Page 6 of Royal Desire

Blake has the nerve to look sheepish for the first time since he threw this idea at me. “I might’ve let it slip that you’re going to do your thing, and I would be doing my old thing. There are more locals here than normal tonight. But if this is any indication as to what to expect, Mr. Donnelly will surely hire you. The Speakeasy is more profitable than The Greenhouse, and that’s saying something.”

“Great,” I mutter.

“Why are you nervous?” Blake demands. “It’s not like you haven’t been doing this every day for the last decade.”

I bite my lip. “That was in New York City. I might’ve lived there for years, but people come and go. This is Winslet—my home. It creates a different kind of nerves.”

Blake bumps my shoulder harder than necessary. “You’ve got this. You’re better than you’ve ever been, and everyone in there is about to find out.”

I pull in a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

“That’s the spirit! I’ll introduce you.”

Before I have a chance to change my mind, Blake hurries into the lounge and grabs the mic.

When I hear my name, I know there’s no going back. It doesn’t matter how many memories I have in this town. The amazing ones, the painful ones, and everything in between.

I smooth my hands down my fitted black dress, adjust my boobs, and put one spiked heel in front of the other.

The Speakeasy is dark, moody, and has a vibe that I do not hate. Dark stained wood surrounds me. There are more antique chandeliers in the room than I ever dreamed of in one place. One hangs over every table, creating an elegant, private spot for its guests. The lights are set to low other than the spotlights on the grand piano and mic waiting for Blake and me.

This is good. I can sing and perform every night if I have to, which I did to make enough money to make it in the city. Though making it is a stretch considering my one-room basement apartment was sketchy, and I had even sketchier neighbors. Singing in front of my hometown and tourists shouldn’t be a big deal.

But after fleeing across the country and feeling like I had flames licking at my heels, my nerves are frayed. Being in any spotlight is the last place I should be right now. But jobs in this town are few and far between. My gig at the Combover is only until Winnie gets back on her feet.

The Combover doesn’t exactly pay the way bars in the Big Apple do, and I have bills. Hell, my bills might as well have bills in the form of interest. And since I skipped town and have four months left on my lease, I can’t even think about what I’m going to do about that.

The opportunity to sing at the manor a few nights a week is not something I could turn down, even though I don’t officially have the job yet. But it’s not the live audition that has me in a sweaty mess of knots.

It’s that this gig will not help me fly under the radar. I’ve seen the social media pages for this place. Devon Donnelly does not mess around. Not that he needs a social media presence when he’s being highlighted in every print and online publication across North America.

There is no stage, but the spotlights in the front of the lounge are so bright, I can’t see the back half of the room. This is good. A faceless audience. Just what I prefer. I’ll get lost in doing my own thing and not have to worry about watching people talk, ignore me, or worse, getting up to leave.

Blake is in the middle of the most drawn-out and unnecessary introduction I’ve ever had. “If you’re a local, you may remember her. If you’re visiting the manor on vacation, then you’re in for a treat, because she’s back, and she’s ready to do her thing like only she can. Welcome to The Speakeasy, Ruby.”

Blake hands me the mic and shoots me a wink before taking a seat at the piano.

I turn to the audience and can barely see anyone other than Devon and Harlow sitting front and center at a cocktail table. They’re with another couple, a devilishly handsome man whose arm is around a younger woman with the darkest hair and fairest skin. She’s exquisite.

It’s time I get this done. With a small smile on my ruby-red lips, I glance back at Blake and give him a small nod. His fingers work magic on the ivories, and I turn back to the darkened room. “Let’s get this going, shall we?”

There’s nothing I love more than slowing down a modern rock piece and making it sultry. It took me an entire hour to get Blake on board, but he proved to be the student our grandmother made him. He kills it. The notes start soft. I give him the intro we rehearsed before I join in.

And the words from Do I Want To Know by Arctic Monkeys slip through my lips as smooth as French butter. When I was putting my set together for tonight, I dug this one out of the archives. I can’t remember the last time I performed it, but when I was scrolling through my best of the best of Ruby, this jumped off the screen and slapped me in the face.

For some reason, it fit.

And I was right.

By the end of the song, the notes are no longer soft, and I’ve shifted from whispered lyrics to belting it out with my whole being. When I sing the last line about slithering back, Blake ends the song abruptly, just like I taught him.

The room erupts.

I have to swipe a strand of hair from my face that stuck to my lipstick when emotion took over.

I turn to look at my little brother who’s beaming. I hold my arm out to him and say, “Give it up to the man at my back, ladies and gents, Blake Sinclair. Your maître d’ on the keys.”

Blake proves he has not one hesitant bone in that gangly body of his. He stands and gives the audience one of the most dramatic bows I’ve ever seen. And since drama is my middle name, that means something.