“Baptiste, on in five!”

I shouted an affirmative reply through the bathroom door to the club manager, Tino, then turned back to face my reflection in the mirror. I blinked, noting with dismay how tired I looked. Really fucking tired, and older, to boot. Even with all the makeup I normally wore on stage, I could see the puffy bags under my eyes, and frown lines around my mouth that hadn’t been there a month ago.

Normally I didn’t care about any signs of aging. It was only natural to get older, and smile lines and gray hairs typically told a story of a life well-lived. It was one of the things I loved best about humans, the miraculous thing that made us beautiful at any age.

But it bothered me that this had happened to me so rapidly. Practically overnight, in fact. As little as a few weeks ago, I made thirty look like the new twenty. Now, I looked like I was in dire need of a nap. And it would be best if it lasted for, oh, about the next six months. But what was even worse? Sleeping for so long sounded like a fantastic idea. I was just exhausted all the time.

Someone banged on the door, pulling me out of my uncharacteristically mopey thoughts.

“Hey, you seen Tino?” a scratchy voice called out.

I sighed as I blotted my fuchsia lipstick and gave myself one last look in the mirror. My hair was huge, my cat-eye game was on point, and my dangly crystal earrings would catch the stage lights as I bopped in time to the beat. It would have to be good enough.

I opened the bathroom door to see Rae, a back-up singer for the opening band, looking up at me forlornly. “You seen Tino?” she repeated.

I gestured to the office at the back of the narrow hallway we were standing in. “I heard him a minute ago, sounded like he was headed that way.”

She huffed, the huge flannel shirt she wore between sets falling off her thin shoulders with the movement. “I need to find him,” she muttered, heading off in the direction I’d pointed to.

I shook my head as I headed in the opposite direction, toward the stage. She wasn’t likely to find Tino – I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually laid eyes on the man. Usually we traded emails or voice messages, or on rare occasions, shouted at one another from the other side of a closed door. He was kind of like the perfect jeans: he existed somewhere, in theory, but hell if you could ever actually find him.

I rolled my shoulders once I reached the wings, bouncing on the balls of my feet as I watched my band members filter onto the stage one by one. And then it was my turn. I took three deep breaths, then made the sign of the cross – an old habit I’d picked up from my mother, who used to say the mini-ritual gave her good luck. Finally, I stepped on stage, waving and smiling to the cheering crowd. When I reached my kit, I picked up my sticks and nodded to my bassist, Marcie, who was closest to me.

“You okay?” she mouthed, proving that the sparkly earrings and frohawk weren’t actually enough to disguise how off I was tonight.

Was I okay? Wasn’t that just the question of the day. Of the damn month, even. But I nodded, giving her what I hoped was a convincing smile. Then I sat on my stool, adjusting the mic until it was at the perfect height.

I looked out at the audience. It was a good crowd for a Wednesday, from what I could see through the bright lights trained on me. I pasted a smile on my face and leaned into the mic.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I called out in my stage voice, “we are the Baptiste Band, and we do things a little different than you’re used to,” I quipped, earning whistles and cheers from our regulars.

We were the main act tonight at The Purple Note, Phoenix’s largest and most popular jazz club. We’d been playing here four nights a week for the last couple of years, our popularity holding steady thanks mainly to the strength of our live shows, plus the little bit of buzz we enjoyed from the (extremely modest) success of our one and only album. We might have made more money if we’d stayed in New York, but I wouldn’t change my decision to come back to Arizona five years ago, even if I missed my life in the Big Apple. My mother had needed me, and that was all there was to it.

And besides, we did alright. We made enough to put rooves over our heads and food in our bellies, at any rate.

But I wouldn’t want to do anything else for a living. Music was in my blood, and I did it with the best damn players in the game. I took a moment to look around the stage at the badass women who made up my band, proud of how unique that made us. Jazz was in many ways an old boys’ club, and an all-female band was still a novelty to too many people.

The six women on stage with me grinned as I counted us off, and we launched into a bluesy, moody cover of The Exciters’ “He’s Got the Power.”

