Chapter 4: Live Music
The air on the penthouse rooftop was crisp, carrying the distant murmur of downtown Chicago. Kailani leaned against the railing, watching the river of taillights flow below, her thoughts still back in the athletic center with Brita’s sly smile and that whispered ‘She’s in.’ The roof door hissed open.
Henry stepped out, dressed in faded jeans and a soft, worn Bears sweatshirt. He tossed a thick cashmere sweater to Brita, who caught it against her bare stomach, still dressed only in her volleyball shorts and tank top from her earlier practice. “Put that on, it’s chilly,” he said, his voice calm. “We’re joining Kailani. And then the three of us are going out.”
Brita pulled the sweater on, the fabric swallowing her slender frame, smelling faintly of sandalwood. “Out?” she asked, her Swedish accent clipping the word.
“Chris Stapleton’s at the United Center tonight,” Henry said, sliding an arm around Kailani’s shoulders. He felt her tense, then relax into him. “I’ve got tickets. Show is in two hours.”
Kailani swiveled her head, her long black hair whipping in the breeze. “Two hours? Henry, we look like… we just came from the gym. Because we did. I’m in sweats.”
Brita looked down at herself, at the expensive sweater over her athletic gear, and let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “This is… not concert clothes. I do not have anything here.”
“I know,” Henry said, a easy smile on his face. He guided them both back inside, down into the warm, wooded glow of the penthouse living room. “Sit.” They perched on the edge of a large sectional sofa, a low coffee table of reclaimed steel between them and him. He reached for a heavy, leather-bound book and dropped it with a soft thud onto the table. “This puts your mind at ease.”
Kailani opened it. Page after glossy page showed clothing—elegant dresses, tailored jumpsuits, sharp blazers, delicate blouses. Each item was tagged with a store name and address, all from the prestigious boutiques lining Michigan Avenue. “What is this?” she breathed.
“A solution,” Henry said, leaning forward. “Pick anything. From any of these stores.” His finger tapped a page showing a sleek, cobalt blue dress. “We’ll go right now. They’ll fit and tailor anything you choose within the hour.”
Brita’s eyes, wide and ice-blue, scanned the options. “An hour? For tailoring?”
“Money greases every wheel,” Henry said simply, standing up. “The tickets are general admission, standing room only. I paid some guys to hold our spots right at the barricade, front and center.” He looked at both of them, a practical glint in his eye. “So pick good fuck-me shoes. But for god’s sake, pick shoes you can actually stand and dance in for three hours.”
He left them then, disappearing into his bedroom. Kailani and Brita huddled over the book, their fingers tracing silk and lace, whispering in frantic, giggling bursts. “This one,” Brita said, pointing to a black leather minidress with a plunging neckline. “No, this one,” Kailani countered, a fingertip on a blood-red corset top and matching wide-legged satin trousers. Their earlier nerves were dissolving into the pure, electric thrill of being handed a blank check.
Twenty minutes later, they were in the hushed, perfumed air of a boutique on Oak Street. Henry waited by the door, having changed. He wore a expertly cut charcoal suit jacket over a dark t-shirt, with his jeans and worn-in, tobacco-brown cowboy boots. He looked effortlessly powerful, a calm center in the whirlwind.
For the women, it was a controlled tornado. A senior seamstress and two assistants flanked Kailani and Brita in the private fitting room. “We have no time for modest,” the seamstress declared, her mouth full of pins. Kailani stood on a low platform, clad in the red satin trousers and the corset, her muscular arms and tight shoulders straining slightly against the luxurious fabric. A seamstress knelt, swiftly taking in the waist of the trousers with quick, precise stitches.
Beside her, Brita shimmied into the black leather dress. It zipped up the side with a sound like a sharp intake of breath, molding to her tall, volleyball-toned frame. The neckline plunged dramatically, showcasing the stark contrast between the black leather and her pale skin. “Heels,” Brita commanded, and an assistant presented three options. She chose the second pair—strappy, five-inch stilettos with a platform, cruel-looking but with a blockier heel. “I can dance in these,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone.
Kailani selected similar shoes, in a nude tone that made her legs look endless. The seamstress made a final tuck at Kailani’s hip, nodded, and they were done. From walk-in to finished in under ten minutes. The women stared at their reflections, their athletic bodies transformed into sleek, powerful monuments of desire. They caught each other’s eyes in the mirror and burst into simultaneous, giddy laughter, the sound too loud for the quiet room.
