Page 47 of #Moonstruck

The driver had parked the SUV close to the wall on my side, so I had no choice but to slide over and exit through Ryan’s door. Ryan waited for me, holding out his hand to help me down. I didn’t need his help, and while I was supposed to remember to be strong, I liked the feel of his hand enclosing mine.

Fox said he’d stay at the car with the driver and to call if we needed him.

“Mr.De Luna, welcome. Right this way.” The man at the door led us through the bright lights and stainless steel of the kitchen and into the club itself. It was decorated like a speakeasy from the early twentieth century—lots of red velvet and gold finishes. The club was dimly lit, and we were seated in a quiet booth away from the main-floor tables. It would allow us some privacy.

“This is very cool,” I told Ryan with a smile as I unfolded the napkin and placed it across my lap. It was so dark it was a little hard to see the menu. Ryan grabbed a pamphlet from the center of our table that listed the evening’s acts. “I think it says Louis something.”

Our waitress, also wearing a white top and black slacks, came to introduce herself and take our drink order. Both Ryan and I asked for water.

A spotlight turned on, pointed at the stage. A man walked out in a tuxedo and went to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the High Life. For your ear-tainment this evening, we have the Louisiana Trio.”

The club patrons applauded as the announcer left the stage. Blood rushed to my ears, blocking out everything else. My heart pounded frantically against my chest. Ice filled my lungs, weighing me down to my seat. I must have misheard.

When the curtain rose and I saw him, I realized I hadn’t misunderstood.

The jazz music began, and I stood, looking for the door we’d used to come in. I had to get out. Away from here. From him. I hadn’t had a full-blown anxiety attack in years, but it looked like I was about to. I was so light-headed I thought I might pass out. Small black pinpricks began to cloud the periphery of my vision.

“Maisy?” Ryan’s voice sounded far away, like he was calling to me from the bottom of a well.

“I have to ... I have to ...” My legs started to crumple.

Then his arm went around my waist, the other under my knees, and he swung me up into his arms. I think he carried me back through the kitchen and into the alleyway.

Had I not been basically incoherent at the time, I would have found this extremely hot.

Fox rushed over and opened the SUV door so Ryan could lift me into the car. It became easier to breathe as the blood returned to where it belonged and the air no longer felt too thin.

“Is she diabetic or hyperglycemic?” Fox asked.

“I don’t know,” Ryan answered, the frustration evident in his voice. “She did hit her head this morning. And she eats a lot of chocolate. I don’t think she’s diabetic.”

For some reason, that struck me as immensely funny, and I started to giggle.

“Maisy?”

“I’m okay,” I said, still trying to catch my breath. But the attack had passed. “Can we go somewhere else, please?”

At Ryan’s direction, the driver started the car and pulled out of the alley, back into traffic.

“What was that?” Ryan asked, the concern evident.

“That,” I told him with a sigh, “was my father.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Your father?” Ryan repeated. “In the jazz band? Which one?”

“He was the piano player.” I straightened up, that dizzying sensation from earlier completely gone. “I didn’t know he was in Vegas.”

Apparently, Ryan had stuck the pamphlet with the bands’ names in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled it out. “Louis Harrison?”

“It’s the French pronunciation. ‘Lew-e.’ Not ‘Lewis.’ People always pronounce his first name wrong.”

“Probably has something to do with thatson the end.”

“Probably,” I agreed. His gentle teasing was helping me feel more like myself again. It was something my brothers would have done, and I liked that he did it instead of babying me. “Sometimes I hate that I love music so much because I know I got that from him. It’s bad enough that every time I look at one of my brothers, I see his face. When I was younger, every week I changed my mind about what I wanted to be when I grew up. Fashion designer. Interior decorator. Veterinarian. Salon owner. But I kept coming back to music. No matter what I did, no matter how much I told myself I wanted something else, it was always all about the music.”

“I get that.” Ryan fell quiet for a couple of minutes. “I should take you back to the hotel. Let you rest.”

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