I dab the tear away with a tissue. The tear has left a tiny streak along my face. Like a small crack in a Ming vase.
Of course, anyone who knows the real me—which, to be fair, isn’t many people—knows that several more cracks exist under my skin. Cracks formed from a lifetime of rejection and trauma, some of them miniscule fissures, and others gaping chasms.
None of them have healed.
I quickly reapply a touch of makeup to cover the tiny river carved by my tear, and I reach into my bag for my finishing powder. That’ll help keep my makeup in place in case there are further eruptions of emotion from my eyes during my set.
I grope around, finally shining my cell phone flashlight inside.
Shoot. It must be back in my car. I keep my makeup bag on the floor of the passenger seat, and sometimes it rolls around and something falls out, which is what happened today. I thought I grabbed everything, but the finishing powder must have rolled under the car seat.
I check my watch. Aces opened for the night about a half hour ago, but I’m not scheduled to sing my first set of the night for another fifteen minutes. I have enough time to run to my car in the Aces garage and grab the powder.
Good thing I drove tonight. I normally walk to Aces, but it’s a little cold this evening. It’s March, and things are beginning to warm up, but the evenings are still pretty chilly. It feels silly to drive such a short distance, but in the grand scheme of bullshit that has been my life, this seems pretty benign.
I throw on an ivory overcoat and head toward the Green Door, up the mirrored staircase.
I knock three times.
Chet doesn’t open immediately.
I press my ear to the door to the foyer. A man is speaking. It’s a voice I don’t recognize.
He’s getting louder, though.
Then a pounding noise.
“Chet, you’re not hearing me. I demand that you let me in.”
And silence.
A few seconds later, Chet opens the door to the foyer for me, widening his eyes. “Miss Bianca, aren’t you supposed to start singing soon?”
I nod. “Just have to run to my car real quick, grab my finishing powder. I’ll be back before my set begins.”
“I see.” Chet gestures me through the door. “Be back quickly or you’ll be missed.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” I walk through the door.
And I’m absolutely floored by the man standing at Chet’s pink desk.
Tall, broad shoulders. Muscles straining against a tight black dinner jacket and white button-down. A sprinkling of stubble across a chiseled chin and jaw. A strong brow casts a shadow over his slightly inset eyes, which are as dark as his tidy short hair.
This is the handsomest man I’ve ever seen in my life.
The kind of handsome that can ruin you.
But in the best possible way.
I reach my arm toward him. “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir. I’m Bianca Montrose. I work here at Aces.”
He looks at me, and his eyes widen. His mouth opens slightly, and he awkwardly takes my hand in his, shaking it gently.
Lightning rips through my body at his touch, going first to my heart and then to my extremities before landing firmly between my legs.
He blinks a few times. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
I giggle. “It’s Bianca. And you are…?”