“Ready?” Henry’s voice came from the doorway. They turned, their new clothes whispering with promise.
The boutique staff vanished as Henry handed a folded stack of cash to the manager without looking at the total. “The salon is expecting us now,” he said, guiding them back out onto the chilled street where a black sedan waited, its engine purring. The city lights streaked past the windows, a blur of gold and neon against the deepening blue.
Inside the salon, a place of concrete floors and sharp, industrial lighting, two stylists were already waiting. “Quick and dramatic,” Henry said, his hand resting briefly on the small of Kailani’s back. “They need to glow.” Brita was swept into one chair, her long blonde hair unbound from its ponytail, while Kailani settled into the next. There was no discussion of options, only the efficient, confident hum of artistry.
Fingers worked through Brita’s hair, weaving it into a complex, loose braid that snaked over one shoulder, a few tendrils purposefully freed to frame her face. A makeup artist dusted her cheeks with a shimmer that caught the light, emphasizing her high bones and the pale clarity of her eyes. Kailani shook her head as a stylist suggested an updo. “Down,” she insisted. They used a curling iron to create soft, dark waves that cascaded over the red satin of her corset, a stark, beautiful contrast. Her makeup was warmer, a smoked-out bronze that made her brown eyes look liquid and deep.
They were transformed again in under twenty minutes, the final layer of armor applied. Henry watched, silent, from a low leather sofa, his gaze moving between them with the focus of a sculptor assessing a finished piece. He stood when they did, not complimenting them, but the approval in his eyes was a physical warmth. “Now we can go to the show,” he said, holding the door.
The United Center roared, a cavern of twenty thousand voices and vibrating floorboards. They pushed through the thick, beer-scented crowd towards the front, Henry’s broad shoulders parting a path. Two large men in black shirts nodded at Henry and stepped aside, revealing a perfect slice of space against the metal barricade, the stage looming just yards away. The opening act had just finished, the air buzzing with anticipation.
Then the house lights dropped, plunging them into a deafening darkness broken by a collective scream. A single spotlight speared the stage as Chris Stapleton walked out, his guitar a familiar extension of his body. The first chords of “Nobody to Blame” cracked through the arena, raw and immediate, a gravelly wave that hit Kailani in the chest.
She let out a wordless shout, her voice lost in the swell. Brita, beside her, grinned, a flash of white in the dark, and began to move. It wasn’t polished dancing; it was the natural, rhythmic sway of someone whose body understood momentum and release. Henry stood behind them, his hands settling on their hips, not pulling them back but anchoring them, a steady presence in the surging crowd.
Kailani sang every word, her head thrown back, the cords of her neck taut. Henry bent his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. She felt the scrape of his jaw, the warm puff of his breath as he sang the next line with her, his voice a low rasp against the music. He turned her face towards him and kissed her, a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of whiskey and the electric night. She melted into it, the music thumping through them both.
He released her, and she spun back to the stage, breathless. His attention shifted to Brita, who was watching them, her blue eyes bright in the strobe lights. He didn’t ask. He simply cupped her chin, his thumb stroking her jawline, and brought his mouth to hers. Brita’s kiss was different—assertive, hungry, her teeth catching his lower lip for a second before she laughed into his mouth and turned back to the stage, her leather-clad body grinding back against him.
They danced like that for an hour, a three-bodied unit moving to the soulful, grinding blues. During “Tennessee Whiskey,” Henry had an arm around each of them, all three swaying together, singing the chorus loudly and off-key. Brita’s braid came partly undone, wild strands sticking to her damp neck. Kailani’s curls bounced, satin and skin glowing under the stage lights.
During a quieter moment, just the plaintive cry of a steel guitar, Henry nuzzled into Kailani’s hair, his nose against her temple. “Happy?” he murmured, the word barely audible. She just nodded, her hand finding his on her hip and squeezing tight. A minute later, he was whispering something to Brita that made her throw her head back with a genuine, open-mouthed laugh, a sound the music almost stole.
When the band launched into “Parachute,” the energy shifted into something anthemic and defiant. The crowd jumped in unison, and they jumped with them. Brita and Kailani faced each other, singing the words directly at one another, a shared, joyous challenge. Henry watched them, a satisfied stillness at the center of their motion. He’d lean in, kiss Kailani’s sweaty shoulder, then turn and bite playfully at the strap of Brita’s dress, making her swat at him without missing a word.
