Nightchild--The SeriesBook 1--Falling

Chapter 8

Chance was a roaring success by the standards of his friends and peers. Nate had to admit that he was better than he'd have imagined. It was obvious he'd been working on his music and training hard. But seeing him in person was what really cinched it. His presence would command any stage. John was right, he was a damn good performer who enveloped himself with a magnetism that drew the audience and held them captive.

As the evening wound to a close, John announced to a select group of his closer friends and associates that he'd like them to stay on for a little party-after-the-party, and complimentary suites would be available for anyone wanting to stay the night.

One hundred, fifty to two hundred guests lingered on, appearing no more than a handful, engulfed as they were by the vast room. Some roamed, others mingled about the stage or clustered in groups at tables around the dance floor, sometimes full, other times empty but for a lone couple. The local group that had started the evening had been engaged to play off and on, allowing the musicians of Chances Are to join in the festivities. The lights at the back of the club were dimmed, leaving only the stage and surrounding area illuminated by the soft radiance of subdued lighting, creating a more relaxed intimate atmosphere.

Men soon shed coats, loosened ties, booted feet were propped on tables and chairs, cowboy hats lay here and there on tables next to half empty glasses or ashtrays billowing smoke from red tipped cigarettes, cigars, or roaches that permeated the air with a sweet redolence. High-heels were strewn on the vacant seats of chairs or tossed haphazardly under tables. Raucous voices were complemented by jubilant guffaws that undulated through the gathering.

One bar had been left open and alcohol continued to flow. Heathe and Nate commented to each other more than once that Eddie would have been in great company as they watched individuals or small groups disappear briefly into the shadows to reappear, flying high on clouds of coke, eyes bright and dilated, noses sniffing involuntarily, naggingly. But the two men, lost in their own bacchanalian fog, were enjoying every minute of it. Neither would remember much of what led up to, or the immediate aftereffects of the train of events that followed. But the tracks their lives were on were again about to take a turn, changing the directions of their futures.

As the night waned into the first hours of morning, Chance took the stage once more. Alone with his guitar, he picked at a few songs he claimed to be working on. The noise and laughter continued, while friendly drunken taunts were hurled at him from the audience and he good-naturedly challenged his would be hecklers to "come on up and do better".

A few accepted the friendly challenge, some purposely making fools of themselves, others accidentally, sending waves of irreverent guffaws and giggles through the crowd. One or two others displayed a moderate amount of talent but were overlooked, except by a very limited, appreciative few.

Somehow, by someone or ones, Nate was cajoled onto the stage. His reserve down and his mood high, he did not resist as he might had he been sober. Besides, a desire had gnawed at him from the start, when John had mentioned to Chance that he understood Nate was quite a singer, and he had caught the condescending tone in the older man's voice and the surreptitious look that passed between them. He had wanted to show them, to prove to them and to himself that after all these years, he did have talent and one hell of a voice.

Once on stage, Nate took his time, savoring each second. Few of the guests paid attention, their conversations continuing as he picked Chance's guitar up from the floor where a previous performer had left it. Absently, he strummed a few chords, trying to decide what to sing. From the table below the stage, Heathe called out for him to do one of his own songs and Nate chose a slow ballad that would demonstrate his range.

When Nathan Stevens began to sing, the room and people in it ceased to exist. Nostalgia swept over him, carrying him away with feelings he had no longer thought alive, a euphoria that endured only in his music. He performed for himself, for the sheer joy and freedom that took possession of him and was completely unaware as the crowd became hushed and heads turned to see the man whose clear resonant voice rang sweetly, yet powerfully, in their ears. He didn't notice as women put heads together, whispering their approval or that male and female alike would catch their breath as he effortlessly hit notes so pure and high that chills swept through them. But Chance and John were aware, aware and watching.

From the darkness where they stood at the back of the club, they were able to listen and, more importantly, observe the reactions of the audience. They were aware of the way women gazed at Nathan Stevens, hanging on each word, each note, of the charismatic affect he had on both sexes and that he was oblivious to it all. Yes, the two older men were aware, for Chance Jennings had exacted these same responses from fans for the last three decades. This quality was possessed by few; the naturalness, the charisma, could not be faked. It was the utter magic J. T. had spoken of. So it was in those shadows during the early morning hours that Nate Stevens' career and future were decided.

His song ended and Nate looked into the audience for Heathe, but the tall blond had joined Chance and John in the obscurity at the back of the room to gloat with pride over his friend. Nate heard the applause and catcalls demanding more, but as he searched the upturned faces again, his attention was caught by the lowered head of a woman, the back of her neck left bare of jewelry, her hair pinned up. Spellbound, he watched her hands; as if they moved in slow motion, pull the pins and combs, one by one, from her hair, releasing it from its bonds before running small delicate fingers through its thick masses.

Suddenly, she raised her head, shaking it as she did. Tresses swirled about her, resplendent in the scant light, an aureole of auburn and burnished gold as it settled about her face in soft waves. Conscious of being watched, she tossed her head back, raised an unadorned hand to brush at a stray tendril, halting in mid-motion as her eyes lifted and were caught by Nate's and held.

The spell was broken within seconds as Chance appeared on stage next to Nate and whispered in his ear. "Smile, kid, you've just been discovered. You're a little old to be a protégé...but what the hell!" he chuckled, disregarding the quizzical look Nate shot him. "Do something a little more upbeat this time. Let's see what you've got."

Before Nate could reply, Chance had jumped from the stage, taking the first seat he came to and was joined shortly by Heathe, a smug infectious grin spread across the handsome face. Nate did as he'd been told, knowing that no one made him, that he was only doing what he wanted. He sang the requested song, then another until remembering the woman with the titian curls. Looking again in her direction, he found her gone and knew that he was surely dreaming.

John Grady did not hear the other songs. He was in a secluded office on the thirteenth floor, his lucky number, putting into motion the beginnings of Nathan Stevens' new life. A short rotund man with bulbous nose and rheumy eyes, squinting above high rounded cheeks, sat across an elegant antique desk. With a small pudgy hand, he rubbed at the wisp of hair that crowned his otherwise smooth pate while taking notes in a frayed spiral pad with the other.

"I don't care what it takes or how much it costs, if there's anything...anything at all...if he's been in trouble or could be linked to any scandal...if there's the slightest inkling, I want it taken care of. Check his family out, his friends...you know the routine. Anything even potentially harmful or the press could make anything out of, I want erased. I don't care if we have to build him a whole new past, that kid's gonna be the hottest and most mysterious phenomenon to hit the country western scene in years."

J.T. inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs. Reaching over to the ashtray he shared with the other man, he tapped the ash from his cigarette and expelled, thoughtfully watching smoke rise before going on. "Ya know, Harry, unless I'm wrong...and I'm not... I think the time's about right. The market's prime and we've got the boy. I'm gonna enjoy myself on this one!" Putting booted feet on the desk and leaning back, Grady locked his fingers behind his neck and chuckled, "Hell, Harry, I'm already havin' fun!"