. Villars.” Yeah, there’s some bitterness in my greeting. After he made me twist last week, I indulge in one petty comment. There may be more to come if he messes with me again.

“Have I been found out, Miss Chambers?” He takes a sip, looking at me over the lip of the bottle.

“Yes. Now we both have full names. All very civilized.”

“I can go back to
sugar
if you want, but I decided to try politeness.”

“What about Friday night? That wasn’t polite at all.”

He pushes away from the wall and presses into my space. I turn, using small steps to slip back and away from his physical presence. I only wind up buffeted by the sturdy bricks.

“Now you’ve done it,” he says.

“Done . . . ?”

“You’ve let me hide you over here.” He touches my cheek so softly, so slowly, that I’m convinced I’m dreaming. “As for last time, I wanted to enjoy teasing you before you found out who I am. Everyone finds out eventually.”

I frown at the cynicism in his voice, but he soothes the pinch between my eyebrows. “I thought you and Adelaide were a thing,” I say. “Boyfriend, girlfriend.”

He drops his hand. His gaze rests on my lower lip. His intensity is even more intimate than touching me. “Creep factor aside, I treat her a lot better than her boyfriends do. I wanted to see if you could keep up with her, because I don’t just mean her music.”

“You mean her personal life too? I’m not her chaperone.”

“No,” he says, mouth tight. The only time I’ve seen him stray from his glib playboy act is when he talks about his sister. “You’re not.”

“You want me to spy on her for you? Is that it?”

He shakes his head. “You know, I’m already regretting Friday night. I gave you such a bad first impression.”

I blink at his words, which almost sound like an apology. I don’t know if I’d call his first impression bad. Frustrating. Unique.
Captivating
. But it sure didn’t invite involvement in his family problems.

“What would you do differently, if you could go back?”

He doesn’t have dimples. Not really. It’s more like his smile can get so big and bright that laugh lines bunch together on either side of his enticing lips. Pseudo dimples. I want to kiss each one. To kiss him while he smiles . . . that hits me as way more intimate than fantasies about kissing him in the heat of passion. I already know he doesn’t shine that smile at just anyone.

“I’d have told you who I am and used it to tempt you back to my place.”

“Liar,” I say, returning his smile.

“I’d have asked you out for coffee and beignets.”

“I think that’s still a lie, but I like it.”

He chuckles, then nuzzles my neck until he finds skin. I shiver when his lips touch me. I should protest, shouldn’t I? Instead I tilt my head to give him better access.

“I’d have kissed you and called you ‘sugar’ until you didn’t know whether to hit me or kiss me back.”

“That’s more like it.” I’m breathless with anticipation while still trying to hold a conversation. “And you think what you’re doing will have an impact on Adelaide and me?”

“Possibly, but they’re two different matters. What I’m doing to you is because I want to.” He kisses my neck again, inhales deeply, and makes a low, satisfied sound in his chest. “Damn, I was right in calling you
sugar
.”

I want to yell in his ear,
Pick a side!
Good guy or bad boy? Go for it or run away? Instead I let the wall prop up my head as he sweeps his fingers down my throat, between my collarbones.

Then he straightens to his full, impressive height and meets my eyes, his demeanor businesslike. “I don’t need a spy, Keeley. I need an ally. She’s gifted. You saw that. I don’t want that wasted. And I don’t want her hurt.” He pauses. “She could use a friend.”

As if by agreement, we both glance toward Adelaide and the professor. She happens to look up. Her brows lift. She grins like a conspirator who just got found out, but who has enough dirt on her fellow conspirators that she doesn’t have to worry. Then she’s back to the professor, her hand on his upper arm.

“But everybody loves her.”

“That’s part of the problem.”

“What makes you think I can keep up with her, as you called it?”

“You’re keeping up with me just fine,” he says, his smile regaining its playfulness. “That’s a start.”

I want to laugh. That’s like saying a girl in a parasailing rig kept up with a speedboat. No choice in the matter.

“And now you’re back for more. Are you going to play again tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve decided, you know. I’m not going to waste my breath one way or the other.”

“How do you mean?”

“Either you will, in which case I don’t need to say a thing. Or you won’t. I’ve had it up to my eyes with Adelaide today. I don’t have the energy to play cat and mouse, luring you toward where you belong.”

His arrogance doesn’t surprise me, but the contradicting emotions in his voice do. The cat and mouse reference feels like a double entendre from the man who’s spent the last ten minutes flirting with me, kissing me. Then, in the same breath, we’re back to worrying about his sister. Has he been arguing with Adelaide? About Dr. Saunders? He sounds tired. This is the first crack in the overwhelming, superhuman impact of Jude. Suddenly I realize that yes, he has a life outside of Yamatam’s, a life beyond the games he insists on playing with me.

Still . . .

What if all I’ve needed to get onstage all these years was just the right combination of goading and the urge to impress someone who seems above being impressed? Jude certainly gave me both in spades. He could do it again without a second thought. I don’t know if I can muster up the courage to do it on my own. Not yet. It doesn’t make any sense, considering what I’ve seen and done and been. But what I’ve seen and done and been has taught me that not a lot in life makes sense.

“You don’t have the time,” I echo. “Then why are you here? Don’t you have better things to do than slum it at a college jazz dive?”

“This was my dive once,” he says with a return of his terseness. It grinds all of the smooth and charming out of his New Orleans accent, leaving his words a low growl. “But things were different then.”

He strokes his thumb up the inside of my wrist. One place of contact. One touch of skin to skin. I try to hide my shiver. He sees it. I can tell, not because of a smile or some tease, but because of his eyes. A gleam of light from the stage has crossed his face. I can see every detail—the length of his lashes, the lines at the corners that seem so harsh and out of place for a man of only twenty-six, and even their hypnotic blue color. They’re even darker, more intense, probing, as he pets my skin. He can probably feel every rampaging beat of my blood.

“I came here when I was an undergrad, before the whole city got turned inside out. Before . . .” He stops short and shakes his head. I know that feeling, when I have to swallow words, knowing just how revealing they’ll be—more than just facts. But he hasn’t looked away, and I
can’t
. He leans close and whispers against my cheek, “A whole lot of good memories got swallowed by the bad. But you, sugar . . . You’re making it feel brand new.”