Page 15 of Needed in the Night
CHAPTER 5
ISLA
Damn near twohours of singing, and for all the audience’s appreciation of my music selections, my tip jar remained only a third full. Tonight’s crowd hadn’t been quite as generous as I would like.
So I ended my set not with a rollicking Fortusian folk song like I’d planned, but with “Warm Waters,” a melancholy ballad. The song had been written for a contralto voice, not a soprano, which was one reason I rarely sang it.
As I warbled my longing for the seas of home, nearly twice as much Alliance credit chips and local currency dropped into the jar as I’d earned all evening. Even the extremely intoxicated Prylothian lounging in the shallow pool on the right side of the bar waddled to the stage and spat some coins from his cheek pouch into the jar.
Behind the bar, Mikas finished pouring a drink, caught my eye, and raised an eyebrow. For the stoic Fortusian bartender, that little movement was the equivalent of a belly laugh.
Well, let him laugh. He owed me a hundred credits. He’dwagered I’d never get the Prylothian to tip, no matter what I did, wore, or sang. For two standard years the Prylothian had been coming to this bar and never tipped Mikas once—not even when Mikas told him it was his job to clean the shallow pool where the very ungenerous amphibian sat to drink.
I could really use that hundred credits, but I’d probably tell Mikas to keep it. He deserved it after cleaning that pool for years. The bar’s owner didn’t pay him any extra for doing it. My own conscience was my worst enemy sometimes.
My worst enemy on this planet, that was.
“Warm waters of home,” I sang in Fortusian. My eyes brimmed with tears that were mostly but not all an act. I’d never had a home, not really, and that ache made that line especially hard to sing. “I am so cold now, and I want to be there instead of here...all alone…”
I held the last note of the song long past the final notes of the prerecorded instrumental accompaniment, the playback of which I controlled with a device in my hand. For maximum effect, I let my voice crack at the end before I closed my eyes and bowed my head.
Silence.
I rarely ended a set with a song like this because patrons didn’t come to a bar to leave sadder than when they arrived. But as the applause and shouts of approval began, and more patrons came to the stage to show their appreciation in the form of tips, I decided I’d made the right move by choosing such an emotional song.
“Thank you,” I told my audience in the local dialect of Fortusian, though the language was hard for me. The patrons appreciated the effort, if nothing else.
I bowed and made my way down from the stage, holding the long skirt of my gown with one hand so I didn’t trip.
With my set done, I would have preferred to retreat to my little apartment, change clothes, and rest or read until Braereturned from gorging himself on insects during his nighttime feeding flight. Unfortunately, my contract stipulated I had to remain in the bar for at least an hour to interact with patrons. Thankfully, I could do so off my feet and with a drink in hand.
I weaved through the crowd to the bar, sidestepping a few wandering hands, claws, and tentacles on the way, and sat on a tall human-sized chair with a sigh.
As usual, Mikas slid a glass of Bacorian brandy across the bar top, along with a bowl of sweet jampa berries that perfectly complimented the smoky bite of the brandy.
“Lovely rendition of ‘Warm Waters,’ Isla,” he rumbled. “The tears and trembling in your voice were particularly effective.”
“It’s an emotional song. So much longing.” I took a sip of my brandy and sighed again, this time with contentment. “Thank you. I needed this.”
He glanced over my shoulder at my tip jar, which seemed to be still collecting patrons’ appreciation, judging by theclinksbehind me. “Longing. Yes. You channeled your longing for credits well.”
From someone else, I might have taken offense at that statement, but not from Mikas.
I hadn’t told him much about my past, but he knew I’d arrived on Fortusia with only a handful of credits in my pocket. To him, it made sense that I’d chosen a song that elicited more tips. After all, he bartended shirtless nearly every night, and I’d seen his shirts disappear more than once when a group of admiring tourists came in. I didn’t judge him for it. We were both working people in a resort city, just trying to get by.
I sipped my brandy, summoned a ghost of a smile, and picked out some jampa berries from the bowl. “We all long for something. I think that’s why that song always resonates so well. Everyone thinks of who or what they yearn for most when they hear it.”
I expected Mikas to scoff at the idea of yearning foranything. I’d never met anyonelesslikely to yearn. He seemed made of stone, or nearly so.
Instead, when I looked up—up, up,up, since the man was so damn tall—he was watching me, his head tilted and vertically slit yellow eyes thoughtful rather than disdainful.
“Maybe they think if they drop a few credits in your jar, they might get their wish,” he said, his tone neutral.
“Well, whatever their reason, it works for me.” I toasted him with my glass. “And as long as it continues to work, I don’t plan to tell them any differently.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he promised. I laughed, and he smiled.
We passed several minutes in comfortable silence as Mikas mixed drinks and I sipped my brandy. Over the past few months, the rhythms of the bar and the methodical way he made each order had become as steady and soothing as a heartbeat or the gentle rocking of a hammock. I relaxed, crossed my legs, and watched Mikas work.
