Only Bones

“Estée! You’re on!”

It was another night in another bar, this one worse than the one before it. Already she could hear the rowdy shouts of the patrons egging her on from their tables, sloppily begging for some female entertainment. They all imagined her coming on stage like a Marilyn Monroe, slinking the straps of her dress off her shoulders and giving them her very best seductive show. That was the worst of it, getting past their disappointed faces when her hands grasped the microphone instead of the hem of her dress.

She took a deep breath, pushing her long curled hair back behind her shoulders, smoothing her pale gold dress over her curves. Tonight was going to pay for tomorrow’s dinner, she reminded herself. All she had to do was close her eyes and pretend she was singing at Buckingham Palace for the queen herself, let all the sad souls in the audience melt away, and she could sing her heart out.

Stepping onstage, she was met with raucous, throaty cheers from the drunken men watching her. The cheers quickly transitioned to jeers when she simply sat on the stool set out for her and took the microphone in her hands, opening her mouth to speak. This place lacked the spotlights of the last few gigs she’d managed to scrape up, so she had the unfortunate pleasure of being to look right into the faces of her audience.

“My name is Estée, and I’m going to sing a couple songs for you boys tonight,” she murmured in her sweetest voice, praying that it would be enough to keep them from throwing a beer bottle at her. That’s what happened at the last place, and she vowed she would never stand for that again.

“Now let’s get one thing straight lads,” she continued. “If you play nice with me, I’ll play nice with you. Got it?”

She struggled to have her voice heard over the chatter and catcalls in front of her, the audience never listening. Shaking her head in defeat, she motioned for the pianist to start the first song. This was the part she always waited for. This was her favorite part.

“The snow is snowing and the wind is blowing, but I can weather the storm,” she sang into the night, and the entire room fell silent at the sound.

It was absolute magic, the way that when she sang everyone stopped to listen. Something about her voice was sweet yet commanding, and no one in the room was impervious to its show stopping quality. A little smile came to Estée’s lips, the bruise on her arm from the beer bottle the night before hurting a little less. In that moment, she could pretend she was a star – nothing else mattered, nothing else hurt. If she closed her eyes, she could be anywhere. And close her eyes she did.

“What do I care how much it may storm? For I've got my love to keep me warm,” she continued, allowing her voice to ring out through the bar.

A man tried to clap for her hitting the note but was quickly hushed by someone. “Oi! Stuff a sock in it would ya, she’s trying to sing!”

The lone sound of a tray of glasses shattering on the ground came from the back and caused Estée to jump, but she managed to keep her face steeled. This was her favorite part of the night and she wasn’t going to let it be ruined.

She loved the way her voice commanded the attention of the entire room, the way that some girls’ beauty did. Her figure was never a head-turner, but her voice sure as hell was. Her voice was her everything. With her eyes closed, she imagined she was at Cadogan Hall with an entire orchestra behind her, rather than a shady old lady with a half-broken piano. She dreamt that there was a man waiting for her in that audience, a man who loved her, who would wrap her up in his arms when she was done and tell her just how amazing she was.

She opened her eyes for just a moment, catching a glimpse of light coming through the doorway. A new patron had entered the bar, pausing at the door. The only part she could make out of his shadow was his strong, broad shoulders; otherwise, he was faceless. She silently prayed that he wouldn’t cause a ruckus in the middle of her song, because those who came in late usually did. But much to her surprise he was silent, came straight to the front of the crowd, right to her feet.

It wasn’t until he raised his face to her that her heart stopped right in her chest. He was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen, with eyes the warmest shade of brown and a smile on his face that made her knees knock together. So distracted by his presence, she tripped on her words, causing a complete mismatch between her voice and the piano. Embarrassed, she struggled to recover.

It took skipping a couple words, but she finally got back on track with the pianist, who glared at her impatiently. Preparing herself for the big finish, she sat up straight on her stool, giving one last glance to the beautiful stranger. His eyes were intent on her, never wavering in their gaze. She closed her eyes and pretended she was back at Cadogan Hall, the orchestra swelling with her voice.

“My heart's on fire, the flame grows higher, so I will weather the storm,” she sang, her voice coming to a strong, clear peak. “What do I care how much it may storm? Oh, I've got my love to keep me warm!”

The audience erupted in a staccato of sloppy claps, the men around her struggling to put their hands together and have them meet in the middle. Opening her eyes once more, immediately greeted by the bright face of the man. He was clapping for her steadily, his sobriety showing in the steady nature of his spine.

Her heart was overwhelmed with excitement, the way it always did when she finished her first song of the night. Shortly after that everything would fall apart, some bar fight or just simply a loss of attentiveness. But for that handful of minutes, all eyes were on her, all ears were open to her voice, and if just for a gasp of breath, she felt like a star.

That is, until an empty beer bottle came hurtling toward her from the depths of the audience. “Get off the stage, you fat bitch!”

It was as though everything around her had shattered, crashing to the ground like that tray of glasses that fell before. She narrowly avoided the bottle as it veered just past her head, bursting on the ground behind her and spewing brown liquid all over the set. Fury boiled in her heart as she stood up from the stool, tossing the microphone to the ground.

She marched over to the stage manager, who stood horrified as she approached him. “You promised this place would be different!” she shouted, bringing her index finger to his face. “I should have known. Never trust a man. I quit.”

That didn’t last long, she fumed to herself as she stalked back across the stage and down the stairs, streaming straight through the crowd. They’d already forgotten about her, back to shouting between them about that day’s Tottenham match. She shook her head furiously, pushing her way through the door and into the cold, London night.

Her shoulders were immediately tinged with chill, the late winter bitterness still gripping the city. She wished she’d grabbed her coat before she stormed out, but her dignity kept her from going back for it. After years of singing for assholes like that, she decided long ago that she would never stand for treatment like that. Unfortunately, most bars were like that – filled with scum, feeling entitled for a peep show – so she never stayed anywhere long. She’d just hoped that this one would have worked out for even just a night.

“Hey,” a voice came from behind her, causing her to jump and turn around with fists at her cheeks. She would be ready to fight if she needed to. But as soon as she faced the source, she realized it was the man from inside, the one with the most inviting eyes she’d ever seen.

“Who do you think you are, coming out here and scaring me like that?” she scolded, folding her arms across her chest. “You could have given me a heart attack.”

“I’m Liam Payne,” he introduced. “And I have a proposition for you.”