Chapter 8 8

"Sit," Arnoldo said, gesturing to his booth. It wasn't a request. "I'm casting for Midnight Rain. You have the sorrow I need. I can see it in your posture."

Avery sat. She accepted a glass of water from a waiter. Her hands were steady now. "I'm an actress, Mr. Young. Not just a pianist."

"We'll see," Arnoldo said. "Talk to me about noir. Why do the women always die?"

"Because the men writing them are afraid of women who survive," Avery said instantly.

Arnoldo smiled. It was a wolfish grin. "Good answer."

Up on the VIP balcony, Cullen Hunter watched. He gripped the brass railing until his knuckles turned white. He watched Avery smile at Arnoldo-a small, genuine smile. She had never smiled at him like that. Not once.

"Why is she here?" Cullen muttered. The whiskey in his glass remained untouched. He felt a burning irritation in his chest. He wanted to go down there and drag her out. He wanted to know what they were talking about.

Suddenly, the door downstairs slammed open with a force that rattled the frames.

A commotion.

Ernest Hall stormed in. He was red-faced, sweating in his tailored suit. Behind him trailed Hamlin Ward, his wrist wrapped in an overly dramatic bandage, which he cradled as if it were a broken limb. He looked smug and pathetic.

Someone must have posted a picture, Avery thought. A blurry shot of 'the Hall disgrace' playing piano in a dark club would be irresistible clickbait.

Ernest scanned the room. He spotted Avery in the booth with Arnoldo. He marched over, knocking into a waiter without apologizing.

"You disgrace!" Ernest shouted. His voice cracked. The jazz band stopped playing.

Avery sighed. She put down her water glass. She didn't stand up. "Hello, brother."

Ernest reached out and grabbed her arm, trying to yank her out of the booth. "You're playing piano in a dive bar? Have you no shame? The family name is in tatters because of you!"

"It's a jazz club, Ernest. A respectable one," Avery said, her voice cold. "And get your hand off me."

Arnoldo stood up. He wasn't a big man, but he had presence. "Let go of her."

Ernest sneered at him. "Stay out of this. This is family business."

"She is an artist, and she is my guest," Arnoldo said. He didn't blink.

Hamlin stepped forward, emboldened by Ernest's rage. He pointed his good hand at Avery. "She assaulted me earlier! She's dangerous! I want her arrested!"

The crowd began to whisper. Assault? Her? The skinny girl in the black dress?

Avery laughed. It was a sharp, mocking sound. "You're still crying about that, Hamlin?"

Ernest looked confused. "Assault? What is he talking about?"

"She's crazy, Ernest! She nearly broke my arm! She's on drugs again!" Hamlin whined. He moved closer to Avery, his face twisting into a mask of hate.

From the balcony, Cullen saw Hamlin step into Avery's space. He saw Hamlin raise his hand, as if to grab her again.

Cullen's patience snapped. The glass in his hand threatened to shatter.

He put the drink down on the railing. He moved toward the stairs. He didn't hurry. He moved with the terrifying inevitability of a landslide.

Avery prepared to stand up. She shifted her weight, ready to fight.

But then a shadow fell over the table. A scent of sandalwood and cold air cut through the smell of whiskey.

The entire club went silent as Cullen Hunter descended the final step and walked onto the floor.

"Is there a problem here?"

Cullen's voice was low. Deadly smooth.

Ernest froze. His grip on Avery's arm loosened instantly. Even Ernest Hall feared Cullen Hunter.

"Cullen..." Ernest stammered. "This... this is private. Family matter."

Cullen stopped next to the booth. He didn't look at Ernest. He looked at Avery. He checked her for injuries with a single, sweeping glance.

"It becomes my business," Cullen said, turning his cold eyes to Ernest, "when you disrupt my evening."