They were drenched in sweat and sound, hoarse from singing, feet aching in their designer shoes, when the final encore echoed into silence. The house lights came up, brutally bright, revealing the exhausted, smiling wreckage of the crowd. They were disheveled and sparkling. Kailani’s bronze eyeshadow was smudged, Brita’s lipstick was gone, transferred to Henry and the rim of a shared water bottle.
Henry kept them close as the throng began to slowly drain away. “So?” he asked, his voice rough from singing. He looked from Brita to Kailani.
Brita wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing her makeup further. “I have never danced like that in heels,” she said, her accent thick with exhaustion. “It was a good challenge.”
Kailani just leaned into Henry, her body humming with a fatigue that felt like peace. “Yeah,” she said, a simple word holding everything—the music, the kisses, the new girl they’d brought home, the future unfolding in the dark Chicago night. “It was perfect.” They moved with the crowd towards the exits, a trio held together by the warm, tangled memory of the beat.
They moved with the crowd towards the exits, a trio held together by the warm, tangled memory of the beat. Henry’s hand, firm on the small of Kailani’s back, steered them left where a security guard stood before an unmarked door. The guard recognized Henry with a nod and pulled the heavy door open, swallowing the roar of the dispersing crowd and replacing it with a sudden, concrete quiet.
The back corridor was all industrial gray, lit by harsh fluorescents, smelling of stale mop water and distant garbage. Their footsteps echoed, Brita’s heels clicking a sharp, lonely rhythm. A cold draft snaked from somewhere, raising goosebumps on their sweaty skin. Another door at the corridor’s end opened to the night, the city’s hum returning, and three identical black sedans sat idling at the curb, exhaust pluming in the chill air.
Henry stopped, turning to face them. The vibrant, singing man from the barricade was gone, replaced by something quieter, more deliberate. “This is where I leave you,” he said, his voice even.
Kailani’s face fell, just for a second, before she smoothed it into a smile. “You’re not coming back with us?”
“Not tonight,” he said. He reached for her first, his hands cupping her face. He kissed her, not like the desperate, music-filled kiss from earlier, but with a gentle, lingering pressure. It was affectionate, full of a private understanding. “You did amazing today,” he murmured against her lips, a callback to her successful recruitment in the athletic center. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He released her and turned to Brita. She stood very straight, the leather dress creaking softly. He didn’t cradle her face. He placed one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder, and leaned in. His kiss was the same—a closed-mouth, firm press of lips, friendly and final. It tasted like shared whiskey and the end of something. “Brita,” he said, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “Welcome. The car will take you home.”
Then he stepped away. A driver in a dark suit already held the door of the middle car open. Henry gave them both a last, small smile, then turned and walked without looking back to the first car, sliding inside. The door thunked shut, a solid, definitive sound. Kailani, after a heartbeat, moved to the third car. Brita stood for a second longer in the cool Chicago night, the sounds of the city suddenly loud and impersonal, before climbing into the plush, silent interior of her assigned sedan.
The door closed, sealing her in a capsule of quiet leather and dim LED lights. The driver merged into traffic, the United Center shrinking in the tinted window. She leaned her head back, feeling the ache in her feet, the pleasant soreness in her calves from dancing. She could still feel the phantom vibration of the bass in her ribs, the heat of Henry’s body behind hers.
Her clutch purse buzzed against her thigh. She fished out her phone, the screen blinding in the dark car. A notification from her banking app. She tapped it, her mind still hazy with the echo of guitars.
The numbers made no sense. She blinked. She counted the digits again, her thumb smearing sweat on the glass. It was more than her athletic scholarship provided for a full year. It was more than her mother made in six months. It was a number that solved every tight-lipped phone call home about tuition, about rent, about the cost of new sneakers for court.
It was a deposit from an entity listed as HGW LLC.
The champagne-and-adrenaline sweetness coating her tongue vanished. A metallic, coppery taste flooded her mouth, sharp and acrid. She swallowed, but it stuck in her throat. She stared at the number until the screen went black, reflecting her own wide, smudged eyes back at her. The car glided smoothly over the asphalt, carrying her towards her dorm, towards her normal life. The leather of her dress felt cheap suddenly, a costume. The memory of his friendly kiss felt like a brand.
She had danced. She had sung. She had been kissed under stadium lights. And now she had been paid. The transaction was complete, a perfect, silent loop that turned the entire night into a beautiful, bitter lie.