Ivory

  I v o r y

  a novel by Hadley Quinn

  Copyright © 2015 Hadley Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, introduced into a retrieval system, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including without limitation photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The scanning, uploading, and/or distribution of this document via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and is punishable by law.

  Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials.

  The events and characters in this work are entirely fictitious and of the author’s imagination.

  Content Warning:

  This book contains adult material, including sex and language. It is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

  “The greatness of a man is not in how much wealth he acquires, but in his integrity and his ability to affect those around him positively.”

  ~Bob Marley

  This book is dedicated to the talented musicians who give of their heart and soul to better the lives of others. I thank each of you for your passion, your perseverance, and the ability to counsel, motivate, and heal with your words.

  1

  The most powerful voices are sometimes the softest. A word or a phrase…their meaning can hit home ten times harder if you just listen right. Study the quiet aspects of a song—the instruments that accompany but aren’t meant to overpower, and the lyrics that seem so ordinary but most definitely are not.

  Your mind can be opened. Your heart becomes vulnerable.

  The chorus to the song I was currently consumed by carried me across a lover’s fatal mistake, and then subtly to the recognition of his misfortune. His loss. His reality. Without much of a warning, you were metaphorically lying there in fetal position, right alongside him, feeling his despair.

  I paused my playlist at that point and let the impression swallow me up. Looking down at my piano keys, my fingers stretched over the top of them, itching to bury myself in the moment. I just wanted to see what would come from it if I lightly poked at a melody, only for a few seconds—

  My headphones were suddenly yanked off my ears and the sounds of a noisy sports crowd on the television took over my pensive mood.

  “Don’t do it, Jude. Don’t you dare do it,” Wes scolded. “If you get us kicked out of here, I’ll break every one of those damn things on your hands.”

  I closed the lid to my dad’s ’61 Wurlitzer. That beautiful piece of cherry had been in my family for three generations. “I was only composing in my head,” I argued. “And don’t you ever threaten to break my fingers or I will cut your dick off without a thought.”

  That smartass pretended to be appalled and gasped out loud. “You wouldn’t!”

  “I would,” I said as I stood, checking out the score of the Cubs game at the same time. “Now you know how important the loss of your most prized possession would be.”

  He gave me a casual shrug before returning to his spot in the front room. “Noted.”

  I joined Wes on the leather couch and grabbed a slice of pizza from the coffee table. I loved baseball just as much as he did, but when I got a compulsive urge to throw on a song for therapy, I’d grab my soundproof headphones and sit at the piano with my back to anyone in the room.

  My friends were used to this and never batted an eye, but Wes and I lived in an apartment complex in downtown Chicago with the worst neighbors you could imagine. Now before you think ghetto and loud swearing and uneducated humans that pop out more babies than they can handle, it was actually the opposite. I lived in a very nice place, but the neighbors were pompous and pretentious with zero sense of humor. They were all older, wine party trust fund socialites that listened to elevator music and discussed the value of their art collections. And apparently they hated my music, or the fact that I was a presence at all, because I’d been warned more than a dozen times if I played my piano after eight p.m. or before eight a.m., I was facing eviction.

  Not that it would even happen, though. My tenancy in this place was basically permanent. There was no way I’d be given the boot and there was no way I’d be leaving. However, I was thirty fucking years old and still allowed other people to affect my life. It was a meekness I’d developed over the past few years; one that I didn’t particularly care for, given my circumstances. One of these days—

  No, I’m not going there right now. I’d only be fooling myself if I did the whole one-of-these-days-I’ll-start-over-again-and-have-the-life-I-want spiel.

  I still wasn’t ready yet.

  “Aaron came by this morning. Forgot to tell you.” Wes ducked his head to feign regret, but I knew he really didn’t care. He knew I wasn’t ready either.

  “Hmm,” was all I replied as we continued to watch the top of the eighth inning.

  Aaron Morris was my former manager. He was an amazing manager, but even his skills weren’t going to get me back under a label again. I respected the guy, but his phone calls had been irritating me again. I really could see things from his perspective, though. He’d once represented the hottest band in the country until the lead singer had a complete fucking breakdown and walked away from it all.

  In case you’re wondering…yeah, that was me.

  “Hey, I heard they opened a new joint over on Lincoln,” Wes told me, dropping his crust back into the box. Who doesn’t eat the crust from Giordano’s?

  “Yeah?” I asked, somewhat interested but not quite. Not in the way he wanted me to be interested.

  Wes lounged back on the couch and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Bar and grill, live music on weekends, outdoor cocktail patio or something. Baby grand piano. Sounds cool. Kind of a mix of classy and funky. Luke showed me some pics of the place. They opened a few weeks ago, but wanna check it out soon? The bustle and novelty might have worn off and it won’t be so crowded.”

