Available wherever books are sold! A Songwriter’s Death, is a standalone rockstar romance with style because the hero is a rapper. Here’s an excerpt if you’re curious.

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Chapter One:

A thin man holding a Mint Julep on the rocks nudged my elbow. “Sorry, I didn’t order that.”

“You’re going to need it,” Trinidad, the bartender, said, nudging me once again with the glass. “The boss is coming out here in 5 mins to talk to you. And don’t disappear nowhere either. If he comes out here and asks for you, and I don’t see you sitting at this bar. The only ass that’s going to be black and blue around here is yours.”

It was almost time for my 9 p.m. debut and going over the setlist was all I could focus on. I reluctantly grabbed the glass and pushed my work away, downing half the drink. Trinidad usually gave me the heads up when I needed to make myself scarce around the boss man. So I began to wonder what was up?

I watched as Trinidad made his way back around the bar. Casting unsure gazes at the back room where he had just appeared. “What’s this about?” I shouted at Trinidad, so he could hear me over the loud music.

“Impatient already, Tina?”

“I’m working. Don’t you want to see me working? Doing anything else in front of you would just be plain wrong. Right, Kip?”

“All right, all right. Get your lips off my ass.”

Kip was the owner of the nightclub, The Queen. Dealing with the entertainment was his personal mission. If dealing means annoying. He liked to think of himself as the next Barry Gordy.

“I was just going over the music I’m playing behind Ness,” I replied.

“Speaking of Ness. I heard from her roommate, and she been MIA for the last three days. So you’re up kid.” He tossed the mic on the bar and it rolled across the surface, hitting the glass.

At twenty-one, I hadn’t been working at the club for more than six months. Originally, I auditioned to be a singer. Kip liked my DJ skills much better and made it clear that he wouldn’t be using me as a singer, ever. It was absolute murder to my self-esteem. Until I began to work here and realized how terrible Kip’s taste in music was. DJ’ing isn’t the dream, but I learned it for a reason. So it could open the doors that would normally be closed. Right now, this was a dream come true and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.

When I took this job, Ness made it clear that she was the only headliner of The Queen. I was just excited to be around other musicians, who might understand my love of the craft.

I was the girl in school who attracted haters like bees to honey. Always scrappin’ with the older girls in the upper grades, who hated my talent and what it represented. If there was a picture next to the quote, they only hate you because they ain’t you, it would be a pic of the girls at Great Oak High School. I used to stay with some Vaseline because tricks were always trying to scratch my face up. The boys weren’t checking for me either since I usually came off as a tomboy, and much harder than the other girls.

Graduation was the best day of my life.

I had such high hopes when I interviewed here on my twenty-first birthday. Expecting an atmosphere filled with the love of music. I didn’t expect to be performing for a crowd of 10. Or to be compared to a disco ball. Or the sheer level of nastiness people displayed for not playing their song requests.

It was all crazy.

I certainly didn’t realize how hard some people go to achieve their dreams. Ness wasn’t feelin’ my happy go lucky attitude when I came to work here six months ago. She walked around The Queen as if she were a queen. She rarely showed up to practice or hung out with the rest of the team after work. But she expected to drink up the bar for free. My past experience with girls like her had me watching my back for Nair in my gel. Except, Ness claimed to be grown and sexy; so her evil was much more subtle.

Fifteen minutes before 9, Trinidad picks up the mic and bangs it on the bar. “Earth to Tina. You ready girl?”

I picked up the drink he had given me, suddenly figuring out what this was for. The condensation wetting my nervous fingers. The sweet minty vodka sliding down my throat. I smacked my lips and cleared my throat. Taking the offered mic into my hand.

“You got your courage. Now knock’em dead.”

I scrunched my eyes against the spotlight as Ricky found me standing by the bar. Wondering if ten people were enough to go viral and end up on social media if I completely tanked this.

Daphne, one of our waitresses, came over and pushed me towards the stage. A few people at some nearby tables laughed and shook there heads at me. I’m pretty sure I heard the word lame tossed at me.

Shaking off my nerves, I cut the mic on. The quiet audience setting off the tension in my neck and shoulders, as I twisted my head back and forth. I turned around to see the lighting guy, Ricky, reluctantly working the turntables.

“I Don’t Exist by Olivia O’Brien,” I whispered, holding the mic away from me.

The music begins to play and I stood in the middle of the stage with my eyes closed.

Feeling the beat.

“Let’s go!” An unruly patron yells.

