Chapter 8: Jazz and Yearning
1280 Words
Faye
The New Orleans night wraps around me like a sultry veil as Sam and I slip into the jazz club, the saxophone’s wail spilling onto the street, rich with bourbon and magnolia scents. The crowd’s laughter mixes with clinking glasses, and I tug at my black gown, feeling plain next to Sam’s sleek red dress.
She dragged me here to escape the chaos—Vivienne’s Stay gone note, Jude’s V text, Ezra’s jealousy—but my skin still hums from this morning’s coffee shop mess. Vivienne’s obsession with Ezra, her ex, and that possible link to Jude keep me on edge, my heart tangled with Ezra’s pull despite his high school cruelty.
“Stop brooding,” Sam says, nudging me toward a high-top table near the stage. Her gold hoops catch the dim light, her grin bright. “We’re here to ditch the drama, Faye.”
I force a smile, sliding onto a stool. “Trying.”
But Vivienne’s venom, Jude’s smirk, and Ezra’s past—his laughter as Vivienne shoved me, his voice cutting: Nobody cares, Faye—cling like the humid air. His eyes now, dark and searching, keep slipping past my defenses, and I hate it.
The band shifts to a slow tune, the drummer’s brushes whispering, the bassline a heartbeat. I sip my soda, the fizz sharp, letting the music soften my edges. Sam sways in her seat, eyes half-closed, lost in the rhythm. For a moment, I almost breathe—
Until the crowd parts, and Ezra steps onto the stage.
No leather jacket. Sleeves rolled up. He slides onto the piano bench like it’s home.
My breath catches. Ezra plays piano?
His fingers hover, then plunge into the keys, notes weaving through the sax’s cry, aching and raw. His head tilts, dark hair falling into his eyes, and he’s not the bully who mocked me or the tense project partner from this morning—he’s something else. Unguarded. The music a confession.
My pulse races, and I curse myself. Vivienne’s warning—he’s trouble—drowned by the jazz, by the way he moves, by the crowd’s sway.
Sam leans over, whispering, “You knew he could play like that?”
“No,” I mutter, eyes locked on him.
His melody pulls at my chest, a yearning I can’t shake, even knowing he laughed while I bled. Even with Jude—his project partner and high school shadow—maybe tied to Vivienne.
The song ends. Applause ripples. Ezra’s eyes sweep the room and find me.
My stomach flips.
He steps off the stage, weaving through the crowd, gaze never leaving mine. Sam nudges me, smirking, but my heart’s pounding.
He stops at our table, his cedar-and-smoke scent cutting through the bourbon haze.
“Faye,” he says, voice low, rough. “Dance?”
He holds out a hand. The air crackles, a storm brewing.
I should say no. He’s Vivienne’s ex. My bully. The guy whose jealousy over Jude this morning felt like a claim I don’t want.
But my body betrays me.
My hand slides into his, warm and calloused from the keys.
He leads me to the dance floor. The band strikes a slow, sultry tune. His hands settle on my hips, pulling me close, our bodies swaying to the bassline’s pulse. His breath brushes my neck, sending shivers down my spine, my pulse racing as his fingers press lightly, intimate but restrained.
It’s too much. His heat, his scent, the way we move like we’ve done this before.
My skin hums, a sensual tension coiling. I want to pull away, but I’m caught.
“You’re good at this,” I say, voice shaky, trying to break the spell.
His lips quirk. “You sound surprised.”
His eyes hold mine, dark, searching, and for a second, I forget his past. Forget Vivienne. Forget everything but his hands.
The song shifts. I’m about to step back—
When a sharp voice cuts through.
“Ezra.”
Vivienne’s there. Blonde hair glowing. Red dress clinging. Her sorority minion Khloe at her side, brunette curls bouncing, eyes glinting with malice.
Vivienne’s blue gaze locks on me. Venomous. Then flicks to Ezra.
“Faye? Really?” she sneers.
Khloe giggles like it’s a cue.
My jaw clenches. High school claws back.
Ezra’s hands tighten on my hips, his body stiffening.
“Vivienne,” he says, voice flat, warning.
Khloe leans into Vivienne, whispering loud enough for me to hear. “She’s so out of place, Viv.”
Vivienne smirks, stepping closer. Her perfume is sharp.
“He’s mine, Faye. Always,” she says. Her voice drips possession. Her obsession laid bare.
Khloe nods, smirking. Her loyalty a mirror to Vivienne’s cruelty.
I see it clearly now. Vivienne’s targeting me. Trashing my notes. Because I’m near Ezra—a threat to her claim.
“Back off,” I snap, anger flaring, surprising myself. “He’s not your trophy.”
Vivienne laughs, cruel and bright.
Khloe echoes with a snicker.
“Oh, ghost, you’re drowning,” Vivienne says.
She leans into Ezra. Her hand rests on his arm—
But he pulls away. Face hard.
“Enough,” he says. Low. Final.
He releases me. The sudden distance chills.
Vivienne’s smirk falters.
Khloe’s eyes narrow.
But Vivienne tosses her hair. Signals Khloe to follow.
They stalk off.
Heels clicking like knives.
I’m shaking.
Anger and yearning churn inside me. I push past Ezra, needing air.
The club’s heat suffocates. The jazz too loud.
Outside, the night’s cooler. The street alive with laughter and a distant trumpet.
I lean against the brick wall, breathing hard.
Vivienne’s taunt—he’s mine—loops with Ezra’s touch.
Khloe’s giggle sharpens the sting.
The door creaks.
Ezra’s there.
Silhouette sharp against the club’s glow.
“Faye,” he says, stepping closer. Voice raw. “I’m not hers. I don’t know what I am.”
His eyes search mine.
Broken. Not the boy who laughed while I bled.
“Then what are you doing?” I demand, voice cracking. “You and Jude, you hurt me. You let her break me. Now you’re… what? Acting like you care?”
My anger spills. Fueled by his piano. His hands. The way he makes me feel things I shouldn’t.
He flinches.
Runs a hand through his hair.
“I was a stupid kid. I followed her. And I hate it.”
His voice drops. Eyes haunted.
“But she’s got something on me.”
The words stop me.
“A video, from high school. It’s bad, Faye.”
The admission shifts everything.
Vivienne’s not just obsessed. She’s got blackmail. A leash on him.
My breath catches.
Suspicion tangles with the pull toward him.
“What video?” I ask.
But he shakes his head.
“Not now,” he says. “I’m trying to be better. I don’t know if that’s enough.”
He steps closer.
His heat reignites that dance-floor charge.
But I back away.
Heart a mess.
“I don’t know either,” I say.
I turn toward the street where Sam’s waiting by a cab.
I walk away.
His plea echoes.
My attraction deepens.
Despite his past.
Vivienne’s threat.
Her and Khloe’s cruelty loom larger.
In my dorm, I pull out my phone.
Mom’s text glows: You’re tougher than you know.
I type: Need you tonight. Love you.
I hit send.
The jazz club’s heat in my veins.
Ezra’s touch a ghost on my hips.
Vivienne and Khloe’s taunts shadows.
I’m not running.
But I’m not ready to trust Ezra.
Not with her blackmail.
Not with my heart.
I’m not that ghost anymore.
But I’m still finding my fire.
- Writer
