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Chapter 1
Stella
Iclose my eyes, pulling in a long, deep breath. A burst of orange behind my eyelids signals the spotlight hitting me. I’ve timed it perfectly, my eyes flying open the second the light hits me and I open my mouth to sing.
“You’re no good for me.” The words roll from my tongue just as they have a hundred times before. The sultry tone comes natural to me; having a bit of a lower register as a woman comes in handy as a lounge singer at Freddy’s Jazz Bar.
I let the music consume me, the slow thump of Terrance’s upright bass keeping time with Julio’s muted trumpet as Clyde tickles the ivories. I smile over at him as the song picks up, his head bopping along with his fingers as he smiles back at me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the beautiful Miss Stella Porter,” Clyde’s smooth voice says into his microphone, a few claps echoing through the room. I smile, giving a small bow before launching into my second song. My eyes scan the room but I already know what I’ll find—the same four men that are always here sitting in their regular spots. My fingertips gently slide up the microphone stand, my body swaying with the music.
Oh, Mr. Ozanski brought a date tonight. Must be the woman he was telling me about last week.
The older woman next to him leans against his shoulder, her head listing to one side as she enjoys the music. The smile on his face that looks like he slept with a hanger in his mouth tells me that he’s in heaven right now.
My eyes continue to scan the room. Mr. Percy is sipping his old fashioned that he nurses every single Thursday night. Jack Aiden is probably on his fourth whiskey of the night already, sitting in the front seat, his glassy eyes staring up at me like they always do.
And then my eyes spot him. The mysterious man who sits perfectly out of my view, obstructed by the bright light staring back at me. His silhouette barely visible, my eyes drop down to the only thing they can make out—a pair of expensive-looking shoes.
This is my happy place. It’s a hole-in-the-wall, but for the last two years, it’s been my escape. The place I can lose myself for a night and forget that come tomorrow morning, I’ll be back at my full-time job. Shift manager at a coffee shop isn’t a bad gig but it’s not exactly my dream of being a full-time singer. The problem, this establishment isn’t exactly upscale or inviting so living off tips from the “regulars” isn’t going to cut it and the owner, Freddy, has a penchant for inappropriate advances that have become so overt I’m questioning how much longer I can continue to work here.
The song ends and Clyde walks up onstage to kiss my cheek and hand me a rose, the same thing he does every single night I sing. I glance past the light, lifting my hand to shield my eyes as I try and catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger who’s been attending my performances for the last few months, but it’s no use; he’s already gone.
“You look beautiful tonight.” His whiskers scratch my cheek, the smell of stale smoke on his lips.
“Thank you.” I hug him a little tighter. Clyde took me under his wing the night I auditioned to sing at Freddy’s. I don’t know if he could sense my loneliness at the time, but the two of us became friends almost instantly. Since then, he’s become like a grandfather to me. “How’s Violet doing?”
“Oh, she’s perfect.” He smiles, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone and show me the latest round of photos of his first great-grandbaby. “She is my pride and joy,” he coos, looking at the phone screen. You can see the love he has for her in the way he stares at the photos. “You know she just started tummy time this week.”
“She is just so darling.” My hand rests softly against my chest as I flip through the photos. Her cherubic cheeks practically make her eyes nonexistent in some of them, her toothless smile taking over her face.
“Your time’s a’comin pretty soon.” He bumps my elbow. “You’re not gettin’ any younger, Miss Porter.”
“Soon?” I laugh, tossing my arm around his shoulders as we walk off the stage together. “I just turned twenty-four. As far as I’m concerned, I’m not even thinking about babies for another ten years.”
“Ten years! I might not be around that long, sweetheart.”
“Oh please, you’re a spring chicken. You’re the youngest seventy-one-year-old I know.” I reach down and pull off my high heels, tossing them onto the floor of the run-down break room. I plop down onto the pale-blue couch that’s littered with stains, a thought I push from my head as I massage my foot.
“You just wait; you’ll meet Mr. Wonderful someday and all of that will change.” He pats my knee, his eyes growing a touch glassy. “And I can’t wait to see that day. You deserve to be happy and loved, young lady.”
My hand settles over his and I give it a squeeze, unsure what to say because I’ve never allowed myself to have that daydream, and even though I’ve never said it out loud, Clyde knows. I’ve shared bits and pieces of my life with him, but he’s never pressured me to even if he was curious.
“The past is the past, Stella. You don’t live there anymore and it doesn’t define you—and neither does how you were raised. What matters is who you are now.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him at the time that I wasn’t raised by anyone, unless you count my parents bringing me home from the hospital only to have Child Protective Services take me away less than six months later.
Survival was the only thing on my mind when I was passed from home to home, with some distant relatives, some complete strangers. I felt like a broken heirloom that was relegated to the fringes of these people’s lives, passed down over the years until finally someone realized that I was no longer just an inanimate object they could ignore; I was now a burden. So at sixteen, I had enough. I packed the few items I had into a garbage bag and ran away from my small town in Indiana to Chicago—never looking back.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” He cocks his head at me. “Have you seen that guy who’s been coming in the last several months? He always sits near the spotlight in the back.”
He furrows his brow. “I have. Nice man, quiet.”
“Who is he?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know much about him, just said hello in passing. Rich men like that don’t usually come to Freddy’s, at least not anymore.”
“How do you know he’s rich?”
