“I need—” I closed my mouth when we pulled up to a jazz club in Harlem.
“Bluesy” was lit up in blue neon lights outside of the brick building. Traffic was steadily coming and going, and women in beautiful dresses and men in suits were stepping out as soon as the cars that held them stopped.
It was one of the most famous jazz clubs in New York. Maybe in the country.
“Tell me what you need, Rosalia.”
Aniello looked as serious as I’d ever seen him. My mouth opened to tell him the truth, but a lie came out. “To use the restroom.”
It was hard to tell if he believed me or not. That air of indifference that he’d perfected was as strong as I’d ever felt it. But he didn’t press.
We didn’t go in through the front entrance. Aniello found a spot in the back, one that had “reserved” on it, and parked there. He turned the fast car off, got out, locked me in, and then opened it again when he opened my door. He took my hand as we walked into the packed club together.
As soon as we did, I was immediately enveloped in a mood that felt soothing to the soul. The lights were dim, the air on the cusp of being cool, but more tepid, and the smell—I inhaled. It smelled like jazz, if music could have a scent. Alcohol, leather, cigars, and…soul. Understanding came in as an undertone.
It was hard to put into words, but I thought that maybe understanding smelled like music that would take your problems, if given the chance, and put them into words. Maybe the music could express feelings that were too hard to talk about or too far buried to share. It said,You’re not alone, because I’m giving a voice to your problems too.
The stage was as dark as the club itself, with that same moody blue light giving life to the instruments and the man in the center singing a tune about regrets.
Instead of going to a table, Aniello started to lead me toward the restrooms. I pulled back when I noticed the line and he stopped.
“I don’t have to go,” I said, being honest.
He studied my face for a second before a breath left my mouth in a rush when he pressed me against the wall, caging me in with his arms and his penetrating gaze.
“You lied to me,” he said.
“I did,” I said, meeting his stare. He hadn’t lied to me, that I knew of, but the pain in my heart felt as if he did. Why couldn’t he just TELL me all the things I needed to know?
Did he even know how hard it was for me? That sometimes I would go to bed with an aching headache from trying to remember? Did he have any idea how much I grieved for what I’d lost? I couldn’t even remember what I’d lost, but it hurt. It hurt so fucking much because I knew deep down in my heart that the memories were good.
“It doesn’t matter what it is,” he said, his tone suddenly cold. “You fucking tell me the truth. Nothing will lessen my love for you.Ti amo,Rosalia. But trust can’t be easily rebuilt after it’s been burned.”
I turned my face from his. I didn’t want to do this here. I had no fucking clue why he even brought me here. I’d lost my best friend, our lives were in danger, he had a treasure chest full of shared memories that he refused to share with me, along with secrets that might not have been mine, and going out on a date suddenly felt so important to him.
He took everything literally, so I knew he understood what turning my face from his meant after he told me that he loved me.
He turned my face back toward his. Our eyes locked. And I felt it then. Something shifting between us. It was just like Aniello had said. It was the most violent thing I’d ever felt, and also the most peaceful. It was as if everything inside of me was shifting to accommodate this change between us. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it rocked me down to my soul.
Without a word, he released me from his hold and his stare, and he led me to a table that seemed reserved. He sat next to me, but we might as well have been worlds away from each other. When the waiter came and asked if we’d like anything, he ordered a glass of red wine for me and whiskey for him.
I drank two glasses before Abe and a woman he introduced as his fiancé, Catherine, took seats beside us. Catherine was probably close to six feet tall, with eyes sharp enough to kill.
“Where’s Quentin?” I asked Abe.
Aniello’s eyes were glued to the stage, and after I asked Abe the question, his jaw hardened before he took a drink of his whiskey.
Abe looked between us. “Where he always is before Simone takes the stage.” He nodded to an area of the club, and my eyes followed.
Quentin sat alone at a table with a prime view of the stage. I could only make out his profile, because it was dim where he was, but his fedora was unmistakable, haloed by the blue lights.
“Simone?” I said, taking another drink of my wine.
“Simone Marsalis. His wife. She’s only known as Simone Marsalis professionally though. She’s Simone King as soon as she steps off that stage.”
As the words left Abe’s mouth, the lights dimmed even lower. The club got quiet, and a beautiful sound echoed throughout the intimate space. A second later, the moody lights brightened just enough to reveal a woman in a gold sparkling dress on the stage. She stood in a halo of light that made her light brown skin and mass of black curls glow. Her lips were a romantic shade of red, and her dark eyes shimmered.
She was warm. Everything about her.
