Three chandeliers lit the stage and a wrought iron railing separated a second level. Black, leather booths and larger tables ringed the balcony where waiters darted back and forth.
"What's up there?" I asked.
The bouncer glanced up at the balcony. "VIP lounge. Access is at the staircase in the dance club."
VIP lounge. Is that where he'd gone? He didn't look like the VIP type. My stomach tightened. I wasn't the VIP type, either, but one day I'd be different. I wouldn't be the Midwest girl that ran away from my namesake hometown of Corsica, South Dakota. I would be rich, recognized, and standing at that railing with an ever-full glass of champagne.
Then, I caught sight of the vintage microphone on the small stage. I knew I'd get to the VIP lounge if I stuck to my practical plan, but there was always a wild twinge of hope when I thought about singing. It was silly. I'd never make a living as a singer. Yet that was exactly what my heart wished for every time I was near a microphone or a stage.
I stopped and shook my head at Ginny. Why get my hopes up?
She planted her fists on her slim hips. "Oh, no. You're not backing out this time. I graduated, too, and this is my celebration and I want you to sing!"
Ginny sat me down at a small, round table and went to talk with the piano player. After a few minutes of negotiations, he looked up and grinned at me. Ginny sauntered back to the table looking very pleased with herself.
"I'm not ready," I said.
"You have a few minutes." She sat back and clapped as the next singer climbed the stage and waited for the karaoke machine to kick in.
"If you picked some pop tune, I'm not going up there."
She waved my anxiety away and smiled at the tall waiter that appeared next to our table. "With compliments from the VIP lounge," he said.
"See?" Ginny asked, raising her fresh martini in a toast. "Someone else wants you to sing, too. Here's to liquid courage."
My throat was so dry, I was sure I'd choke on the drink. Plus, there was no way I could lift the thin-stemmed, wide-mouthed glass without sloshing alcohol all over myself. I laced my fingers together in my lap and tried to breathe.
"No one knows you here, Corsica. Just let yourself go. It's just one song."
The reedy-voiced singer finished as the small crowd clapped wildly. I watched the piano player stretch his fingers and dance them over the keys in a quick warm up. The key was familiar and I knew the song before the host announced it.
"One of your best," Ginny winked.
She'd chosen an old lounge singer's tune about what the stars look like when you are in love. I knew it well and was on stage with one hand curled around the microphone before my mind could protest anymore.
Then it happened: The wave of joy that washed away all my fears and worries. I gave the piano player a sultry smile and he jumped in to the bouncy syncopation of the first bars.
My voice sailed over the top, smoothing out the strong beats and tinkling flourishes of the piano. The crowd was all shocked smiles. I swayed my hips and emphasized the lyrics with flutters of my free hand. People began to nod and cheer.
Then, I saw him.
He was leaning over the wrought iron railing with the hint of a smile curving his beard and mustache. Despite his shaggy hair and the distraction of his tattoos, I was suddenly singing to him alone. The lyrics, my voice, reached out to those dark, eyes sparkling above me like I was wishing on a pair of stars. I couldn't help it; my stage presence had taken over and it felt great.
The song came to an end and the piano player jumped off his narrow bench. "That was great! Damn, girl, I never would have guessed you had it in you. Please tell me we can do another one."
The small crowd filled the little lounge with applause. I looked up to see if he was clapping, too, but he wasn't at the railing. "Is he allowed to do that?" I asked.
The piano player glanced at the narrow, blocked-off staircase that ran from the VIP lounge balcony to back stage. "Him? You mean Penn? Sure."
Penn had jumped the gate that secured the staircase. He jogged down the steps to disappear behind the black velvet curtain. I felt him before he appeared, like a wave surging in the water. Then, he flipped back the curtain and walked around the foot of the stage.
"Tell her she has to sing again, Penn," the piano player begged.
"You really should," Penn held up a hand to help me down from the stage, "later."
"What do you want?" I asked Penn as he pulled me towards the bar.
"To buy you a drink."
"No, thanks."
He turned and grinned down at me. "Why? You only let rich and appropriately-dressed men buy you drinks?"
The quiver in my stomach brought my defenses up again and I could hear the snobby tone as soon as I opened my mouth. "You must work here to be so free with your drink offers."
Penn blinked. "Work here? No, I don't work here. He does, though. He's a bar-back. And, she's actually the owner of the karaoke lounge."
I looked at the people he pointed out. The woman he named as the owner was petite and wearing an even smaller dress. Her long hair was bleached white and knotted into dreadlocks. The bar-back noticed me looking and waved, his dress shirt crisp and bright in the dim lounge.
"Hard to tell about people because clothes can be deceiving," he said.
I scowled at his smugness. "So, what can you tell about me?"
He looked me up and down, those dark eyes roving over my body with the heat of lasers. "You like slumming it almost as much as you like designer dresses. Though, you really can sing. There's no mistaking that. How come Daddy isn't buying you lessons or your very own record label?"
The heat from his eyes turned to cold ashes at the mention of my father. "You don't know anything about me, Penn. You don't even know my name."
I tipped my head back to give him a defiant glare and was surprised by the soft empathy I saw there. Just being near him was tossing my equilibrium. There was a magnetism I had never felt before that pulled me in even as his words and his appearance repelled me.
Penn took my hand and raised it to his lips. "Please, do me the favor of telling me your name."
I yanked my hand back before he could kiss it, sure the sensation would fry what was left of my rational thoughts. "Corsica."
"The island where Napoleon lived in exile?"
"Sure. Why not?" I often chose not to disclose the origin of my name because I had worked very hard to cut all ties with South Dakota.
A waiter appeared with two drinks that Penn took without hesitation. I didn't understand how the man that looked as if he should be changing people's oil was the one that was being waited on.
"Why are you here if you don't work here?" I asked.
Penn frowned and swirled the olives in his drink. "I've been summoned to San Francisco by the big boss man. I just didn't feel like rushing right over to wait for him, so I came here. I'm glad I did."
I felt steadier. "So, you get special treatment because everyone knows who you work for? Doesn't that bother you?"
"That would bother me, if it were true. I knew these people when I had nothing and, yes, the drinks arrive a little faster now, but I haven't changed."
"So, you're from San Francisco?"