Page 9 of Needed in the Night (The Fortusian Mates, #2)
ISLA
Damn near two hours of singing, and for all the audience’s appreciation of my music selections, my tip jar remained only a third full. Tonight’s crowd hadn’t been quite as generous as I would like.
So I ended my set not with a rollicking Fortusian folk song like I’d planned, but with “Warm Waters,” a melancholy ballad. The song had been written for a contralto voice, not a soprano, which was one reason I rarely sang it.
As I warbled my longing for the seas of home, nearly twice as much Alliance credit chips and local currency dropped into the jar as I’d earned all evening.
Even the extremely intoxicated Prylothian lounging in the shallow pool on the right side of the bar waddled to the stage and spat some coins from his cheek pouch into the jar.
Behind the bar, Mikas finished pouring a drink, caught my eye, and raised an eyebrow. For the stoic Fortusian bartender, that little movement was the equivalent of a belly laugh.
Well, let him laugh. He owed me a hundred credits.
He’d wagered I’d never get the Prylothian to tip, no matter what I did, wore, or sang.
For two standard years the Prylothian had been coming to this bar and never tipped Mikas once—not even when Mikas told him it was his job to clean the shallow pool where the very ungenerous amphibian sat to drink.
I could really use that hundred credits, but I’d probably tell Mikas to keep it. He deserved it after cleaning that pool for years. The bar’s owner didn’t pay him any extra for doing it. My own conscience was my worst enemy sometimes.
My worst enemy on this planet, that was.
“ Warm waters of home ,” I sang in Fortusian. My eyes brimmed with tears that were mostly but not all an act. I’d never had a home, not really, and that ache made that line especially hard to sing. “ I am so cold now, and I want to be there instead of here...all alone …”
I held the last note of the song long past the final notes of the prerecorded instrumental accompaniment, the playback of which I controlled with a device in my hand. For maximum effect, I let my voice crack at the end before I closed my eyes and bowed my head.
Silence.
I rarely ended a set with a song like this because patrons didn’t come to a bar to leave sadder than when they arrived.
But as the applause and shouts of approval began, and more patrons came to the stage to show their appreciation in the form of tips, I decided I’d made the right move by choosing such an emotional song.
“Thank you,” I told my audience in the local dialect of Fortusian, though the language was hard for me. The patrons appreciated the effort, if nothing else.
I bowed and made my way down from the stage, holding the long skirt of my gown with one hand so I didn’t trip.
With my set done, I would have preferred to retreat to my little apartment, change clothes, and rest or read until Brae returned from gorging himself on insects during his nighttime feeding flight.
Unfortunately, my contract stipulated I had to remain in the bar for at least an hour to interact with patrons.
Thankfully, I could do so off my feet and with a drink in hand.
I weaved through the crowd to the bar, sidestepping a few wandering hands, claws, and tentacles on the way, and sat on a tall human-sized chair with a sigh.
As usual, Mikas slid a glass of Bacorian brandy across the bar top, along with a bowl of sweet jampa berries that perfectly complimented the smoky bite of the brandy.
“Lovely rendition of ‘Warm Waters,’ Isla,” he rumbled. “The tears and trembling in your voice were particularly effective.”
“It’s an emotional song. So much longing.” I took a sip of my brandy and sighed again, this time with contentment. “Thank you. I needed this.”
He glanced over my shoulder at my tip jar, which seemed to be still collecting patrons’ appreciation, judging by the clinks behind me. “Longing. Yes. You channeled your longing for credits well.”
From someone else, I might have taken offense at that statement, but not from Mikas.
I hadn’t told him much about my past, but he knew I’d arrived on Fortusia with only a handful of credits in my pocket.
To him, it made sense that I’d chosen a song that elicited more tips.
After all, he bartended shirtless nearly every night, and I’d seen his shirts disappear more than once when a group of admiring tourists came in.
I didn’t judge him for it. We were both working people in a resort city, just trying to get by.
I sipped my brandy, summoned a ghost of a smile, and picked out some jampa berries from the bowl. “We all long for something. I think that’s why that song always resonates so well. Everyone thinks of who or what they yearn for most when they hear it.”
