Page 61 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
“You show up in Tampa with your roommate!” I shot back instantly. “You already told me that one.”
“Worse!” Her voice dripped honey and poison. “You show up with your roommate… and another man.”
33
“Another man?! Are you out of your mind?”
“The manual clearly states that at this point I must seduce a man ‘as close as possible—physically and spiritually—to the prey’s ultimate idol.’”
“So… basically a Lev Mirov look-alike?”
“Precisely.”
“Oh, great,” I muttered.
I dug his old forty-five out of the cabinet in the living room.
On the back, the photo.
Lev Mirov, in scratched black and white, with the soft body of someone who’d never said no to a drink or a second helping of goulash. Wrinkled corduroy pants sagged under worn suspenders that slipped off one shoulder, leaving his hairy torso completely at the mercy of the camera. His belly jutted out with the pride of a fallen king, and his crooked, sly grin seemed to declare that life wasn’t worth taking too seriously. Sweat-damp black hair hung in messy strands across his forehead, and thesax resting diagonally on his thigh completed the scene with a sensuality that was both ridiculous and irresistible. Behind him: a peeling wall, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The personal hell of an artist who’d never planned to live past thirty-two.
“Now that’s a real dreamboat,” I said dryly.
“And yet—the few who knew him swear he was always surrounded by women. A bit like Jean-Paul Sartre, who wasn’t exactly a cover model. But by now, Bea, you should know better than anyone: seduction has very little to do with looks.”
“Are you seriously telling me you can make Ryder jealous withthisspecimen? One of them is tall, lean, abs carved like marble, with hair down to his waist. The other is… grotesque.”
“Even better! The Countess says the more different, the better. First, Ryder won’t be able to miss the resemblance to his idol. Second, it’ll plant the doubt—what if he’s not actually my type? What if I really prefer pudgy men with thinning curls? Can you even picture it, Bea? Imagine the devastation I’ll put him through. After five minutes of knowing me, he’s already trashing his career just to please me. Next comes the physical decline, because—what can I say?—I adore a little belly. And finally, financial ruin, because of course he’ll have to pay me my half in the divorce settlement.”
“Poor guy. Need I remind you, Ryder isn’t yourenemy. Chad is.”
“What can I say, Bea? That’s the curse of tortured artists—they love with their whole being. It’s inevitable. I can’t save him from that. He’ll bounce back… in a few years. And by then he’ll have a whole catalogue of heartbreaking songs to write about our tragic love story.”
“Mhm.” I kept staring at the saxophonist’s photo. “So where exactly do we find ourselves a specimen like this?”
“At the Tropical Jazz Club, obviously!”
34
The neon sign of the Tropical Jazz Club flickered like an epileptic warning: a palm tree shedding glowing leaves at random intervals. The front door was a black–painted slab of metal with a scratched porthole no bigger than a teacup saucer. No line, no crowd—just a man in a sailor cap with an unlit cigarette stuck to his lip, who held out his hand for the ten–dollar cover without bothering to look at us.
Inside, the place reeked of spilled beer, stale smoke, and some undefinable trace of tropical mildew—the only “tropical” vibe in sight. Faded posters from ’60s concerts and photographs of long–forgotten musicians stared down at the crowd like ghosts too tired to haunt anyone. The bar was a patchwork of cracked glass and duct tape, lined with half–empty bottles arranged with zero logic.
Onstage, a trio slogged through a slow blues. The upright bass thumped out notes as heavy as yawns, while a weary sax pleaded for mercy. The light wasdim, more yellow than warm, cutting through the haze like dull blades. A few patrons drank alone; others had already collapsed face–down on their tables.
Tess stopped halfway across the room, inhaled deeply, and smiled like she’d discovered the lost city of Atlantis.
I looked around, wondering if Atlantis was supposed to smell like expired disinfectant and watered–down gin.
Leaning toward me, Tess lowered her voice like she was sharing a state secret.
“See that tiny stage? That’s where Lev Mirov played his last note.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Here? This doesn’t exactly scream ‘immortality.’”
“Exactly. It was ’68. August, sweltering hot. Lev had already drunk more vodka than water in his whole life. He got up there barefoot, wearing an orange caftan and a feather boa he’d stolen from a Brazilian singer. He started playing something no one had ever heard before—an improvisation that went on twenty minutes, beginning like a wild dance and ending like a whispered confession. Halfway through, the sax just slipped from his hands. Not for drama. He simply had no breath left. He stood there, staring at the crowd with those wet–dog eyes… and then he walked off. No one ever saw him alive again.”
Tess let the silence hang, the rumble of the bassfilling the space between us. “They say he went back to his apartment above an old record shop two blocks away. Put on a Coltrane record. Filled his bathtub with ice–cold water and gin. He lay down in it with his sax on his chest, and played one last note no one ever heard, because he was alone. When they found him the next day, the caftan was still hanging from the mirror, and the bathwater smelled of alcohol and brass.”
