Page 57 of All That Jazz

He releases me, and I throw my hand in the air to high five him. “We did it.”

The dancers are trotting to the center of the stage, forming a kick line worthy of Radio City Music Hall, the glittering fringe of their short skirts sending sparkles of light ricocheting across the room. The brass section is going nuts. Harloe is ad-libbing riffs. Lucky’s eyes are pressed shut, his jaw clenched tightly, looking like he’s on the cusp of a powerful orgasm as his strong, tapered fingers fly across the piano keys at lightning speed. And all of it is absolutely intoxicating.

The last number finally draws to a satisfying close, and every person who’s not part of the band leaps to their feet, hooting and hollering and whistling. The chat box is blowing up with comments and applause emojis, and the amount in the virtual tip jar keeps climbing. The band stands up to take a bow, and Lucky steps away from the piano to wrap his arm around Harloe’s shoulders, pressing a long kiss to her cheek before stepping back to applaud her.

After she takes a bow and steps to one side, Lucky sidles up to the vintage microphone, raking his hair back and slipping one hand in his pocket while he flashes a blinding white grin.

“I gotta say, guys and dolls,” he begins, “that was nothing like anything we’ve ever done before, but somehow…” He pauses and shakes his head. “It feels like the best show we’ve ever done.”

The room breaks into cheering, and the chat box explodes with more exuberant comments.

“I saw how many of you have joined us for this, and I’m just humbled and honored that you all wanted to be part of this.” Lucky rubs the stubble on his upper lip. “This whole thing has been hard. I know all of you are feeling that. I’m feeling that.” He gestures at the band. “All of my amazing people have been feeling that. We miss you. We miss hugging you and kissing you and having an amazing time on the road. And as soon as we can, we’re gonna be back. But for now, we’re gonna try to do this regularly to help all of us feel a little more connected while we’re all apart. Thank you all so much.” He touches his forehead and then extends his hand toward the camera like a casual salute. “And as always, Lucky loves ya. And I really, really mean that.”

And with that, he clasps the vocalist’s hand to his left and that of the dancer to his right, and they all give one last deep bow.

Lifting my hand high above my head, I count down from three on my fingers, and then I end the livestream. “That’s a wrap.”

The room explodes in a cacophony of hollering and whistling and popping champagne bottles. Meyer leaves to meet Lucky in the center of the room, clasping his shoulders and shaking him while they exuberantly exchange words. Everyone is celebrating, and I have every intention to join the celebration as soon as I finish launching the post-event analytics, so for now, all I get to toast them with is my lukewarm coffee.

My phone buzzes on the table next to my laptop, and I pick it up.

Zoey Campos: That was fucking amazeballs!!

Zoey Campos: Look at these numbers!!

Ava Herald: I know! Unreal.

Zoey Campos: You need to get them to pay your ass. Seriously.

I sigh and adjust the beaded straps of my short, flapper-style dress—yes, even I actually allowed Piper to dress me up again for the concert. After all, this is a seriously exciting night, and I wanted to celebrate with everyone, especially since it’s going to be my last hurrah at the Jazz Manor. I’d hate to admit it after sparring with Lucky for so many weeks, but working on putting this event together has been the thrill of my professional life. This kind of thing really is what I always dreamed of doing.

And who knows? Maybe with all the drastic changes in my professional life as a result of the pandemic, I might have the opportunity to shift my trajectory and pursue more work like this—but not with Lucky. The lockdown is set to end in only three days, and then I’m making a clean break from this place. He and I have finally reached a point of polite, civil coexistence and no hard feelings, which will allow a nice, amicable separation, and I am just ready to go home.

“Ava.”

I glance up and see Lucky standing next to the table, looking at me with an uncharacteristicallynot smugexpression. He actually looks as humble as he just told the virtual concert goers he is.

I offer a polite smile. “Congratulations, Lucky.” I gesture at the screen. “It was a runaway success.”

He nods, still looking humble. “Meyer told me.” He extends his hand to me. “I owe you my most sincere appreciation.”

I shake with him and then slip my hand away. “You’re very welcome. You guys are going to have no trouble continuing these shows. I’m going to refer you to a fantastic project manager, and they’ll take good care of you.”

Lucky nods again. “I appreciate that, too.” He tilts his head toward the commotion at the other end of the room. “Hey, make sure you come have a glass of champagne or something when you’re finished. This is a moment worth celebrating for all of us.”

I smile placidly. “I will.” I turn back to the screen as he steps away.

The cacophony of celebration continues as I drown in data and auto-generated reports, and I sip my lukewarm coffee until it disappears, losing track of time.

And then, my ears pick up on conversation that has nothing to do with the concert.

“Oh Jesus, are they fucking serious?” a man says.

“No way,” a woman says. “Not again.”

“Oh my heavens,” Pearl says from somewhere. “I need to call my daughter.”

That causes me to snap my gaze up from the screens.

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