That was another thing we did differently – we weren’t a straight-up jazz band, churning out Cole Porter covers or trying desperately to be the next Coltrane. Nothing wrong with those things, if that’s what you wanted. But I didn’t want to be the next Coltrane. I wanted to be the first Sabine Baptiste.

The song I was currently crooning was a minor hit from a nearly-forgotten 60s girl group, but it killed with our audience. And tonight, there was a little something extra in my rendition as I thought of the person who’d occupied way too many of my thoughts lately, keeping me up at night and making me shuffle through my days like an extra in The Walking Dead.

Eric.

Just the thought of him, of the night we’d shared, sent shivers up my spine and heat to my core. I could not get that boy out of my goddamn head.

And that really pissed me off. I did not want to be so obsessed with one person. I did not want to be restless with longing, or to feel lonely when I was alone. I did not want to be haunted by a damn hookup. I was not built for relationships. It just wasn’t in me. I floated from person to person, spending time with anyone who caught my eye. And no one caught my heart, thank you very much.

So why did my heart stutter every time I thought of him?

Because every time I closed my eyes, I remembered his hands on me, the way he’d touched me like I was precious. I recalled the way he’d held my gaze like he was trying to explore the fathoms of my soul. I longed for the way he’d kissed me like he wanted to savor the experience. I ached for the way he’d fucked me like he would gladly give me all the pleasure he was capable of providing, again and again.

And then of course, there was the little nagging kernel of guilt that was lodged in my damn brain, telling me I’d been wrong to take off like that. I’d stolen away like a thief in the middle of the night, not even leaving him my number. I mean, I at least owed him an update on the whole broken condom situation, right?

But I couldn’t stay. I had to get out. It felt too good, snuggled in bed with him like that, his arms around me, his breath fanning across my neck, his hips nestled against my ass. It had felt right.

And that simply would not do.

The song ended, and Nadine, our piano player, keyed the opening riff of “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.”

Okay, so sometimes we did Cole Porter tunes. What can I say? The man knew how to write a song. But we kept our audience on their toes with a pretty eclectic set, a mix of offbeat covers and our own genre-bending originals. We blended jazz, blues, rock, old school R&B, and even sprinkled in some hip-hop flavors. Whatever worked for that particular song. And our audience loved it.

As our set progressed, I did my best to focus, to put everything I had into the music. But I still felt off. Maybe it was the song selection. I’d finalized it yesterday, and it was clear that my mood had affected my choices. They were all songs of confusion, of reluctance, of feeling mixed up and spun about by love.

Love? What. The. Fuck?

No. Absolutely not. I nodded to Nadine, and she rolled right into the newest addition to our set list, one I was a little hesitant about, to be honest. It was a cover of a pop song – Kylie Minogue’s “Can’t Get You Out of My Head.” I’d taken a hatchet to it, rearranging it into a sparse, lilting piano ballad. It was just Nadine’s keys and my voice.

But the audience seemed to be eating it up. You could have heard a pin drop all throughout the song. And when the last note faded away, the applause was explosive.

I smiled and waved before introducing the next song, and I once again tried to lose myself in the music. But it was next to impossible when all I could think about was my treacherous brain’s ridiculous idea that I was in… nope, not thinking about it.

I sneered through the last song, putting more edge into it than your typical ballad required. When we were done, I took the shortest possible bow and hoofed it off the stage as fast as my five-inch heels could carry me.

And yes, I was six-foot-one barefoot, and still wore heels on top of that. I was not a dainty woman, and I gave precisely zero fucks about that.

Though maybe I should lay off the heels for a bit, I though as I minced my way backstage. My feet had been super swollen lately. Just goes to show you how emotions fuck with your system. Better to avoid them altogether.

My stomach gave a lurch, and I headed straight for the small, dingy bathroom I’d gotten ready in earlier, slamming and locking the door behind me. Then I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet, heaving up my dinner.

Ugh. Not how I wanted to taste Elmer’s chili relleno burro again.

I waited a minute, breathing deeply, making sure I wasn’t about to go for the back-to-back title. When I was reasonably sure my stomach had settled, I stood, crossing to the sink and rinsing my mouth out.

Jesus. Even the mere suggestion of the L word had made me toss my cookies.

“Get a fucking grip, Baptiste,” I growled under my breath, glaring at myself in the mirror.

