Page 63 of Serving the Maestro

As he continued to talk about a couple of guys from high school he was still in contact with, I closed my eyes.

“...to work with, though. Don’t think I could handle that. Hey, you want to stop and have a drink? Raul, can you let us out here?”

The car came to a stop almost on the tail of Roger’s last word, and I stiffened, eyes opening to see the brilliant pink neon of a familiar restaurant a few short blocks from my apartment.

The pounding at the base of my skull had increased by the time Roger opened the door and offered his hand. Feeling the driver’s eyes on me, I climbed out but didn’t accept Roger’s offer of assistance.

“I’m pretty tired, Roger. I think I’d rather just go home,” I told him.

“Just one drink? I’ve missed talking with you, Jazz. So much.” He took my hand and squeezed. “Letting you slip away has been one of the biggest regrets of my life.”

The car pulled away while he was talking.

Shit.

Yeah, I needed to end this thing tonight. With a tight smile, I said, “I guess one drink. We should probably talk, anyway.”

Telling him he was wasting his time with the corny lines would take about as long as it took to finish half a drink, I figured.

Once inside, I waved to the back of the restaurant. “I’ll meet you in the bar, okay? I just need to use the restroom.”

One drink with Roger. And then I’d go home—alone—and dig out the ice cream, trying to forget all about the dreadful double date.

TWENTY-ONE

TRENT

“I’ve been wondering if you’re sick or something,” Stephen said after the server left, our drinks on the small table between us refreshed without asking.

I picked up the scotch, waiting to see where my friend was going with this.

“I’ve got a new theory, though.” Stephen picked up his drink, took a sip, then gestured to the stage. “I think you might be dead.”

“Dead.” Faintly amused, I smiled into my glass. “Where did that theory come from?”

“From the fact that you haven’t so much as looked at the stage, and they have the most amazing shibari artist I’ve seen in...well, maybe ever.” He narrowed his eyes. “And yep, you still haven’t looked. Maybe you are dead.”

“If I am, remember you don’t get my Steinway.” Sipping the scotch, I looked over at the stage. Nope. Not even a stir of interest. After a few seconds, I looked back at Stephen.

A change in the shadows had us both looking up.

A slim woman, her curves wrapped in a dress made up of nothing more than silver chains and leather straps, looked at me, then dipped her head before going to her knees and coming to me.

“Liesl.” Stephen glanced at me, mouth curving in a wicked smile. “Well, if she can’t help you...”

I didn’t recognize her, but I’d been out of the city for several months.

Her red hair was scooped into a high, tight ponytail, leaving her lovely features unframed.

She knelt in front of me, lifting her eyes to meet mine. “Hello.”

“Hi.” It suddenly hit me that it could be awkward as hell to talk to somebody in one of these places if you weren’t in the mood to play. Feeling Stephen watching me and aware Liesl was definitely watching me, I decided to get it over with. “I’m not in the mood to play tonight. With anybody.”

She took it with a smile, head cocking to the side slightly as she asked, “Tonight only?”

“Actually...no.”

The words surprised the fucking hell out of me—and Stephen, too, if his stunned, “What the hell?” was any indicator.

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