Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79253 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79253 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Chet’s eyes shine. “In case you’d like to…lie down, I suppose.” He lets out that wheezy laugh again before turning his gaze back to me. “I’ll leave you to it. Your sister will be starting out at one of her other clubs this evening, but she assured me you will be exquisite.”
“I’m sure I will be.” I extend my hand toward Chet. “Thank you, Chet.”
He stares at my hand a minute and then wraps his long fingers around my thumb—only my thumb—before scampering back through the door to the mirrored staircase.
What a weird little fucker.
Not so little. He’s at least six-seven.
Certainly not a guy I’d want taking care of my kids, if I had any.
I have a book of sheet music for the band, which I told them I’d lay out on their music stands before they got here. I guess I’ll do that now. I open my notebook, and—
Shit!
The rings popped open. Looseleaf paper flies everywhere. I get down on my knees to gather the music as best as I can, but it’s strewn all over the dance floor. I look up just as one of the waiters approaches. He’s wearing the same outfit as the other men—tiny shorts and a bare chest. On the black shorts are little hearts, and on his right shoulder is the letter J.
I grin. “The Jack of Hearts, I presume?”
He nods, his eyes bright.
I extend a hand. “I’m Bianca. The new singer.”
Again he nods as he shakes my hand.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you not supposed to speak?”
He shakes his head, pantomiming locking a key against the corner of his mouth.
“Why?”
He shrugs.
“Well… Nice to meet you.”
The more I get to know this club’s culture, the less I like. Chet’s a freaking weirdo, and now the waitstaff can’t speak.
The pianist might have mentioned that when we rehearsed the other day, come to think of it. I wasn’t listening much. I think my musicians aren’t allowed to speak either. Maybe that’s why we had to rehearse offsite.
Jack—I guess that’s what I’m supposed to call him—kneels and helps me collect the rest of the sheet music. He points to the title of one of the pieces—“I Put a Spell on You”—and pats his heart.
“You like that one? I’d only ever heard of it because of Bette Midler singing it in Hocus Pocus.”
He drops his jaw into an open-mouthed smile and pats at his heart again.
“You like that movie?”
He nods vigorously.
“Well, maybe we can hang out sometime. Have a movie night.” I smirk. “I realize it’s June, but you don’t need to wait until October to watch Hocus Pocus. Or we can watch something else. I don’t have any local friends. Maybe tonight?”
He nods again.
“Perfect.” I rip off a corner from one of the pieces of sheet music and jot down my address. “This is my apartment. It’s not too far from here. Walkable.”
He frowns for a moment, but then takes the paper and gives me a thumbs-up.
It’s a date.
Well, that wasn’t a complete disaster. I sang through my set half a dozen times this evening, and I received a warm ovation from the Aces patrons. My voice is tired, but I’ll steam when I get home tonight.
Except I invited Jack over. Right.
He seems nice enough. Hopefully he isn’t a complete weirdo. I probably should have determined that before inviting him to my place.
I’m walking out, purposefully avoiding eye contact with Chet, when Jack waylays me in the alleyway. He’s changed into a tight T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts.
“How’d you get here? Were you behind me?”
He shakes his head. “Waitstaff entrance. Around the corner.”
He speaks with a heavy accent. Russian, I think. Makes sense. Rouge told me a lot of the Aces waitstaff are immigrants from Eastern Europe or South Asia.
“Okay.”
He cocks his head. “I can still come? Movie night?”
I smile. “Of course, Jack. Or… I suppose that isn’t your real name.”
He shrugs. “Jack is fine.”
On our walk, I get to know Jack a little better. He is indeed from Russia and has worked at Aces for a few months. He started toward the end of March, and so far he likes it, says that the tips are great. He’s gay, which is a relief. I’m not exactly hurting to get hit on anytime soon after the fiasco that was my Reflections callback. He came from a poor village in rural Russia, so he’s excited to live in a country where his sexual orientation will be more accepted, where he can live the American Dream.
I don’t have the heart to tell him I tried to take my slice of the American Dream for the better part of a decade in New York City and failed miserably. Maybe things will work out better for him.
We get back to my apartment. Unfortunately, I don’t have a copy of Hocus Pocus on DVD, and I can’t seem to find it on the few streaming channels I subscribe to. We finally settle on watching The Devil Wears Prada. Jack’s English is limited, so I’m not sure how much he’s getting out of it. We spend most of the film chatting, anyway.