I was not in love with Eric Levy. The very idea was ridiculous. I’d spent about eight hours total in his company, and they hadn’t been anywhere near as meaningful as my brain kept insisting they were. We flirted, we bantered, we fucked. We fell asleep, and I left long before dawn. That was it. Nothing more.

But the baby… an evil voice in the back of my mind whispered. A devil on my shoulder, if you will.

“Doesn’t fucking exist,” I muttered. I’d taken the morning-after pill before I even got home that night, as a matter of fact. And I knew it had worked – I’d gotten my period last week. Oh, and as a bonus? It was way shorter and lighter than normal. Thank you, artificial hormones.

“And even if it did,” I continued, because after all, what says crazy more than talking to oneself in a bar bathroom, “that doesn’t tie me to him.”

Nothing said I had to run out and marry a near-stranger just because he’d knocked me up. This was the twenty-first century, and I was a capable, independent woman. I could raise a kid on my own, if I had to. I could get a day job and work my ass off to provide for a baby Baptiste, just like my mother had.

“But you don’t have to.” I grabbed a paper towel and wiped away the sweat that had beaded on my forehead. “Because you’re not fucking pregnant.”

A knock rattled the flimsy wooden door.

“Sabine?” Marcie’s voice was muffled, but I could still hear the concern in it.

I cleared my throat. “I’m fine!” I croaked. Ugh. I needed to quit dicking around and get to the bar for my usual post-show tincture, or my voice would be toast for the next one on Friday.

“You sure?” She didn’t sound convinced, and I couldn’t blame her. I’d just thrown up, I was talking to myself, and I sounded like I’d swallowed forty-grit sandpaper.

I popped the door open, trying to ignore my bandmate’s worried blue eyes. I gave her a rueful smile. “Totally. Probably just something I ate. Dinner didn’t agree with me.” I rubbed my still-tender stomach, hoping she’d buy the lie.

Because nothing I’d ever gotten from Elmer’s had given me a stomachache before. Their food was sent down to Earth from God Himself, and cooked to spicy perfection. No, that mess back there? That was my stupid mixed-up head fucking with the rest of my body. Psychosomatic nausea. Nothing more.

To my relief, she must have bought it, because she gave me a wicked smile. “Good. Because there is a grade-A hottie at the bar, and I overheard him asking Mel about you.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “He said he’d wait for you after the show.”

I raised my eyebrows. A hottie? Hmmm. On the one hand, I wasn’t sure I was feeling up to any hanky-panky tonight. I didn’t feel sick anymore, but I wasn’t necessarily in the mood for a hook-up, either.

Because you want Eric, the devil whispered in my ear.

No. Not happening. I could totally hook up with whoever I wanted to. Maybe even the hottie in the bar.

My stomach gave an uncomfortable gurgle at the thought, but I ignored it. Just residual nausea, I figured as I put my game face on.

Marcie winked at me as I followed her out onto the club floor. The live acts were done for the night, so the strains of Nina Simone’s “To Love Somebody” floated from the speakers, bringing a genuine smile to my face as I skirted the dance floor. Few things brightened my outlook on life quite like my favorite tunes.

But about ten feet from the bar, the little bubble of happiness in my stomach popped when I saw who was waiting for me.

Eric. Motherfucking. Levy.

God, it was like I’d fucking conjured him. Somehow, I’d willed him to show up with nothing more than my bizarre longing, the memories of that night, and okay, yeah, my hormones.

Because Eric looked completely edible tonight, sitting at the bar sipping a Guinness in his gray tweeds. He wore a starched white shirt, a green bow-tie, and a waistcoat that matched his suit jacket. His suit jacket that had hot-as-fuck leather elbow patches.

He was wearing a three-piece suit, y’all. He was dressed like he’d stepped out of a Philip Marlowe movie. I had absolutely no chance of resisting him. None.

As though he sensed my presence, he turned, and the dazzling smile he gave me melted away any objections still remaining.

Maybe we could have one more night together, I argued with myself. It was obvious he wasn’t yet out of my system. A few more hours should do it, I figured.

“Keep telling yourself that, Baptiste,” I muttered. Because the man had made me crazy, clearly.