My heart jumps and my eyes burst open to see strange faces staring back at me. A drunk man teetering on his feet as he approached the dance floor. The stage on an elevated platform that wasn’t hard to access.

Like I don’t exist. . . If a drunk patron was about to drag me off the stage, then at least I’d go down swinging.

As I hit my stride, and seemed to get the patrons on my side, singing and dancing. A group of guys came into the bar and sat in the middle of the room. But it was Kip who caught my eye because he hadn’t retreated to the safety of his office. He was actually sitting at the bar, smiling. This might be my only chance to sell myself as an artist.

The inviting bass and welcoming smiles sent me out into the crowd. Hopping down, I worked the room. I’m a little surprised at how many patrons actually knew the chorus, and sang along when I pointed the mic in their direction. But a bunch of guys were pointing to a man who appeared to be in his early twenties. I swiveled my hips to the beat and made my way over to his table. Singing the chorus to much applause.

As I walked up to him with the mic, it was hard not to notice the frown that marred his features. Running his hands over his fade, before licking his lips. It was obvious at least to me that he was trying to play it cool. The spotlight hitting his peaches and cream skin making him look paler. He cut his long eyelashes at me.

“Sorry, I don’t sing.”

I eyed the man with suspicion, especially with the way his friends were acting. But, if they were trying to prank him doing it on my first night as a singer was not the time or place. So I didn’t push it, pulling the mic back, and making my way back towards the stage.

The man leaned over and whispered something to his friends as I finished off the song. I turned back to Ricky who gestured for me to sing another. This time I closed my eyes and immersed myself into one of Ness’ favorites. It was more upbeat than the last song, but the lyrics were ones for the soul.

I paused after the end of the second song, unsure if I should continue or not. Blushing as the crowd that had increased in size erupted into applause. I bowed before, I turned to Ricky, and gestured for him to, “play anything.”

Impatience pulled me to the bar where Kip was still sitting. He never sat through any of Ness’ performances. I had to know what he thought.

My gaze drifted over to the men at the table. The body language of the others indicated that he was the leader of there little group. And why not? Even I was inexplicably drawn to his swagger and his look. He wasn’t like the preppy boys I was used to seeing at the private school down the block from Great Oak. The street life had made him hard, but attractive.

His confident laugh carried a hint of sensuality. Capable of drawing any woman to him. In that way, he was like the ocean. It was so beautiful and inviting, but if you didn’t know how to swim it would pull you into the abyss.

I frowned as Kip held up his hand to stop me. “I don’t pay you to talk to me. Ness does 5 sets before taking a break. Don’t tell me you’re trying to be the diva now?”

A rolling excitement feels my belly. “So you liked my music?”

Totally unfazed, he replied, “Not at all. But I can’t argue with results and people are buying more drinks. So Ness is fired and you’re hired.” I went in to hug him and he accepted it but made no move to return it. “Get back on stage.”

Trinidad lifted a glass for me and I quickly took a sip of the offered Mint Julep. Adjusting my black leather hat to the back. The nerves would never go away, but now there was a giddy excitement to it. I almost wished my sister was able to see me, but she was at home already sleep. The only smart one of the two of us to actually go to college.

Three songs later, I step back onto the stage and sing the set list given to us by Ness earlier in the week. Looking out over the crowd, I can’t help but wish that it would always be this hype every time I hit the stage. And as the man who refused to sing, whooped and hollered, he even pushed away my nerves.

A little past 10 p.m., I took my 15-minute break and headed back to the bar. A smile graced my lips as I passed him. I grabbed my leftover drink from behind the bar and looked up to see the man already leaving with his friends. Daphne approached the bar and handed me a small white envelope. A tip for the singer was scribbled across it in cursive. I flipped over the flap and looked up at Daphne with wide eyes. It was a crisp $100 bill.

“It was from the table with all the guys.”

I started to ask if they had given her anything, but she was already walking away. Stuffing the money into the back pocket of my black jeans, I already knew I wouldn’t be spending it. It was the first large tip, I’d ever gotten.

***

On Saturday night, the nonsinger returned to the club. I was completely thrown off as I sat on my favorite stool at the end of the bar to see them sit at the same table. The crowd of seven, now reduced to three. Were they fans of mine who wanted to hear more? And what happened to the others had they hated it? I kind of wanted to feign food poisoning and run back to the safety of my apartment with my sister. But the words of my mother played in my head and made that impossible. She always said, don’t hide from your talent.

This time I’d been instructed by Kip to sing something with more of a hip-hop flare. I spent all morning coming up with a list of songs that were fast and catchy—that would bring in the crowds and get them dancing and drinking.

