Chapter 11: Melodies and Money Boxes
1631 Words
Emma Quinn peeled her eyes from the pulsating stage and turned to Manager Fang beside her. “I’m going up to sing soon,” she declared, voice firm.
Manager Fang, a distant cousin of Fang Muhe who kept the bar and club humming, flashed a toothy grin. “You got it. Solo piano and vocals, like always?”
Emma nodded sharply. “And grab my tip box. Oh—and a QR code too. Nobody carries cash anymore.”
Manager Fang’s jaw dropped, words failing him for a beat.
Ethan Blake, lounging nearby with a drink, nearly spat it out, coughing through a laugh. “What, you that hard up for cash now?” he jabbed, eyes glinting with mischief.
Emma shot him a withering glare. “Mind your own damn business, Ethan.”
He threw his hands up, sinking into the sofa with an exaggerated groan. Every time Emma took the stage, she’d saunter around afterward with that little box of hers—never begging, just letting her voice do the work. Tips poured in like clockwork. Ethan, though? He’d rather keel over than strut around collecting handouts. Imagine the humiliation if a friend caught him. “What song you picking?” he asked, curiosity overriding his snark.
Emma’s gaze darted across the room to Henry Parker, leaning casually against the bar. “An old love song—Mrs. Moore’s era. Soft, hits deep.”
Would it even register with Henry?
Ethan arched a brow. “If you’re that broke, I’ll spot you. All my cash, yours—just ditch that tacky pink box, I’m begging.” He slammed his glass down and clasped his hands in mock desperation.
Emma smirked, unfazed. “Get on your knees and beg harder. Still won’t change a thing.”
Manager Fang waved to the stage crew. The house band pounded out their final riff, then cleared off for a break, the thumping rock fading into a rare stillness. Emma shrugged off her coat, dabbed on some makeup, and took a slow sip of red wine. “Make sure you scan and tip me later with Mrs. Moore,” she said with a sly wink at Ethan, setting her glass down before striding toward the stage.
The opening piano notes spilled out—warm, familiar, haunting. Known to some as Autumn Blue, Emma settled at the keys, her profile glowing under the spotlight. Her clear, tender voice wove into the melody, low and aching, her loose white sweater slipping slightly to reveal a delicate collarbone. She was all in, music swallowing her whole.
Henry Parker swiveled from his spot at the bar, freezing mid-sip when he saw her. Emma Quinn, lost in her song, oblivious to the room—or so it seemed.
Autumn Blue, perched beside him, caught his stare and grinned. “You hooked on the tune or the girl?” she teased, elbow nudging his side.
“Her,” Henry said without hesitation, eyes glued to Emma. “Song’s solid too.”
Autumn traced his gaze back to the stage. “You men always fall for the young, pretty ones, don’t you?”
Henry shrugged, sipping his drink. “Plenty out there are younger and prettier.”
Autumn frowned, massaging her temple—too much wine, maybe. What was he getting at?
Henry glanced at his watch. Nearly forty minutes here, and she still hadn’t spit out whatever she’d dragged him over for. “You just gonna keep me here drinking and stalling?”
“Wait ‘til she’s done,” Autumn replied, swirling her glass. “Then I’ll lay it out.”
Fang Muhe slipped into Emma’s empty seat after a call, his fingers curling around a wineglass. The lyrics—“long, long ago, you had me, and I had you”—cut into him like a blade. Years back, he’d sung this with Zhao Mandi, Emma’s younger hands dancing across the keys. Without thinking, he pulled out his phone and punched in a number—eleven digits he’d never saved, never forgotten, buried deep. Ethan, slouched beside him, caught a glimpse of the screen. A full minute ticked by, Fang staring into nothing, lost in the past.
Ethan usually tore into him without mercy, but this time he zipped it. Fang’s thumb hovered, then crept across the screen, deleting each digit with agonizing slowness. He gripped the phone tight, flung it onto the table with a clatter, and downed his wine in one bitter gulp. “Why the hell’s Qiqi singing something this depressing?” he growled, voice rough.
Ethan swallowed a laugh—didn’t you love this one back then?—and played dumb. “Beats me. Maybe she’s lost her mind.”
Fang slumped back, eyes shut tight, letting Emma’s voice and the piano drag him under. Zhao Mandi’s shadow flickered in his mind—stubborn, unshakable.
