Page 17 of Last One Standing
The light turned green, and we were a block from the club, and hopefully this conversation would end.
“Didn’t Four go through the same thing? He’s with Lizzy.”
I nodded. “Sort of. Four once explained that Two was higher up from him in rank and the things Two had to do were far darker than what Four did. To this day, I don’t even know all Two has been through.”
I pulled up to the valet again. It was misting outside, and I didn’t want to have to walk in a downpour later if that occurred.
Phoenix didn’t ask anything more and as soon as he stepped out of the car, his face lit up. I handed the keys to the valet and guided Phoenix inside. Noel had made me promise not to leave his side and then had threatened to chop off body parts of mine randomly over the course of a year if anything happened to him.
I approached the bouncer, who was the same as the other time. I didn’t have a ticket.
“Good evening, I’m Angel. Pika invited us.”
He read something on his tablet, nodded, and let us in. We didn’t sit in the VIP section this time, and that was okay. We were escorted to a table close to the stage.
“Oh, I love these seats so much better.” Phoenix was beaming.
“Good evening. Welcome to Stilettos and Sangria, is this your first time here?” A charming waiter in a black, skintight, tuxedo with sparkling-red bow tie enquired.
“No, second,” I answered.
“Wonderful. Can I get both of you a drink?”
I ordered soda because I wasn’t going to drink even a drop since I was responsible for Phoenix. He, on the other hand, ordered some colorful and sweet beverage that rivaled a bowl of fruit; it was like a sculpture.
“Mmm.” He offered it to me. “Wanna sip?”
“I’m good, thanks. You enjoy.”
The club was buzzing; people were getting settled into their seats. I glanced up to where the VIP sections were, where we’d sat last time. It appeared as if there was a birthday party or something, and on the other side there were a few of the Dead Kings, but I couldn’t see Brick. It didn’t mean he wasn’t there—just that I couldn’t see him.
Moments later, the lights dimmed and the stage lit up. The music began and I couldn’t place the song right away, but then as the stage filled with entertainers and the host, Ima Cummings, started lip-synching, I recognized it as one of JJ’s favorites, “Look What You Made Me Do,” by Taylor Swift.
Phoenix was bouncing in his seat and clapping like crazy. It was almost as entertaining as the show.
The performance came to a fabulous end, and every butt in the house was off their seats, cheering. Not wanting to look like I stood out, I joined everyone and even whistled.
Ima Cummings bowed with flourish and waited for the house to calm down.
“Thank you, darlings. I never get tired of that.” She winked at someone at the table beside us.
Her whole monologue was perfection. Sarcasm, comedy, everything that made this show so popular. And while I was enjoying each performance, there was an itch somewhere in my mind and I wanted to push everyone off the stage and bring Kona out.
We sat through three other performances that were amazing, and Phoenix was more excited than I’d ever seen him. Hearing him laugh and seeing him smile was refreshing. I clicked a few pictures of him and sent them to Noel. Of course, because I live to make his life a living hell, I captioned it with, I bet you don’t make him laugh like this.
I put my phone in my pocket; ignoring him would upset him more. I almost cackled.
Finally Ima introduced Kona—well, Anita Pounding—and I thought it would start with a bang, but it didn’t. The curtain opened and there was a piano, a microphone, and Kona.
She was in a ruby-red dress, her platinum wig, and her makeup was perfect. She played one of my favorite songs. I knew she had no idea it was, but my heart genuinely began to ache as soon as her voice echoed through the club. There was only one Nina Simone, but she sang “Lilac Wine” like she owned it.
I hadn’t listened to this song since we’d buried Scarlett all those years ago. I couldn’t bring myself to hear it. She would sit on my bed and horribly sing Nina Simone as I played her music. After Scarlett was killed, just listening to Nina Simone had been suffocating.
I wasn’t feeling that way now. I was mesmerized by Anita’s performance, my chest heavy, but I could breathe.
When the last note was played, the house came alive again with a well-deserved standing ovation.
She stood from the piano bench, plucked the microphone from the holder, and moved to the front of the stage.
