The stage lights bounced off the piano's raised lid. His hands settled on the keys, their ivory gleaming beneath his fingers. As he pressed down, the room filled with rhythmic tapping—melodies that sputtered and swelled, rapid yet delicate.
He didn't just play; he told a story. One of violence and anger, striking like thunder, until a shift—the eye of the storm—softened the tone. The piece unfolded like a memory, mirroring the brutal waltz of his parents: shattering glass, a slap across the face, the sound of his mother crying.
He never knew if the softer notes were his voice or hers.
When he finished, silence stretched. As always, doubt gnawed at him. Had they liked it? Should he play another? Blinded by the stage lights, he couldn't see their faces. There was no applause just silence. He hesitated, until a man at the front finally spoke.
"Go on, play another, kid."
So he did.
The next piece was smoother, more sensual—a stark contrast to the first. The room stirred with whispers. For a moment, he imagined they were speaking of him. But he knew better. It was business talk most likely. Not contracts or board meetings. These men brokered a different kind of deal.
The Jezebel was an exclusive downtown bar. Not a hole-in-the-wall, but no palace either. Real leather booths, top-shelf liquor. A long mahogany bar stretched across the back wall, its surface polished to a mirror shine. Waitresses in tight dresses wove between tables. It was for the top dogs—the capos, the captains, the men too high up the chain to get their hands dirty.
When he finished, a man stepped onto the stage. Jean-Philippe was overdressed in a black tuxedo, his hair slicked back with gel, and speaking in a thick French accent.
"Owen Pierce, 'e is like a young Maurizio Pollini, no? A true artiste among us, chapeau!" he announced, tipping an imaginary hat.
Owen stepped offstage, where a woman in a long black gown with thick curves and glitzy fake diamonds, waited.
"And now…ze magnifique Talia Bolen!" Jean exclaimed.
Offstage, Jean's cultured accent vanished, replaced by something local and rougher. "Good job, kid. They liked it."
"You sure?" Owen asked, listening as Talia belted a flawless note. When Jean turned to leave, Owen followed.
Backstage was tight and cramped. The air thick with the smell of mothballs and dust that made Owen's nose tingle. Jean moved with a quick, purposeful stride, forcing Owen to keep pace.
"It's a new era," Jean said, bumming a cigarette from a stagehand. "These guys got money and egos the size of skyscrapers. They want class, but don't let the suits fool ya—they're still from the neighborhood. Rowdy as ever after a few drinks. If they didn't like you, you'd know."
"What now?"
Jean stopped at a door, its strike plate wrapped in cloth. "Stick around. Grab a drink—nothing's free though. End of the night, I'll know who they want back on stage. If it's you, you get paid."
"And if it's not?"
Jean smirked. "Maybe save your dime and don't buy a drink."
Owen pushed open the door.
The main floor was packed. Tables crowded the pit area, each lit by a dim red lamp. Booths lined the edges, faces half-hidden in smoke. At the bar, Owen took a seat as Talia's soprano voice soared, reaching the farthest corners of the room.
"Nice playing, kid. What'll it be?" the bartender asked.
"Thanks." Owen pulled out his wallet, saw only a crumpled five, and shoved it back. "Water."
He turned in his seat, watching Talia finish her set. The crowd's reaction was mixed—some enchanted, others restless. Bodies shifted in their seats. Throats cleared. A divided crowd was good for him.
"Where'd you learn to play?"
He spun to find a woman beside him, draped in a light blue silk dress. Thin straps fell over her bare shoulders. She had freckles as brown as her hair, but hidden beneath foundation.
"Uh—my—uh, school," he fumbled.
"Like, high school?" Her voice was soft, delicate, like the quieter notes of a piano.
"No, college."
"You can study piano in college?"
"Yeah."
"Did you write that song?"
"Yeah. I compose my own pieces." He leaned on the bar, misjudged the distance, nearly fell.
She chuckled. "Compose," she repeated, amused. "Aren't you a fancy, boy."
Her lips were curved into a perfect cupid's bow. He grew flustered. "I-I—uh, what about you? What do you do?"
"I'm a model. Sort of. Done some catalog work. Moved here for bigger things."
"Same. Came for school. Now that I'm out… not sure what's next."
"Desi, drinks are up," the bartender called, sliding two martinis across the counter.
