Page 6 of Ring My Bell

I opened one eye. “It’s not. You’re right. But between nights here and spending most of the daytime hours looking for—no offense—a steadier, better-paying gig, I’d rather sleep than fuck.”

He snorted again. “Well, whatever man.” He hesitated, and I knew what was coming. “So any word on something more permanent?”

I wanted to say, yep, I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow. See ya. I wanted to glare at him until he burst into flames. I wanted to be anywhere besides the shitty green room of a cheesy piano bar, knowing I’d be right back there tomorrow night. Stinking of stale smoke and mildewed carpet and a thousand brands of perfume and fucking vape smog. Listening to crap Top 40 shit blasting with too much bass from below my feet or someone butchering the classics on the poorly tuned piano.

Instead, I forced a small, apologetic smile. “Nothing good today. I put in at a few more places, and I’ll try to talk to Denise again tomorrow.”

Dom sighed. “Look, I’m not kicking you out, okay? It’s just that I’ve seen too many people like you get stuck on the downward slide and fail to get back up.”

“Dude!”

“I’m not saying that’s gonna happen to you, but… Mathis. Man. You’ve been reveling in this hate-funk for a long time now. I’m worried you’ve forgotten any other way to be.” He frowned. “Don’t make that face at me, dude. I’m just being honest, all right? A lot of folks start down that spiral, and it gets too comfortable, too easy, to live your life hating everyone and everything.”

“Dom, I’m okay.” We both knew I was lying, but he was too polite to call me on my shit then and there. It was coming, though. If I didn’t get myself together, my welcome would be officially revoked soon. I could see it in his eyes. “I’ve got some applications out between here and Sacramento.” Most I’d never hear back on. I might have been a trained (and fucking amazing, thank you very much) pianist, but most places weren’t jumping to hire someone with no college degree or teaching certification to tutor their little darlings.

I’d even gotten rejected for jobs unrelated to piano playing. My charming personality cost me spots in retail, hotel housekeeping, and a few sketchy work-from-home gigs, scams about car warranties or something. “I’ll be out of your hair by Thanksgiving. Now what does this guy here to see me want?”

Dom hesitated, but finally sighed and let me change the subject. “I have no idea. He said something about a mutual enemy and was very dramatic and intense, but he’s also been sipping cocktails, so…” He shrugged. “He’s pretty insistent. I can have security kick him out if you want, but I figured I’d at least let you know so you can decide.”

“Ugh.” I shoved myself to my feet and rolled my shoulders, shaking out the kinks threatening to settle in from hours of playing with poor posture. “Might as well see what he wants. Maybe he’s here to put me out of my misery.”

Dom’s smile was thin. “That’s the spirit.”

* * *

The man was so pretty it hurt to look at him.

Approaching the booth where he sat, I had a minute to really take him in. He was staring off towards the dance floor side of the bar and didn’t see me coming from the employees-only area at the other end. He was slightly built, all angles and lines without much softness, but for all that he looked young. Younger than me, anyway. His blond hair was tousled, but it looked unintentionally cool rather than the product of hours at the stylist and in front of the mirror. He seemed vaguely familiar, something about the soft smile he wore, the way he swayed to the music…. Like, I thought, he’d been dancing and was catching a quick break before throwing himself back into the sea of bodies.

Which was ridiculous because on this level of the nightclub, there was no dancing this early, much less anything close to the sea of bodies on the downstairs level. Just a bunch of people who liked to pretend they were in a speakeasy before going downstairs to the loud music and spilled drinks. He glanced up at me as I slid into the seat across from him. I could barely hear his singing under the noise of the club, his voice a magical, boxers-melting tenor that I just knew sounded amazing when he really opened up.

That dazzling moment lasted for barely a breath before I realized what he was softly singing. Come up to my door, ring my bell, let me know you’re here, let me know you’re here, I’ll let you in if you just ring my bell.

My song. My song! The one Raymond stole and gave to some… Fuck. To some freaking poptart like the one no doubt sitting in front of me. I jerked my chin in greeting. “You wanted me?”

Okay, so I’m not the best flirt but an attempt was made.

His smile widened, and he nodded, maybe a little too big to be entirely sober. “Mathis Reisner, right? You got fucked over by Raymond Montaine, too!”

Chapter Three

IGGY

“No, but no… No! Listen! Listen!” I leaned in closer to whisper in Mathis’s ear—having my plan overheard wouldn’t do. Especially while I still had a handful of fans who might decide spilling to the tabs would be more entertaining than my comeback. Wait, was it my comeback if I hadn’t exactly made it first? Like, I knew I had a popular song out right now, but I’d never toured, never did any major promo, never been on any red carpets.

Unless you counted my gig as a seat filler at the Tinseltown Tots Hollywood Future Awards, one of those new awards shows sponsored by a kid-friendly channel looking to kick Nickelodeon to the curb. I totally worked that red carpet on my Manolos. I mean, I was overdressed considering the kids were all wearing Tar-zhay’s finest, but I looked good, and it was on brand.

If my brand was thrifted and borrowed designer duds I had to return to my friend at that boutique in Calabasas by seven a.m. or he’s gonna kill me.

“I don’t think that’s a brand,” Mathis muttered.

“Shit! I said the quiet part loud and the loud part quiet!”

The smirk was fleeting but, for just a second, that granite-hard face changed to something soft and—I’ll say it, damn it—cute.

“I’m not cute. It’s not my brand,” he said. “Now drink this and start talking while I figure out where the hell to send you.”

“Hey, is that my wallet?”

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