  I’d heard every word he’d said, but somehow I was focused on Wes’s hair. It was longer than usual, just an inch or so over his ears, but he’d gone a bit shaggy like me these days. No way could I grow my hair out long, but the extra inch or two had been perfect for my scarce appearances in public. People didn’t recognize me as much without my signature hat or when they could see my hair.

  And mainly I was comparing our hair so I didn’t have to think about what he was truly asking me.

  Wes knew he could expect two answers from me—yes or no—and both held the same weight. He knew me to be unpredictable, spontaneous and compulsive sometimes, but there were days where I could just shut out the world entirely.

  “I’ll think about it,” I finally answered.

  He gave me a look. “You’ll think about it? I’ll be honest with ya, thought you’d say no.”

  Shrugging, I took a few seconds for dramatic effect. “Yeah, you’re right. No.”

  “Hey,” he pointed an index finger at me. “We’re going.”

  A feeling of indifference filled me. I’d been dying to play in front of a crowd again, but any time I did schedule myself for some hole-in-the-wall pub or a joint that lacked attentive customers, I’d still run into issues of being recognized at some point. Even after four years of lying low and avoiding any type of media attention, there was always someone with that look of recognition in their eyes, or a bold personality that would straight up approach me and say, “Hey! You’re Jude Collins!”

  Then a story would pop up that I’d been spotted somewhere shitty or
hanging out in dive bars; that I was an alcoholic who had thrown away my career because I still couldn’t get a grip on reality. I had no control over what people thought of me or wrote about, but I could deal with it my own way and chose to do so. Slipping out back doors as soon as my eight-song set was over was pretty standard for me. Wes would stick around a bit to pick up our stuff and fend off inquiring minds with vague answers until he could join me in the SUV. I always felt bad for leaving him with the work, but he didn’t seem to mind. I guess he got plenty of perks out of being my right hand man, so I shouldn’t feel that way.

  Truthfully, I didn’t want to get my hopes up anymore. I was still looking for that miracle performance, the one that showed signs of the old Jude again. I had every intention of pulling myself back into my element so I could continue to do what I loved, but it hadn’t been so easy. It didn’t matter what I did, though… The new Jude still feared what a performance could do to him.

  “Missy’s gonna be here next weekend, too,” Wes added a minute later, speaking of his twin. “She’ll love it.”

  On that note, I couldn’t back out. I loved Wes’s sister like she was my own. And…she was a little badass. I wasn’t going to tangle with her because sometimes she scared me.

  “ ‘Kay,” was all I replied. Then I added, “Think she’d cut my hair for me?”

  Wes gave me a knowing smirk. We’d argued over how long I could stand letting my hair grow out a bit, and a couple of months hadn’t been very long. “I’m sure she would,” was all he answered.

  So the next Friday found me driving uptown with Wes, Missy, and two of our other close friends, Hayes and Luke. I’ll admit the place was interesting. I loved the look of it, and like Wes mentioned the week before, aesthetically it was a mix of class and funk. I especially loved the feel inside because it reflected that. The walls were a deep burgundy that alternated with brick portions, and the artwork that hung on them displayed all of the music legends in their early years in black-and-white photography.

  I was completely in love after that. Elvis on the Ed Sullivan Show, the Beatles performing at Shea Stadium, Eric Clapton and Neil Young each in their own element. Bob Marley graced a wall, and so did the other Bob, Mr. Dylan… They all represented so many sides to music, but for me… I was most obsessed with the songwriters.

  Missy’s chuckle caught my attention and I noticed all four of my friends were watching me.

  “I knew you’d get a boner for this place,” Wes said while he found a table in the very back.

  It was a booth for four so we had to squeeze in, but my attention returned to the phenomenal artists on the walls. Drinks were ordered with appetizers, and as our order arrived ten minutes later, the sound of the piano drew me to the other end of the room.

  Yeah, I could totally see myself performing in this place. After a few seconds of giving the man at the piano a look-see, the restaurant patrons seemed to be busy with their food and drinks and conversations at their tables, and whereas they may have been listening to the bluesy sounds coming from the baby grand on the corner stage, the guy seemed to have some privacy while everyone else went on with their own lives.

  I would just be background music. I could totally handle that.

  “Jude, you should do it,” I heard Missy say from the seat across from me. Her dark brown eyes were set on me, trying to hammer the point across. She was authoritative when she looked at people that way. “This is totally your place,” she added, pointing at me just like her brother does. “Jude, seriously. Talk to the person in charge of booking. Do you want me to do it for you?”

  I chuckled at her motherly, big sister approach, even though she was a year younger than me. “I’m a big boy, Miss. I can do it myself.”

  “So you will do it?” Her eyes lit up with her smile. Those were the expressions I loved seeing from Missy. She could be intimidating sometimes when she had that bitchy, don’t-fuck-with-me look on her face. That quarter-Italian side to her even put the fear in Wes sometimes.

  “I’ll think about it,” was all I answered.

