Honestly, I’d fucking kill her.
I flick ash out the window and keep driving.
When we arrive, I allow the valet to take the car. I take a deep breath and stare at the building, guitar case in one hand. White stone steps, warm, golden light, and crystal chandeliers visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. A string quartet is playing something soft, the notes greeting us as we pass through the doors. Everyone inside is dressed like they have a lot of money.
I don’t fucking belong here.
I wear black jeans with no rips, Nolan’s orders, and a black T-shirt like always. I keep my hands tucked casually into my pockets, hiding the state of my knuckles. The cold from outside still clings to me, and the cigarette I put out just before the entrance tastes stale in the back of my throat.
Adriana slides her arm through mine, smiling politely as others turn their gazes toward us. Her lipstick is neutral, not that awful red she usually wears. Nolan trails behind us, already sweating. His tie is too tight. His eyes dart everywhere at once, like he’s waiting to be called out by name to speak in front of a class.
“Are you on fucking coke, man?” I squint my eyes at him. “Don’t tell me you’re fucked, too.”
Nolan rolls his eyes. “Shut the hell up, boy. I’m fine.”
I just shake my head and look forward. I clock the exits immediately—two obvious, one discreet. Security is everywhere, but none of them look like security. They’re way too well-dressed. This isn’t a charity event like advertised to the public. This is a marketplace.
A woman laughs obnoxiously loud near the bar, startling me, her hand resting on the arm of a man old enough to be her grandfather. His fingers dig into her wrist. Across the room, two men murmur over flutes of champagne. One of them slips a phone into the other’s jacket pocket like it’s nothing.
I see with annoying clarity that drugs and money are moving through here tonight. Probably people, too.
Adriana’s posture is perfect beside me, but I can feel the tension in her arm. She’s not playing anymore with cocky smiles and drunk nonchalance like she did in the States. Moscow taught her better. Taught both of us.
A waiter passes with a tray of drinks. I don’t take one. My eyes catch on a woman standing alone near the edge of the room. She’s beautiful in a fragile way, her thin frame seemingly shaking when a man approaches her. He murmurs something to her, gesturing subtly toward a side corridor. Her face drains of color for just a second.
No one else notices.
I look away. If I don’t, I won’t be able to breathe.
I suddenly become aware of everyone’s attention shifting. I turn to join their gazes and see Alexei. He hasn’t looked at me yet, but my spine goes rigid anyway. My body knows him now, unfortunately.
Adriana’s hand tightens on my arm. Nolan clears his throat behind us. “Just do your thing,” Nolan mutters. “In and out. Perform, socialize, and leave. Unless told otherwise. You're just adding some lovely entertainment for the evening. You're not the main attraction.”
I almost laugh at Alexei's little bitch. Instead, I nod once. Apparently, that’s my thing, now. I start walking, letting the performer mask settle into place. Tonight, I’m the entertainment, currency, and the fucking lie to get all of these bastards together.
“The quartet has finished.” Nolan points over to the performance space near the center of the room. There’s no raised platform or barricade. There is just a polished grand piano and a single microphone, positioned purposefully too close to the crowd. It’s intimate and exposed, the kind of setup that forces eye contact.Ugh, fuck.
Someone taps a glass. Conversations quiet, and heads turn. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a man I've never met announces smoothly, champagne flute raised. “Thank you for attending tonight’scharitable gathering. We are honored to welcome averyspecial guest from the States. Please enjoy a solo performance by Jude Graves.”
Applause ripples through the room, and I step forward, guitar in hand. The lights dim just enough to blur faces, but not enough to hide them completely. I adjust the strap, roll my shoulders once, and lean into the mic. An introduction isn’t necessary from me, so I just play. The first song is a popularDissonancehit that they can latch onto. My voice comes out steady as always, raspy and somewhat broken in the way people love. It still works. That part of me hasn’t died yet, at least.
I sing about how both love and loss are an inevitability, and I watch them while I play. I’m forced to since they’re so goddamn close to me. I see a man near the bar slipping a key card into another man’s palm during the chorus. A woman laughing softly as someone murmurs into her ear. A waiter refilling champagne flutes that never seem to empty. I catch flashes of nods, discreet handshakes, and smiles.
My music fills the gaps between transactions. Makes it feel elegant and civilized somehow. I never would have believed that this could be the shitty basement beneath the “success” of many entertainers. But that’s what it is. I’ve seen it way too much. The industry will find someone with real talent, chew them up until they’re used up like gum, and spit them the hell out.
I finish the first song to enthusiastic applause. Someone whistles, and someone else calls my name like they know me. I don’t acknowledge it. I roll straight into the next one. By the third song, the room is fully under control. The energy is looser and bolder, like at most shows I’ve played.
My fingers ache, and my throat burns a little, but I keep going. When the final note fades, the applause is louder now. I dip my head once in compliance, not gratitude, before stepping away from the lights. And of course, that’s when I feel the snake’s eyes on me.
Alexei stands near the edge of the room, glass in hand, watching with an amused grin. Nolan is beside him, posture stiff, smile strained. Adriana stands just a little apart, her expression neutral but her shoulders tight.
Alexei crooks one finger.Come here.
My muscles lock for half a second, but I don’t let it show. I walk toward them, through the applause echoing around me.
Alexei’s smile is thin when I stop in front of him. “Beautiful,” he says lightly. “You sound better every time.”
“Thank you,” I reply, voice even.