I was at the extra rehearsal that Nicky had called to punish me. And I had just finished the first verse of the previous night’s abandoned “Sunny Side of the Street” when Veronica Farrell walked in, ignoring the club’s closed doors and posted hours.
Just like in high school, every person in the room seemed to stare at her as she walked across the floor in stiletto sandals, paired with a high-waisted skirt and a print top that I could just tell cost more than what I made in a week . . . maybe even a month.
I stopped singing, the piano player missed a note, and all the waiters who had come in early to set up stopped putting down tablecloths and napkins.
Nicky was the sole person not affected by her entrance. He just barked, “We’re closed!” from where he was taking inventory behind the bar.
I loved him even more at that moment, because, bless his heart, not even someone as outrageously beautiful as Veronica could stop him from telling an early bird customer what’s what.
Veronica ignored him and walked right up to the stage. She lifted her Chanel sunglasses and perched them on top of her hair, which was pulled back in a classic ponytail. Her hair was blond now, I noticed, with highlights that were so professional that if she wasn’t black and I hadn’t known her before, I might have believed that this was her actual color.
“I said we’re closed,” Nicky yelled even louder behind her.
Veronica just raised her cool eyes to me and said, “We need to talk, Monkey Night.”
For a split second, my mind went totally black with rage. When it cleared, I was almost impressed with the utter completeness of her fucking gall. Almost.
I scrolled through my characters and decided it was time to bring out Stage Davie. I wanted Hard Davie, the one I used in customer service situations when things weren’t going my way—but looking into Veronica’s stone-cold eyes, I knew I wasn’t going to out-hard her.
“Okay, take ten,” I told the band.
“Take ten?” Nicky had come around the bar now, and was walking across the floor toward us, saying to Veronica, “Who you? And what the hell you doing coming up in my club. Telling my singer you got to talk to her. You must have lost your damn mind.”
Veronica actually turned to him then, with a withering look that had probably brought more powerful men than Nicky to their knees.
But Nicky just looked back at her, widening his eyes as if to say, You heard me!
“Nicky, it’s okay. This is James’s sister, Veronica Farrell.”
I don’t think her name had ever crossed my lips before then. I had always called her “James’s sister” in all the stories that I had told Nicky about her. Now the name tasted kind of funny in my mouth, like fancy caviar that didn’t belong there. But Nicky must have recognized her as my arch-villain, because he said, “You want me to call Leon?”
“Who?” Veronica asked.
“The security guard,” Nicky said, his voice cold. The way he was eyeing her, you’d think she wasn’t beautiful. Or even human.
Which just caused Veronica to glare even harder at him. “Most people figure out not to mess with me pretty fast,” she informed him. “You’re either recklessly brave or incredibly stupid.”
Wow. Apparently she had not softened over the years. Like at all.
Nicky’s nostrils flared and his eyes bugged out wider than I had ever seen them. “Leon!” he yelled.
I stepped in between them.
“I can give her ten minutes,” I said to Nicky. “We were about to take our break anyway.”
Nicky stared at the both of us for a long moment, then said, “Okay, you all can take ten,” like it had been his idea in the first place.
I turned and walked back toward my dressing room, trusting that Veronica would follow. I am Stage Davie. I am Stage Davie. I am Stage Davie. The coolest woman in the world, I repeated to myself over and over again as we walked down the narrow hallway.
“So you talk now,” she said behind me.
“A little habit I picked up along the way,” I answered, Stage Davie in full effect.