Deadly Nightingale

There are many things I hate: this awful dress that barely fits, exposing more of my breasts than I would like; the humid air that threatened to bring out whatever liquid I had in my body no matter how much the air con blew; the big mess of a hall that looked like the belly of a fish… and that man.

If I had to rank him, I would give him a solid 6, and that was me trying to be generous. I scoffed as I dismissed the man who was practically undressing me from where I stood, or maybe it was my eyes. I knew I should have worn my contacts.

I stood in front of 60 humans of a certain caliber, the kind that only wealth could provide. No one would willingly decide to waste $500 for an opera performance if he wasn’t wealthy enough. The silvery dress sparkled under the light that reminded me of a golden fish out of the water, and it didn’t help that it was digging in my *ss, and it took all of my self-control not to fish it out from the crevice.

“Are you ready?” The voice of Monsieur Alex cut through the earpiece, and I nodded, not that he could see it. Like he would actually care because the music from Bellini began to fill the air, and I bobbed my head to the rhythm while my eyes surveyed the new ATM.

“Casta Diva, che inargenti queste sacre, queste sacre.” I belted out the lyrics of the Casta Diva, my shoulders puffing up in confidence as I took in their dazed look.

I may not be many things, but I could sing down the heavens, and the audience seemed to believe as all of their stares were focused on me. I soak up the stares and their gaze, my eyes flitting through the room as I look for the next person that would pay my bills.

Many a time, I have been called a sugar baby as an insult, but it took a lot to hurt me, especially with words that were untrue, and I don’t care for cheap gossip. I was the one receiving the sugar, and none of those smelling men could ever come between my legs. 

Hmmm, he is a 5, give or take. I dismissed yet another man who had abandoned the lady he had come with and was gawking at me with his mouth open.

He was dressed in an ill-fitting shirt that was way too tight in the neck, and he reminded me of the herds of goats I had seen on the farm some years ago. And the visible sweat lines that were plastered over his shirt didn’t help either.

No. I checked him out of my mind and focused on the man who was too engrossed in his phone to enjoy the performance, and my eyebrows knitted together. What a waste of performance; he should have given his ticket to someone else or at least come with a cap because I could still see his hair transplant scab.

My voice rang out as I sung the chorus of the melody, all too aware of ‘solid 6’ man staring at me, and I searched through my mind, wondering if my nemesis had caught up with me and if this would be the day my miserable life was going to end on earth.

It had to be; there was no friendliness in that look. His face seemed to have been carved from stone, all hard lines and sharp edges, his blue eyes too intense to be called beautiful. His jaw was locked tight, his back just aligned right with the seat—as least someone still remembers his posture. Instead, I sang out the last stanzas with vigor, choosing rather to focus on the man that had scored 9 on my list. If he managed to be the last person I saw before I died, maybe death would be worth it.

Nah, he is too soft. I found myself comparing the 9/10 man to the solid 6 man. Maybe because the solid 6 man looked like the only person that had put effort into his dressing. His black tuxedo was tailored to his body, hugging his broad shoulders; the black bow tie was an excellent option, and he had even gelled back his hair.

But the music came to an end, and I sung the last words of the aria amidst the cheer of the audience, and I lowered my head in a deep bow. “Thank you.” I stayed in the position until the curtain faded.

“That was wonderful.” Monsieur Alex beamed as he smacked his lips together. He spoke in an English accent that I sometimes have difficulties understanding, and he wasn’t even a Frenchman but insisted on being called Monsieur Alex. “Did you see the audience? They were so captivated.” He spoke with a childish wonder that made my lips tug in a smile.

“Thank you.”

“Now go change and get ready for the encore.” He gently pushed me towards the changing room, and I was immediately undressed, ready for the next event.

I found myself straining my neck throughout the encore, looking for the solid 6 guy that had somehow captivated me, but he was nowhere to be found, and I had to take to looking at other people. I mean, they were all men, but one thing about them seemed to be so off-putting.

One literally had gold for teeth, and I cannot wrap my head around the fact that they think that is luxury. Instead, I decided to focus on the 9/10 guy that was smiling too brightly for me, and I sang the rest of the piece. I shone my $15000 teeth at them, smiling as I finished singing it, and I lowered my head for a deep bow, giving them a hint of cleavage.

I had to entice the willing ones—it is like tossing a candy at a child and waiting till they took the bait—they always took it. I remained in that position until the curtain closed, and I heaved a sigh of relief. I reached down, removing the heels that were determined to numb my toes when the fellow members rushed to me, crowding me.

“It was such a wonderful performance, ma’am.” Michelle sighed dreamily, clasping her hands together as she looked up to me. She was one of the daughters of our singers, and she had taken a liking to opera, particularly me. Since I have lost any hope of trying to get a child, seeing this one come near me was a blessing. “I thought you were an angel.”

“Thank you.” I chuckled, patting her hair that seems to have a life of its own. “Where is your mother?”

“I don’t know; she was trying to get changed.” She pointed her chubby hands down the hallway and followed it, but there were signs of her mother coming, so I decided to take her with me, and she followed me to my changing room.

I got changed into a pair of white flared pants and a silk blouse and came out, but my manager was already outside my door, talking animatedly into his phone, and he held up his hands as soon as he saw me, requesting an audience.

I waited for him to be through with his call, ignoring the tugging from little Ann until she got tired of my resistance and decided to run down the hallway.

“Make sure you go to your mother!” I yelled after her, but she was already out of earshot.

“You were so wonderful up there, Zerah.” My manager told me. I met Mark by pure coincidence when I was singing out my frustration on an empty road, and he always had a knack for knowing talents, and he immediately picked me and started training me.

I had prior knowledge of singing as I had attended one of the best music schools, and this was just a walk in the park. “I tried my best.” I beamed as I looked at him. He was one of the rare males that saw my genuine smile.

“We don’t have any gigs for this week, and I would advise that you head home and rest.”

“Thank you.” I smiled and made to go, but he continued.

“Before you go, a gentleman is requesting your presence at room 27.”

“I see.” A grin spread across my face, like a child that had been promised chocolate—only this chocolate was rich, sweet, and preferably handsome. I searched through my memory for any man that had seemed eager, and the one that came to mind almost had me skipping to the waiting room.

I stopped in front of the door, running my fingers through my hair, and I plastered a large smile on my face before pushing the door open, and my eyes landed on the last person I had expected.

“Solid 6?”

“A solid 6?” The man questioned, tilting his head. His fingers dug into his beard, resting on his jaw as he gave it a thought. I hated full beards on men because it either gave them an intimidating look or they couldn’t maintain it, but he managed to make it work. “Others would argue that I am a ten over ten, and I agree with them.”

I clenched my fist at my sides, resisting a groan. I should have done a better job of keeping my mouth shut, because he seemed to be full of himself. I prefer my men submissive and breakable, and from the look of things, I believe he would be anything but.

I let my eyes rake all over his body, observing him. He was every bit of a male—the way he towered over me even when he was sitting down, the way he filled the chair, with that same perfect posture. He sat, with his legs wide spread—man spread, they call it—and I am sure that ladies would have no problem going on their knees for him.

I knew I should have worn my contacts today; maybe