I expected Mikas to scoff at the idea of yearning for anything. I’d never met anyone less likely to yearn. He seemed made of stone, or nearly so.
Instead, when I looked up—up, up, up , since the man was so damn tall—he was watching me, his head tilted and vertically slit yellow eyes thoughtful rather than disdainful.
“Maybe they think if they drop a few credits in your jar, they might get their wish,” he said, his tone neutral.
“Well, whatever their reason, it works for me.” I toasted him with my glass. “And as long as it continues to work, I don’t plan to tell them any differently.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he promised. I laughed, and he smiled.
We passed several minutes in comfortable silence as Mikas mixed drinks and I sipped my brandy.
Over the past few months, the rhythms of the bar and the methodical way he made each order had become as steady and soothing as a heartbeat or the gentle rocking of a hammock.
I relaxed, crossed my legs, and watched Mikas work.
Just as I was about to ask him about the angry Atolani female who’d stared at me earlier, three raucous, green-skinned Raxians climbed onto chairs at the other end of the bar.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Mikas said and left to deal with the newcomers.
They were already inebriated and thus even more obnoxious than the average Raxian.
But when he snarled, they quieted, paid, and sullenly accepted their drinks.
Mikas wouldn’t get much of a tip after that growl, but he’d probably trade those few credits for less trouble.
He might get extra tips from other patrons, especially the regulars. Nobody liked a rowdy Raxian.
Our place of employment was located on a side street just off a popular entertainment boulevard.
Zaa’ga translated to Alliance Standard roughly as “Friends and Drinks,” and its prime location made it popular with both offworld visitors who wanted to escape the noise and crowds and locals who appreciated a quieter and more intimate atmosphere.
Zaa’ga offered three main draws: an enormous variety of beverages from across the galaxy, a gorgeous bartender who doubled as security whenever the situation demanded it, and the novelty of a human singer.
Out front, our larger-than-life holographic images beckoned those passing to come in and drink.
The only reason I allowed my image to be used was that I looked very different than before I arrived on Fortusia.
My hair’s color and length had changed drastically, from shoulder-length and brown to long and multicolored.
My eyes were now violet—a popular color among humans living on Fyloria, where my appearance had been altered.
I’d even gone so far as to undergo vocal modification to help ensure the most advanced scanners could not connect my current appearance or voice with how I looked before.
None of the Erotovo’s agents had been spotted on Fortusia.
My local contact had reported Novee’s former owner had focused his search for Halena Onsulus on Havel Prime, Halena’s alleged homeworld, and nearby worlds.
That didn't mean I was safe, but with each week that passed, my back itched a little less.
As for my safety inside the bar, Mikas’s mere presence tended to dissuade even the most inebriated patrons from causing trouble.
With spines on his broad shoulders and upper back, a shock of thick black hair that ruffled when he was angry, shimmering blue-green scaly flesh, and fangs courtesy of his reptilian DNA, Mikas exuded “Behave yourself” at all times.
And when he growled…well, trouble tended to run the other way.
In more ways than one, he was a good friend to have on a planet where I knew almost no one—and in a bar where some tourists chose to interpret my stage persona and attire as flirtation .
A heavy hand landed on the back of my chair, making me jump. The scent of smoke and leather swirled around me.
An enormous Hardanian male with metal-studded black and green skin, wearing animal pelts and armor from shoulders to thighs, grinned down at me, his sharp teeth on full display. His fingers grazed my upper back, not at all accidentally.
How dare he touch me. A wave of hot fury washed through me, followed by icy hate and the strong desire to punch him hard enough to knock that grin off his face.
“Beautiful song, lonely human,” he said, his voice as rough as his hands. “You are lovely and your voice is pleasant.”
“Thank you.” I narrowed my eyes and leaned away from more unwanted touching.
Either he didn’t notice my scowl and body language or he ignored them. “If you long for touches in warm waters,” he said, nodding over his shoulder, “my brothers and I will gladly provide them.”
Behind him, at a large table befitting their size, two other Hardanians raised their heavy tankards to me in a toast. I didn’t recognize the sigil on their armor, but it signified they were scions of a noble family.