  They knew not to push me. I wasn’t a newborn deer that needed to get his legs under him. I was all for moving ahead and making things happen if it’s what I wanted. The problem was that I wouldn’t do something if my heart wasn’t on board one hundred percent. Some would say I was too scared to fail, but that had never been my problem. I’d failed plenty over the years and learned from every single one of those failures.

  My problem—or maybe it was my strength—was that there needed to be a burning fire inside of me that gave a definitive answer to go ahead with something new. It’s been called a gut feeling, or intuition. A lot of people call it a sixth sense. But I had it, and I knew without a doubt it was real. There had only been a few times I hadn’t listened to my instincts—one time I would never forget even if I tried—and I wasn’t about to question a gift like that ever again.

  I was getting that very feeling as I sat there listening to the thick chorus of a Stevie Wonder song. And then another framed photo caught my eye, one near the hall that led to the bathrooms. I couldn’t see it entirely, but my heart seemed to beat with excess approval and a peaceful warmth filled my chest. The quirk of fate had me smiling and shaking my head at the same time.

  I had my answer.

  2

  The music lounge was called The Urchin. It was definitely an odd name, and it fascinated me so much I made a mental note to find out why it was named that. Idiosyncrasies intrigued me that way; I loved things that were unusual or had obscure meaning. Music attracted me that way. Words, especially. Give me a remarkable lyricist to study any day and I would be enthralled for hours.

  I returned to the place almost a week later. It was earlier in the day, though, to escape any evening chaos I could possibly run into. The business happened to be completely empty when I entered, but then I realized they didn’t open until four p.m. I hoped they didn’t mind I was there ten minutes early, but if they did, I knew I wouldn’t be coming back.

  There was only one person working that I could see. A young woman was drying glasses and stacking them at the bar. She barely glanced my way, but as I got closer to the maple slab counter, she came over and stood in front of me.

  “Hey there, what can I get you?” she asked.

  I’m an observer by nature. I love watching people, situations, moods, personalities, and anything that can tell me something I need to know. Or don’t need to know. Hell, I’m not sure why I’m that way. My father was that way, according to my grandmother. My dad was quiet in general, but it was because he felt there were more opportunities to learn from others that way.

  We’d both been labeled as empathetic and perceptive. I used my intuition to filter how I experienced the world around me. Including people.

  I didn’t plan on sitting at the bar, but if this woman was willing to serve me a drink before they even opened, I figured what the hell. “Coke with a tad bit of Jack works,” I answered.

  She gave a single nod and began the simple task of fixing such a basic drink. In the ten seconds it took her, I watched from the corner of my eye and could tell she…

  I could tell nothing. I couldn’t read her for shit. She was actually gorgeous, which hadn’t escaped my eyes the moment I walked in, and maybe that was my problem. I hadn’t gotten past her exterior.

  She was fairly tall, probably only four inches shorter than my six feet. Her hair was brown and it was up in one of those topknot thingys, and her skin was a beautiful caramel tone that appealed to me instantly. The black pants and black tank top were probably the required uniform since the waitresses the other night had been wearing the same thing.

  “Here ya go,” she set the drink in front of me. “I might have to save that napkin, though. You know, like the first dollar you make on your business?”

  I lifted an eyebrow, trying to process her meaning but at the same time, assessing her dark green eyes. I thought maybe she’d recognized me and wanted an autographed napkin i
nstead, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt. “This is your first drink served?”

  She nodded. “Yup. This is my first night here at the bar.”

  Then she went back to her prep work and left me at the other end sipping my drink.

  People tried mixology at any point in their lives, so I wasn’t quite certain of her age. If I had to guess, though, I’d say she was mid-twenties.

  I took my time with my drink as I watched her peripherally, trying to make subtle observations. There were no tattoos that I could see. She had a minimal amount of makeup on—only eyeliner, mascara, maybe some lip gloss—and just a pair of silver hoop earrings in her ears. She was naturally beautiful and appeared graceful in her movements, despite her admission that it was her first night here.

  Hey, I told you I was observant, right?

  “Can I get you another?” she asked, clearing my empty glass and wiping the counter with a quick swipe of a towel.

  I figured I might as well attend to the business I came for and said, “No thank you. Is your manager in?”

  She paused as she stared at me for a second. “Was the drink that bad?”

  It took me a second to respond, but I chuckled and shook my head as I stood. “No, it was perfect. I just wanted to ask about playing here sometime?”

  I pointed to the fifteen-by-twenty stage and she followed my gaze. She took in a quick breath and smiled when she scoffed. “Gotcha,” she nodded.

  Then she watched me for a moment, and then dropped her eyes down at the floor for even longer. I wasn’t sure what was happening but it was weird, like she was trying to let a lightheaded moment pass by.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She barely nodded as she moved from the bar, but she glanced back at me with that certain look on her face that I was familiar with. “Yeah, um, hang on.”

  She’d been processing information, I realized, and I was pretty sure she recognized who I was at that point.