A Siren's Sorrow

1

1920s — New York City

The whole city bustles and buzzes with life just outside my window. The bright lights like stars against the hazy night sky. It brings a smile to my face at the thought of what awaits me just a few streets away. My senses itch for the cool feeling of the microphone beneath my fingers, the smell of smoke and alcohol lingering in the air, the tapping of shoes and piano keys as people dance to the jazz music inside the dim little club.

I let out a sigh of content at the mere memory of it. Well, the club and a certain jazz player. The one with the sly smile, gentle touch, and those brown eyes that hold more than the galaxies ever could. My thoughts linger on him and possibilities for tonight's events as I slip my feather band over my head and fiddle with the fringe of my dress.

Pops doesn't approve of my lifestyle, but it's the only thing I've got to myself these days. Between his rising fame and every one clamoring to invite his daughter to their social events merely for bragging rights, I was feeling more lost than ever before I found my love for jazz, which led to me to find love in so much more.

My knuckles tap out this weeks pattern on the thick mahogany door of what seems like to be an ordinary house downtown. But those that can get inside know it's anything but. Inside and down the stairs lies one of my favorite places, The Starlight, New York City's most hopping—and illegal—jazz club and gin joint. Or as I think of it—my second home.

I tug my jacket closer to my body as another chilly breeze passes by. My heel taps against the doorstep as I impatiently wait for someone to let me in. "Sorry about the wait, Birdy. It's busy tonight." Oliver greets as he opens the door with a wide smile.

"No need to worry, Ollie, dear. I'm just gonna go warm up before my set." I tell him with a grin and hand him my jacket before slipping into a side room. Ollie always keeps the place nice so that if anyone is suspicious, it still looks like someone lives here. All it would take is a peek in the window to see a roaring fire and a couple people having casual conversation.

"We go on in five." A warm, familiar voice whispers as arms wrap around my waist, and lips press a feather light kiss to my temple. "You ready, Birdy?"

I turn around and rest my palms against his chest. "Aren't I always, Tommy boy?" His brown eyes crinkle at the corners. Those bright eyes that seem to hold galaxies and more meet mine and send my heart fluttering. My fingers instinctively reach up to brush back the fallen strand of his blond hair.

There's a feeling of uncontainable happiness that flows through me, and I swear even without a drop of gin, I'm already halfway to drunk by the giddy feeling that comes with freedom. It's a stark contrast to the usual restriction of my daytime life.

The rules of society and social life and being a lady. Everyone clamoring for me to attend their parties, whether it be because of my father's name or my natural wit and attitude. It's the life of constant nagging from my father or one of his driver's hovering over my shoulder to report to him later on all my actions.

But here—in the underground night life of our decade, with the jazz music and cigarette smoke drifting through the air, and my love, Tommy, next to me, I'm free.

Tommy's fingers link with mine as we follow the small trail of people down to the basement. I breathe in a sigh of relief as we weave through the crowds of flapper girls and their beaus as they dance and drink the illegal booze this place pumps.

"Come on, Birdy. Time to share your song." He whispers as we linger in the wings. Theta's, my best friend, is just finishing up her number with the usual flourish she always brings. When she finishes, I step up on the platform and offer her a tight hug, before taking the microphone.