It`s time for Tuesday Tales.
Today we have a snippet from my new MM contemporary nightclub book, The Bachelor & The Balladeer, Tales of the Scarlet Owl #1. In this excerpt, Cab discovers his balladeer, and the man who will win his heart. Le sigh...
This story may have gay erotic scenes, strong social issues addressed and mature language. If those things offend now is the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales blog. Thanks for stopping by!
“If I hear one more Beiber imitation, I’m going to physically assault someone,” I snarled as another fool exited stage left. “Do these idiots not know what a balladeer is? Did they not do any research before coming to the auditions?”
“The music world is full of auto-tuned asswidgets,” Maurice mumbled while pillaging through the empty burger bag for something.
“And you wonder why I left the recording business,” I huffed and threw a hand in the air as yet another twit in baggy jeans and skater shoes ambled onto the stage. I stood up as Mr. Not-A-Clue tapped the old-style microphone, his expression that of a person coming face to face with a troglodyte in line for the bus. Maurice began shredding napkins then pushing the torn paper into his ears. Smart man. “Excuse me, young man on stage?”
Blue-and-yellow hair looked directly at me, then smiled. “Dude, yo!”
“God save me,” I whispered to the ceiling. “Did you bring sheet music for the band?”
He looked over his shoulder at Skip and the boys. A few wiggled their horns at the numpty.
“So they’re a real band?”
“NEXT!” I roared. Titters rose form the band. Numpty shuffled away hopefully never to be seen again. I flopped down next to Maurice and tugged a wad of napkin from his leaf ear. “I’m going to close my eyes and stick my fingers into my ears. If the next singer even looks like a Jonas Brother, shoot him and then me.”
“I don’t have a gun but I could probably beat you to death with a clarinet.”
“That’ll be fine.” I wiggled down into my seat, stuck my fingers into my ears, and closed my eyes. I could just hear Maurice yelling for the next singer to take the stage. That one was not any better than the previous one.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I abruptly announced as some fool on stage was trying to convince Maurice that Drake was a balladeer. “Before I hurt someone.”
I shot to my feet like a firecracker, climbed over my partner and stalked up the aisle, frustration broiling and bubbling inside me. How was it possible that singers today did not grasp what it was we were looking for? Where had all the professionalism gone? I threw the door to the men’s room open and nearly tripped over one of those large industrial yellow mop buckets. Why were there no signs warning incoming men of this possible danger to their - was that someone singing a song that Vic Damone was famed for?! The acoustics in here were lovely as was the voice of the man singing. He reminded me of a young Sinatra or Como, and that is not a comparison I would toss about lightly.
I raced around the corner anxious to find this man with the perfect voice. The singer was wearing a blue shirt and dark work trousers. The back of his shirt had the logo of a cleaning company. His head jerked up when I cleared my throat. To say he was beautiful would be a gross understatement. Yes, his nose was a little crooked compared to my ex-lovers, and his mouth wasn’t painted to entice. It didn’t need any enhancement. His lips were full. His nose perfect for his face. His eyes big and brown, his black hair loose and framing his face. He had a lean build that was lost in the baggy uniform. He appeared to be mid-twenties.
“I just need a couple more minutes and I’ll be done in here,” he said. I shook my head. He arched a brow. “Uh, well, if you have to go that bad…”
“No, I don’t have to go at all. You were singing a Vic Damone song, and doing it amazingly well,” I said then walked to him, hand out. He eyed my extended hand cautiously but shifted his mop to his left and shook. Up close he was even more attractive. “How would you like to audition?”
His eyes flared and he pulled his hand from mine. “You mean like those guys out there?”
“Yes, exactly like them only you actually know the genre of music that I’m looking for. And your voice is wonderful if a bit weak and in need of training.”
“Who the hell are you?” Now I had his attention. I could see it in the way he was assessing me.
“Cabriolet Vermet, owner of The Scarlet Owl. I need a singer, a balladeer, and you have a voice that’s perfect for the genre. What’s your name?”
“Julian Baez,” he mumbled, his gaze darting from me to the bathroom door then back to me. “You really think I have a good voice?”
“Julian, it’s like nothing that I’ve heard in years. Come and sing a song for me and my partner. Get the band behind you. You’ve nothing to lose, correct?” I wheedled a bit. I’d drop to my knees and polish his old work boots if he’d just leave the damn mop and sing me a full song with accompaniment.
Copyright 2017 ©by V.L. Locey
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