1
Oliver
I remembered the taste of her lips, the smell of her skin. The memory of how she felt under me, her voice coming from her parted lips as she moaned in pleasure, was a constant loop in my mind.
A year later and I still couldn’t stop thinking about Adele.
And that’s all I knew of her.
Her first name.
Who occasionally sang sad songs at Roscoe’s Bar on 59th in Downtown Brownstone.
She had this beautiful sorrow to her that broke my heart and had me falling for her all in the same breath.
Every night I went to bed, she was the last thing on my mind as I grabbed my cock and stroked myself, as I thought about all the times I wanted to find her, to demand she was mine.
And every time I woke up, she was the first thing I thought about, pictured. This was far beyond infatuation, obsession.
I’d come to the realization that I’d fallen in love with Adele that night I met her. It was instant and consuming from the moment I saw her in that crowded bar, sitting on that little bar stool onstage as she sang her heart out.
I talked her into having a drink with me. And as we sat across from each other, it was like we were the only two people there, as if a hundred bodies didn’t surround us.
I’d known what she meant to me from that very first moment I saw her, from the very second I had her back to my hotel room. I knew it without a doubt as I slowly took her clothes off, stripped her for me. I’d looked into her deep brown eyes, and seen my whole life right before me.
She just didn’t know any of that.
And I hadn’t been able to tell her, because she left in the morning before I’d even gotten up. I wondered if she’d been nothing more than this fantastical dream, if she’d even been real. Maybe I just fantasized about the woman of my dreams?
And I sure as hell tried to find her, had gone back to that bar, pleaded, was desperate as fuck for a morsel of information on her. And I’d come up against a wall, rock solid, unmoving.
To this day, I still didn’t know any more about her than I had that night. No amount of searching, calling bars to see if anyone by her name was singing, got me any closer to her.
God, who was she? Where was she?
Before her, there hadn’t been any female companionship in my life for a fucking year, not an inkling or feeling or emotion to be with anyone. I was content focusing on work. My arousal was left to me jerking off at night as I stared at my ceiling. It got the job done, but it was one hell of an empty orgasm.
God, I wanted Adele. She was the only female—ever—to make me feel anything.
The sound of hammers and saws, of men shouting right outside the work trailer, couldn’t drown out my thoughts, even though I desperately wanted them to. Adele had been a constantly on my mind since the first time I saw her. I felt like I was losing my damn mind.
But I was being sent back to the city for work in the next couple days, a short forty-five-minute drive. And although I loathed work travel, even a short one like this, I was practically salivating to go on this particular trip.
I’d taken off a week after my business was done in the city, because I was going to find her. I didn’t care if I had to turn over every damn bar in the city. I’d find Adele.
I’d make her mine.
2
Adele
I leaned against the counter, my hand braced under my chin as I listened to the woman onstage singing the blues. Her voice was slightly husky, this deep tone that went straight into your body and tugged at your heart. I was drowning in her notes, in the way the emotion was laced in the words that spilled fluidly from her lips.
“Yo, Adele.”
I blinked a few times and looked over at Bishop, Lyrics bartender and the owner of this establishment. Maybe people thought it was weird the owner tended the bar, but Bishop was a hands-on guy when it came to this place, and I had a feeling that’s why it was as successful as it was.
“Here is table six’s order.” He gave me a wink and set the last drink he’d just made on my tray.
I looked down at the drink order.
Two Bloody Mary’s, a Long Island iced tea, and a whiskey sour. This order was going to the table off to the side, a bachelorette party, where the girls were already good and drunk, a little too loud, and clearly not in the right establishment. The way they were dressed, the way they were drinking was more fit for a club, not a smoky, darkened bar in the basement of an older building almost on the outskirts of the city.
I’d been working at Lyrics, a small jazz bar, for the past year. Of course, my passion wasn’t serving people drinks, but I loved the atmosphere and the people who worked here. I was a singer at heart, so I was right in my element, and well, I lived in a city that was expensive as hell, and I had to pay my bills.
So waitressing was what I did to make rent.
But this was my scene, my people, and being able to work at Lyrics made my heart sing.
So when I wasn’t working at the bar, I did open mic at some of the other local establishments. I loved Lyrics but had never felt comforta
ble singing here during their open stage nights. But that would change come Sunday, when I signed up for their open mic night. In this city, everyone and their mom were talented singers. I was just another person who sat up on those stages and told a story in melody. I didn’t see myself as anything special, anything different.
But then I’d seen him three months ago. I don’t know what it was about Oliver, but the way he talked about my singing, the genuine awe that came from him made me feel like I wasn’t just another body who hoped to make their break.
I took the tray and gave the girls their drinks. They were good and buzzed, so when I set down their order, they were overly excited, ecstatic that I just saved the night for them.
I made my rounds, checking on my tables, refilling orders, and all the while I kept glancing at the stage, at the next singer belting out a slow, desperate song about love and loss.
He played an acoustic guitar, his longer hair tied up in a messy man bun, his beard thick. His mouth was close to the microphone, his eyes closed. His jeans were faded and worn, his boots old and scuffed. He wore a distressed leather jacket, a dingy-looking white shirt underneath. He had that “starving artist” appearance going for him, but I knew Broderick was anything but starving.
Being a trust fund baby, Broderick broke the family mold of his CEO father and supermodel mother. He made his own way, worked as a barista—much to his parents’ disapproval—and in his spare time, he sang at Lyrics. He was a regular, a favorite among patrons and the staff.
He gave me hope that no matter your upbringing, the life you might have been meant to lead, if you had a passion, you went for it.
And that’s why I found myself doing open mic, why I didn’t give up on my dream and desire. I didn’t want to be some big rock star. I didn’t want to be a celebrity.
I just wanted to sing and make people feel from it.
“I’m heading out,” I said to Bishop as I set my tray on the bar. “Cheryl is taking over.” Bishop nodded and gave me another smile before serving the next customer who stepped up to the bar.
“Have a good night, Adele.”
I smiled at him and took off my apron before stashing it under the bar top and grabbing my purse.