The voice coming from over by the piano was sultry, throaty and reeked of cigarettes, whisky and dirty sex. I looked up from my glass of single malt and swivelled around on the bar stool to see if the reality matched the image now placed firmly in my brain. I expected to see a train wreck of a woman, whose dissolute appearance matched her voice, but the woman before me was no more than mid twenties, with long, sleek, dark brown hair and the face of an angel. I did a double take, unable to believe that the voice and the woman I saw before me belonged with each other. Perhaps she was miming? If she was, she was damned good at lip-synching. She was singing the Billie Holiday song, Solitude, with all the angst of the original, accompanied only by a piano; played by an elderly black man.
The woman leaned casually on the piano, with one arm resting on its lid, and the other holding the microphone. She was wearing a simple red shift dress that clung to a lusciously curved body, and which ended mid-thigh to reveal long, elegant legs, and she had her eyes closed as she sang. Her hypnotic singing and with a body that every red blooded male in the club that night would love to touch, meant that, by mid song, all talking in the place had been put on hold.
An excerpt from my next book, shortly to be published by Blushing Books