"Oh, you're a waitress?" Owen asked.
She stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then a faint smile. "No."
Turning, she walked away, exposing the freckles along her shoulders. "See ya around, Maurizio."
He watched her glide to a booth, slipping beside a man. Two others flanked him, each with a woman draped over an arm.
"Desi's a Jezebel," the bartender murmured.
"What?" Owen asked.
"Jean hires girls—hot ones—to keep the guests entertained."
"Like escorts?"
The bartender shrugged. "Yeah, they do that sometimes too."
Owen watched as Desi leaned in, fingers threading through the man's hair. When he kissed her neck, Owen turned away, staring into his water. He checked his watch.
Owen stepped outside the Jezebel at two in the morning with a thick pocket and a grin. The night nipped at him, so he dug his hands into his coat and strolled down the empty street. Music played in his head, notes weaving through the quiet. Long walks usually spurred inspiration—he'd get so lost in it that the city faded. The horns, the voices, the chaos—all of it dissolved. Only the music remained.
That's why, he was startled when a hand touched his arm.
"Been calling your name for half a block, Maurizio," Desi said.
She wore a long coat over her dress, a deep shade of blue that complimented her dress. A suede leather bag slung over one shoulder, she dug inside, pulling out a pair of slip-on sneakers. She touched his arm for balance as she changed.
"My name is—"
"Owen, yeah, I remember. But Maurizio sounds better. Makes you seem like some tortured European artist." She smirked, still balancing. "Where you headed?"
"Uh—not sure. Just walking."
"At this hour? Living wild, I see."
"It helps me write. the-uh walking, I mean." he said.
"Don't you mean compose?" She smiled, shoving her heels into her bag. "Mind if I join?"
Owen hesitated. He wasn't sure what to make of her. But when he looked into her eyes, he understood why she wore blue—it made them come alive, like a deep ocean. When he looked into them, he almost felt himself sinking into them.
"Sure." he said.
She slipped her arm through his, their pace unhurried, like a young couple savoring an evening stroll. The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was comfortable, almost blissful. His mind still buzzed with music, but every time she pulled a little closer, he was drawn back into the moment.
"What do you do besides playing?" she asked.
"That's all I do," he said. "I play at a blues club, an Italian restaurant in Little Italy." He listed off the small gigs that made up his week.
"What do you do when you're not modeling?" he said.
She rested her head against his arm. "I like watching old black-and-whites."
"Films, you mean?"
"Yes." She laughed then, she nestled in closer.
"Hepburn, Bogart—all the classics," she said. "You watch any?"
"Not really." He stopped at the edge of the city park. "We should probably turn down that way. Looks a little sketchy."
"You live close?" She said
"A few blocks." He nodded ahead, "What about you?"
"I'd have to take the L at least three stops." She glanced up at him. "Is music all you think about?"
"Yeah," he admitted, almost ashamed.
"Never heard someone play like you," she said.
He swallowed. "Thank you?"
"It was a compliment" she assured him. "Shouldn't you be with some big orchestra?"
"I tried. Big crowds make me nervous."
"Why?"
"Too many people watching. It messes with my focus. Smaller groups feel more… intimate."
She hummed in understanding. "My grandma used to say, 'Dinner for three is for me, dinner for four becomes a bore."
He smirked. "She and I would probably get along."
She stopped in front of him and smiled as an idea came to her. "You wanna meet her?"
His gaze flickered around, unsure if she was joking. She laughed, then dug into her purse, pulling out a small necklace. A deep blue stone, the same color as her eyes, dangled from it.
"Meet Grandma Sylvia," she said holding up the necklace to him, "When she died, my mom had a bit of her ashes made into gem stones."
Owen hesitated, then grasped it gently, giving it a small shake. "Nice to meet you," he murmured.
She laughed, lifting the gem to her ear. "Grandma likes you, Mauricio." After she hooked on the necklace, she looped her arm through his again, and they walked on.
By the time they reached his apartment, the city had exhaled into its late-night hush, the distant hum of traffic the only sound.
"I can pay for a cab," he said. "That way, you don't have to take the train."
She glanced around, then met his eyes. "You could do that. Or you could invite me upstairs."
His pulse kicked. Heat crept up his neck, flushing his cheeks.
"Uh—sure."