3.2 | Killer Instinct

02 | awake

  

0 2

a w a k e

THERE WAS SOMETHING alluring about music. It was that finely woven net of melody, harmony and rhythm that you could just shut your eyes and sink into, forgetting both the passing of time and the worries of reality until the song was finally over.

Brooke never liked being in the limelight. But three times a week, when she donned her mask and stood on the small stage, she'd forget all about her aversion to being the center of everyone's attention.

That was what the Nightingale was good at.

And tonight was no different.

The lilting chords of the piano reverberated around the diner as she pitched her voice a little higher. From beneath hooded eyelids, she swept a glance across the crowd. Most of her audience were men, although she spotted a few familiar faces. Old Maude, who ran the diner-turned-bar at night. A couple of waitresses who stayed to grab a drink or two. Her gaze clung to them for a moment, finding relief in familiarity, before she swiveled her attention back to the main crowd.

Eventually, the song spiraled into a steady diminuendo until the last strains of the melody faded away. The crowd erupted into applause. More whistles, more catcalls. She couldn't help noticing that the number of patrons on her performance nights had increased over the past month. Some were regular customers from the Wharf, but others were strangers. Probably from the other towns nearby. Or even from the city, if they bothered to drive all the way up here.

Anxiety gnawed at her and she let out a breath. Focus, she told herself. Finish it.

With a sultry smile, Brooke set the microphone back onto the stand and moved off stage. There was a small storage area beyond the kitchen that she used as a makeshift dressing room. She hurried towards it, only to falter when she noticed the customers that had taken residence by the narrow hallway. It was impossible to miss the leering expressions on their faces. The multiple shot glasses on their table suggested that they had plenty to drink and she steeled herself.

"Good show tonight," one of the men said. He held up his glass in a mock salute, seeming less tipsy than his companions. "That last song was a lovely number."

She tilted her head in brief acknowledgement. "Thank you."

"That dress you're wearing is a lovely number too," drawled another man. He had his hand wrapped around her arm before she could move away and she could smell the whiskey on his breath. "Stay here awhile and we'll show you a good time, sweetheart."

She stiffened under his iron grip and fought to keep calm. What she really wanted to do was to wrench her arm away and run upstairs. Her dad would be watching one of those old sitcoms on his television. One quick word from her and he'd lug his gun down to shoot the balls off this man.

But as a general rule, the Nightingale did not interact with the crowd. She was all poise and finery. Men like this one were beneath her. Brooke had worked so hard to create this image for herself that she couldn't destroy it. She couldn't show this man that his actions had scared her.

She'd shown her fear once. Never again.

"No, thank you," she said steadily. She pulled away from his grasp and turned towards the hallway, but he blocked her path with one quick stride.

"Come on, we'll treat you real nice - "

"Gentlemen." A dry voice sliced through the tension. Brooke almost sagged in relief when Maude stepped up and shot the men a hard look. "Our Nightingale is now off her shift and she has plenty else to do tonight. You have a good evening and be sure to come back for her next show."