The song faded out. Emma scooped up her sheet music, her eyes flicking to Henry. He was still watching, just as she’d bet on. She shot him a cheeky eyebrow wiggle—gotcha—then slipped backstage to grab her tip box.
Henry let out a quiet laugh. She’d clocked him with Autumn earlier and turned this into a performance—for him. She wasn’t thrilled about the company he’d kept.
Autumn caught the smirk tugging at his lips. “Pretty girls have a magic touch—one glance, and you’re grinning like an idiot.”
“It’s not the same,” Henry said simply.
He checked his watch again. “If you’ve got nothing real to say, I’m gone.”
“Hold up,” Autumn said, signaling for another drink. “I need your take—on feelings. I’m stuck.”
Henry took a slow sip. “I’m no love guru. Need a counselor’s number?”
“I’m not unhinged,” she snapped, bristling.
His patience was fraying, so she cut the crap. “There’s this guy I’ve been into forever. I’m pushing thirty, he’s at that settle-down age. Should I tell him?”
Henry knew it was him. Her invite tonight had reeked of it. Better squash it now than let it linger. He feigned ignorance. “What’s he feel about you?”
Autumn hesitated, thrown off. “I don’t know. Doesn’t hate me, I guess. We’ve known each other years—six months longer than I’ve known you. He’s… decent to me.” Decent, nothing more.
Henry toyed with his glass, not drinking. “If he’s kept you on the hook this long, he’s gotta be sharp. A guy like that knows if he wants a woman. No move after years? He’s not feeling it.”
He let that sink in, then added, “That’s my read. Could be he sees it different. Me? If I wanted someone, I’d have chased her down long ago.”
Autumn’s fingers clenched, a dry laugh escaping. “You, chasing? That’s a first.”
“Guys like me don’t mess around,” Henry said, cool and clipped. “We go for what we want.”
Her chest tightened, the sting of rejection hitting before she’d even confessed. She’d shadowed him since middle school, always a step behind, and still he’d rather take a family-arranged date than her. She slammed back her drink, the burn no match for the ache. “Sorry for dragging you out,” she said with a tight smile. “I’ll think about that confession.”
In her head, she prayed his family match bombed—hard and fast.
Emma worked the crowd with her tip box, raking in a haul. She reached Henry’s table—Autumn gone—and dropped the box with a thud, leaning against the bar. “Well, look who it is! From across the room, I thought, ‘damn, he’s fine.’ Didn’t realize it was you.”
Henry grinned at her playful jab. “Figured you’d be pissed.”
“Why?” Emma propped her chin on her hand. “Throwing a tantrum’s a girlfriend thing, right?”
“Not only,” Henry countered. “Throw one, and I’ll talk you down.” He pulled out his wallet, dumped over a thousand in cash into her box, then scanned her QR code and fired off twenty grand.
Emma studied him under the flickering lights, his sharp jawline almost too perfect. “You should quit coming to dives like this,” she said, half-serious. “Too many eyes on you at night.” Did he even clock how many women were itching to pounce?
“Alright, I’ll listen,” Henry said, smirking.
She blinked. She’d been half-kidding—did he mean it?
“There’s a lounge upstairs,” he said, sliding his phone into his pocket. “I’ll be there.” He stood and walked off, not waiting for her answer.
Emma watched him go, wheels turning. She checked her phone—twenty grand, unclaimed for now. She handed her bulging tip box to a staffer. “Treat yourselves to some late-night grub.”
“Thanks, Miss Quinn!” they chirped.
Back at the table, Ethan was glued to his game, while Fang Muhe sprawled across the sofa, out cold—or close to it. “He’s sleeping through this chaos?” Emma asked, incredulous.
Ethan shrugged, eyes on his screen. “Drank himself stupid earlier. He’s toast.”
Emma tossed her coat over Fang, then swiped half a glass of red wine while Ethan was distracted.
“Hey, where you headed?” he called, barely looking up.
“Fetching you a brother-in-law,” she quipped.
“Don’t get lost!”
“Relax, I’m staying put.”
This was Fang’s domain—everyone knew her—so Ethan didn’t push, diving back into his game.
Emma climbed the stairs with her wine,
- Writer