He caught me staring, holding my gaze like a hypnotic spiral wheel. I tore my eyes away from his and looked back down at the set list. A few seconds later I take a peek at him out the corner of my eye, and he’s grinning madly like he could read my thoughts and knew they were all about him.

Ricky appeared out of nowhere and blocked my view of the tables much to my relief. “Thanks to this new arrangement. I’m working two jobs for the price of one,” Ricky said, snatching the setlist from my hand. Unable to help myself, I peered around his shoulder to see my nonsinger still staring in my direction.

He winked and smiled the most heart-stopping smile I’d ever seen on a man. Before something his boy said drew his attention away.

Determined not to look thirsty I turned my attention back to Ricky.

“I don’t have time to come up with some unique light show. So I’m just going to put everything on the generic settings while I’m DJ’ing.”

“That’s whats up.” Not even Ricky’s whining was enough to distract me from my nonsinger as I checked my hair in my compact. Smoothing down the loose strands of my perm. As he left to get the electronics ready.

As we get closer to my 9 p.m. slot, Trinidad placed a Mint Julep down in front of me. Taking a deep sip, I looked over the edge of the cup to see my nonsinger ordering drinks at the bar. Self consciously I checked my sweater crop top and matching blue sweatpants. My glass clinking as I set it down on the bar, completely empty.

“Ready,” I whispered to myself, grabbing the mic from off the bar. My red high tops touching the sticky floor.

“Good luck.” His deep, vibrato startled me, and I spun around to see him carrying his drinks back to his table.

“Thanks,” I said to his retreating form.

Playing it casually I hop onto the stage. “I’m DJ T-Nah., I sing here Friday’s and Saturdays. But if you can’t get enough check out my scratchin’ skills Thursdays and Sundays. Here at The Queen,” I said it playfully, but my heart was beating out of my chest. Would the audience like the new songs? Would I lose the nonsinger as a fan? What would I do if they started booing?

I gave Ricky the signal to play the first song. Looking out into the crowd to see the nonsinger was the loudest clapper. The song, Neva End by Future ft. Kelly Rowland began to play. And I began to sing the Kelly Rowland parts, hyping the crowd up.

Clapping the nonsinger then makes his way towards the stage. Roughly grabbing the mic from Ricky before standing beside me. I’ve never had someone bum rush the stage before. Throw food, yes. Try to take over, no. I grabbed onto the mic stand suddenly needing support as my fingers began to shake. Prepared to use the stand as a bat if he got any crazy ideas. He was probably high or pissy drunk. Although, it didn’t look like the latter.

In a hushed voice, as not to be picked up by the mic, he said, “Looks like you could use some help.”

Without missing a beat, he launches into Future’s rhyme and I almost forget that I’m supposed to be singing too. There was no threat, or danger flickering through his eyes. Eyes that were the color of Tootsie Rolls. Like the kind my granny used to keep at the bottom of her purse during church. Perhaps he was as sweet as his eyes betrayed him to be.

I looked back at Ricky who was already calling for security. But the only thing I could think about when I looked at my nonsinger was that he doesn’t sing. He raps.

My fight-or-flight instincts relaxed as I watched how easily he stepped in like we planned it all along. Pulling on his suspenders with that swagger that almost made me laugh. Utilizing the entire stage as he traipsed across it in his jeans and Timbs. Suddenly, I wanted to hear what he could do if he freestyled his own lyrics.

I smiled at him, my attention drawn to the full sleeve tattoos on his left arm. The bass pounding in my ear and the increased spotlight blinding me to everything, but him. I can sense the song nearing its end and I suddenly wanted it to play on a loop. By the time it was over security were standing at the edge of the stage ready to drag him off. The whole world seemed to crash in around me as they removed him. The sounds of the crowd’s laughter, and the glasses clinking behind the bar.

“You don’t have to push me like that,” he yelled. The security guard sucker punched him in the stomach in response.

I gestured for Ricky to keep playing. Following the rowdy bunch out the door. Pushing past the guards who were too busy flipping the others off to notice me. “Are you alright?”

“I must be good, they waited until the song was over to kick me out.”

“And don’t come back.” Brick threw out trying to sound hard.

“Or do, its whatever,” I yelled to his retreating his form.

His friends looked back and laughed, but he didn’t turn around. Making me feel like an even bigger loser.

“What are you doing? You don’t have that power,” Brick said annoyed.

I rolled my eyes. “You don’t either. Drunk off power because Kip ain’t here.”

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