Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Gillian and Ezekiel aren’t changing my mind.
When I give a tiny shake of my head to Petra’s unspoken question, she chuckles and squeezes my knee.
Onstage, Wright Bellamy shifts into a jazz number and we, like the rest of the room, fall silent. When I study my friends, their expressions are as rapt as everyone else’s. Wright pours the song out like honey, dripping, clinging to the air, ensorcelling the crowd until the last note.
“So you guys know him?” I ask, dragging my eyes from the stage and back to the table as the crowd applauds.
Petra pauses, one of my fries poised at her lips, her gaze speculative. “Yeah. Finley’s not a big college. I met him when we were freshmen, so I’ve known him four years, though we don’t see each other much anymore. All the girls were losing their minds over him soon as he hit the campus.”
If he was anywhere near as fine then as he is now, I can see why.
“Not all the girls,” I tease, brushing that thought aside to lean over and settle my mouth over hers.
“Well, the ones who like dick.” She smiles into our kiss. “Not me, no.”
“We had a few classes together sophomore year,” Gillian says around a bite of her burger. “He’s cool. Kind of intense sometimes, but cool.”
“What do you mean by intense?” I ask.
“You know how creative people are.” She shrugs and washes her food down with a gulp of beer.
“No,” Petra says wryly. “Verity would have no idea about those creative types, being a film major and all.”
“Oh. Right.” Gillian presses the back of her hand to her mouth to catch a giggle. “Well, you’re not like that, Verity. You’re almost… I don’t know, shy.”
“I wasn’t even sure you talked the first few times we hung out,” Ezekiel adds. “I told Petra, ‘That mute girl fine as hell.’”
“Fuck you, Zeke,” I laugh with an eye roll for good measure. I’m not shy exactly, but it does take a minute for me to open up around new people.
“It’s them quiet ones you gotta watch,” Ezekiel says with a playful leer and a wink.
“Anyway,” Gillian continues. “The guy’s like… big-personality vibes. He’s not over the top, but always draws a crowd.”
That prompts another question, but before I can ask it, the words melt on my tongue as Wright’s voice winds through the room, so deep and rich it’s like a physical presence and sends an actual shiver down my spine.
He sings, too? It should be a crime to have that voice and those hands.
And that face. And that body. And that charisma that seems to effortlessly command the entire room from behind a piano in a circle of light.
“I’mma sing a little Anita Baker,” he says, slanting a grin over the crowd. “Some Luther. Remember back in the day, Sunday night, listening to the quiet storm on the radio?”
People in the crowd snap and clap their approval.
“What y’all know ’bout quiet storm?” He turns up the wattage on his smile, his deep voice rolling through the packed club. I couldn’t look away if someone paid me to.
He ends the set with “As” by Stevie Wonder. His voice, reaching for the high notes and rasping over the lower ones, raises goose bumps all over my body. I’ll never hear this song the same again. He’s stolen it. Claimed it—the haunting notes captured in this small, crowded club on a night when I was completely unsuspecting. Unaware that a man like this would arrest my attention so completely with dark mysterious eyes and a piano bent to his will.
The last note dies and his eyes seem to caress each face in the crowd, but it feels like something he’s practiced, cultivated for performances to make you feel you’re the only one in the room.
But then his stare falls on me.
And stays.
His fingers don’t falter over the melody he’s coaxing from the piano, but even as his hands glide over the keys, he seems to still, a new alertness cracking his studied expression. I should look away because the longer his eyes rest on my face, the warmer my cheeks heat. I swallow with difficulty, my throat tightening and my mouth going dry. Without looking away, I reach for my margarita, breaking the strange spell when my hand hits the glass and knocks it over.
“Shit,” I mutter, hastily grabbing a napkin to mop up the liquid soaking our table.
“You okay?” Petra grabs a few napkins to help clean up the mess I’ve made.
“Yeah, I’m good. Not paying attention.”
Or paying too much attention to the man onstage. Wright has moved on, the practiced charm back in place and his eyes elsewhere. I should be relieved, but it feels a little cold without the heat of that stare.
“You wanna meet him?” Petra asks with a knowing smirk.