Callie (Keepers of the Flame: Origins #2)

Chapter One

It was called the Age of Jazz, and if New Orleans was its soul, then Chicago was its heart.

At least, Callie imagined it so as her cab turned down East Van Buren where the music was at its hottest, living and breathing and sweating as much as its melting pot of patrons. Outside the Friar’s Inn she paid her cabbie and stepped out awkwardly in a knee-length dress and high heels she was really too tall to wear. But tonight was special. She was going to a jazz club, she had a date, and the New Orleans Rhythm Kings were playing.

As the cab pulled away a figure in a slick suit handed its cigarette to a companion and came bounding toward her with a wide smile. “Wow-ee, girl!” His blue eyes skated over her appreciatively. “You can catch a fish without a hook in that getup.”

Callie grinned back. “Beats that starchy nurse’s uniform, doesn’t it?”

“You’re not joking, sister.” He offered her his arm. “Come meet your hot date. Hey, Sam—get your caboose over here.”

Sam appeared, a platinum blond flapper hanging from his arm like a small bumblebee caught in his orbit.

The flapper pouted her perfect, garnet-painted mouth. “Who’s this, Georgie?”

“Sam’s lovely for the evening—lucky bastard.” George gave Callie a friendly, one-armed hug. “This is Callie. Cal, this is Sam and Susie.”

An aggressive giggle from the bumblebee. “’Callie’? What kind of a name is that?”

“A family one,” Callie drawled, arching a brow. She turned to Sam with her hand proffered. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

A painful expression flitted across his classically handsome face as he gave George what she could only describe as a pointed look. Callie could guess why—in her heels, she was several inches taller than he was. “You, too.” A polite façade wiped his expression clean.

George invited them toward the stairs leading to Friar’s basement cabaret, the stone steps still damp from that day’s rain. “Ladies first.”

Callie strode off, Susie tripping along beside her. “Hell, George,” Sam stage whispered behind them. “You didn’t tell me she was a giant.”

“You said you liked tall girls. Callie’s the tallest girl I know—one of the classiest, too.”

“Tall is one thing—she’s a giraffe!”

“Legs from here to eternity, though.”

“Like I said—giraffe. Couldn’t you have found me a nice cool blond?”

Story of her life. Callie rolled her eyes—but she couldn’t have cared less. She was here for the Kings.

Goosebumps trilled up and down her bare arms, as jazz seemed to seep from the very sidewalks. Callie’s group pushed past a cadre of excitable high school boys elbowing one another out of the way every time the door swayed open to catch a brief, glorious burst of music. “Out of the way, Jimmy—it’s my turn!” “The hell it is, Eddie!” And, Callie’s personal favorite: a wolf whistle followed by “Jeezus, check out the legs on that redhead!”

Callie gave the boy her patented saucy wink-and-grin one-two combo, bowling the kid over into his slack-jawed buddies. In thanks she paused slightly longer than necessary in passing through the front door. She slid a sly gaze over to Suzie, who’s perfect, Clara Bow bee-stung lips were pouting with the best of them. “Sorry, Suze,” Callie said as she dropped her coat into Sam’s hands at the coat check counter. “It seems leggy redheads are where it’s at.”

George burst out laughing. “Ain’t it the truth.” He slapped Suzie on her non-existent posterior and followed the maitre’d.

Johnny lit his fine Cuban cigar—a gift of profound gratitude from an admirer and business associate—and eased back into his reserved seat, perfectly positioned to gauge the action of both the show and its enthusiastic audience. Dancers whirled and bounced to the music, feathers on flappers’ headbands swaying to the beat of the New Orleans Rhythm Kings, sequins on their knee-length dresses glittering in the lights.