His to Steal

Ch. 2: Ambush

Sutton

The bright overhead lights shine down on me as my fingers dance along the ebony and ivory keys of the grand piano. Hungry gazes trail over my body and I fight the shiver that threatens to roll through me.

I close my eyes against the harshness of the glare and the lascivious stares; I don't need to watch as I play anyway. I've been playing piano ever since I can remember. I have a set of twenty or so songs memorized, and I perform some combination of them every Friday and Saturday night at my father's club.

As the song comes to a close, I play the last few notes with a flourish before glancing around the room and making eye contact with as many of the smarmy, borderline creepy male customers as possible as I begin the next song in my set.

I hear my father's voice echoing in my head. Sutton, sweetheart, you want to make them feel welcome in our establishment. On Saturday nights, you're the entertainment they get with the main event.

The main event...I don't know why he doesn't just say it. The strippers. My dad owns high-end "gentleman's clubs" that have helped make him one of the wealthiest men in New York City. It is what it is. It doesn't bother me.

Except when the men leer at me with lust in their eyes.

I've tried to tell my dad that I don't want to perform this late, but he won't listen. He says that the "classical music juxtaposed with the sensual movements of the dancers really just sets us apart from the rest of the clubs in the city."

Please. I'm surprised my father even knows what the word juxtapose means.

Sometimes I just pretend I'm a musician in the pit on Broadway, playing in the orchestra for Hamilton or The Lion King. Piano is the only thing I've ever had that's just mine, and it's all I've ever wanted to do—go to Julliard and play on Broadway.

But Julliard is out of the question. Not when the Ring needs me. He's "appeased me" by letting me play at the club. But it isn't enough. I want to keep growing, to spread my wings.

I'm jolted from my Broadway fantasy by the familiar sensation of eyes on me, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.

I don't know what it is, but there's something about being on stage regularly that's trained me to know when people are paying attention to me and when they're just present in the room. And then when someone is really paying attention, it's obvious.

Moving my head so my hair flips over my shoulder, I wait about thirty seconds before lifting my eyes in the direction of the observer. I'm curious to see who they are and what it is they find so interesting.

I make eye contact with a middle-aged man I've never seen in the club before.

He's not one of my father's regulars. And he's looking at me with the creepiest smile on his gaunt, raggedy-looking face. Swallowing hard, I break eye contact and look back at the keys, pretending to focus on them as I finish out the song.

I will him to disappear, and when I look up again, he's gone.

Almost like he was never there to begin with.

After finishing my set, I step down from the stage, my long, black dress trailing behind me. Just like every other night, I'm whisked away and out the side door before anyone can speak to me.

"Beautiful playing tonight, Sutton," Dominique says as she ushers me into my father's Mercedes S-Class that's waiting in the alley beside the club.

As I settle into the backseat and shut the door, I look over at my bodyguard, who also happens to be my best friend, and grin. "Oh, come on, Dom. You hear me play the same damn songs every weekend."