The Magic's in the Music (Magic Series Book 5) by Susan Squires Page B
Authors: Susan Squires
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out of here. He jerked his attention back to the record producer. “Yeah. Sure. I want to play under contract. All I have to do is stuff my intestines back in my belly after I perform. I could do it all day.” He pushed past the dude.
The guy reached out, trying to hand him a business card. Lan stumbled away and into the men’s room. He’d better make this quick. With his luck, the producer would follow him in here. There were three guys standing at the urinals. He pushed into a stall just as his stomach caught him by surprise and he lost ‘Cooking Adventure Night’ into the toilet. On his knees in front of the porcelain god, he retched out his guts until there wasn’t anything more to offer. He heard the others in the room beat a hasty retreat. Nobody liked to hear a guy hurl. Barely able to hold himself up on his elbows on the toilet seat, he just hung his head. Had to get out of here. Had to avoid the producer guy. And her of course.
Stick with the plan. With painful movements, he peeled off his leather duster. He opened his pack, took out his all-purpose white jacket and stuffed his arms into the sleeves. A hairnet plastered his long curls to his head. Paper hat. Roll up the duster. Into the pack. He stood, shaky. Why the hell was he sick like this? His control of the music had taken a way-bad turn for the worse tonight, first at The Breakers and now here. Was nowhere safe anymore? The music seemed to be taking over, pulling him down into some private hell.
He had to escape.
He shoved himself up and snagged his pack by one strap. No time to calm his heaving chest. He pushed out of the stall to an empty bathroom. The mirror showed him a busboy. Maybe a little sweaty, but nobody ever noticed busboys. He slipped out into the hall, keeping his head down. A crowd had formed at the entrance to the club. That was okay because the back door to the kitchen was the other way.
“Did you see the Ghost in there?” a woman called.
He just shook his head, hunched his shoulder and pushed through the swinging doors, into the busy kitchen, where everybody else was wearing a white jacket, too. There were calls of “burger up” and “dragging chicken.” No one had time to notice him. He wormed his way through the chaos and out into the night and the dark. He staggered to his cycle, hidden between the dumpsters, and just leaned against the cool brick wall, trying to get his bearings and his breath. He could wait here a while. He was concealed from the door in case anybody came out, looking for him.
His stomach ambushed him again. Must be the smell of the dumpsters. He added to the stench of the alley. When he was done retching, he stood and turned his face up to the narrow strip of sky between the buildings, wiping his mouth and trying to get some balance. Couldn’t see many stars here. City lights and all. He breathed in a little easier and felt the vise around his chest loosen a little under the starlight. Okay. He’d be able to make it out of here in a little while. He was glad he’d brought his bike. He didn’t feel up to walking back to his flop. Probably ought to change back into his duster. A busboy on a kick-ass classic Harley might draw attention.
*
Greta stared at him from across the club that had grown crowded in the hour he’d been playing. Word must have spread. How could she be so unlucky as to choose the one place he’d be tonight? Jax was in second heaven. She was dragging the guy she’d met—well, picked up if you wanted to be accurate—over to where the Ghost had disappeared into the back hall. Guess even musical specters had to take a leak.
Greta wasn’t sure how Jax could be so excited and happy after hearing that music. Greta was shaken. Like really, down inside her pancreas, shaken. The music had held so much torment, such pain, and then slowly, the pain had worked itself out into…how could she explain it? Nostalgia? Wistfulness? It had been like an epic story or something.
And then
The guy reached out, trying to hand him a business card. Lan stumbled away and into the men’s room. He’d better make this quick. With his luck, the producer would follow him in here. There were three guys standing at the urinals. He pushed into a stall just as his stomach caught him by surprise and he lost ‘Cooking Adventure Night’ into the toilet. On his knees in front of the porcelain god, he retched out his guts until there wasn’t anything more to offer. He heard the others in the room beat a hasty retreat. Nobody liked to hear a guy hurl. Barely able to hold himself up on his elbows on the toilet seat, he just hung his head. Had to get out of here. Had to avoid the producer guy. And her of course.
Stick with the plan. With painful movements, he peeled off his leather duster. He opened his pack, took out his all-purpose white jacket and stuffed his arms into the sleeves. A hairnet plastered his long curls to his head. Paper hat. Roll up the duster. Into the pack. He stood, shaky. Why the hell was he sick like this? His control of the music had taken a way-bad turn for the worse tonight, first at The Breakers and now here. Was nowhere safe anymore? The music seemed to be taking over, pulling him down into some private hell.
He had to escape.
He shoved himself up and snagged his pack by one strap. No time to calm his heaving chest. He pushed out of the stall to an empty bathroom. The mirror showed him a busboy. Maybe a little sweaty, but nobody ever noticed busboys. He slipped out into the hall, keeping his head down. A crowd had formed at the entrance to the club. That was okay because the back door to the kitchen was the other way.
“Did you see the Ghost in there?” a woman called.
He just shook his head, hunched his shoulder and pushed through the swinging doors, into the busy kitchen, where everybody else was wearing a white jacket, too. There were calls of “burger up” and “dragging chicken.” No one had time to notice him. He wormed his way through the chaos and out into the night and the dark. He staggered to his cycle, hidden between the dumpsters, and just leaned against the cool brick wall, trying to get his bearings and his breath. He could wait here a while. He was concealed from the door in case anybody came out, looking for him.
His stomach ambushed him again. Must be the smell of the dumpsters. He added to the stench of the alley. When he was done retching, he stood and turned his face up to the narrow strip of sky between the buildings, wiping his mouth and trying to get some balance. Couldn’t see many stars here. City lights and all. He breathed in a little easier and felt the vise around his chest loosen a little under the starlight. Okay. He’d be able to make it out of here in a little while. He was glad he’d brought his bike. He didn’t feel up to walking back to his flop. Probably ought to change back into his duster. A busboy on a kick-ass classic Harley might draw attention.
*
Greta stared at him from across the club that had grown crowded in the hour he’d been playing. Word must have spread. How could she be so unlucky as to choose the one place he’d be tonight? Jax was in second heaven. She was dragging the guy she’d met—well, picked up if you wanted to be accurate—over to where the Ghost had disappeared into the back hall. Guess even musical specters had to take a leak.
Greta wasn’t sure how Jax could be so excited and happy after hearing that music. Greta was shaken. Like really, down inside her pancreas, shaken. The music had held so much torment, such pain, and then slowly, the pain had worked itself out into…how could she explain it? Nostalgia? Wistfulness? It had been like an epic story or something.
And then
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