The sultry notes of a jazz song filled the smoky room. The Robin's Nest was a small hole in the wall, hidden treasure of the city. It was a place where anonymity ruled. There, no one had a past or a future, only the present ruled. It was a place they could forget and be forgotten, at least for a while.
The place was small, but by no means cramped. It was always crowded, but not uncomfortable. The mahogany tables and chairs were close enough to offer companionship, but far enough apart to not invade personal space. Lined along the back wall was a bar, always crowded by those who wanted to relax, to unwind from a hard day. The bartender worked diligently and efficiently, nothing more than the basic small talk and social niceties exchanged.
The lighting conveyed a sensual ambiance. Pale yellow lights with red shades hung over the bar, while small candles illuminated the tables scattered throughout the room. It was an intimate setup. On the walls was the artwork of local artists hoping to get a break. Some was controversial; depicting scenes of debauchery and decadence; but never would one say the work was tasteless.
Despite the luxuries and class of the Robin's Nest, both high society and the regular working class didn't frequent it for those comforts. No, they came to hear the band. It seemed that no matter the mood or intent of the patrons, the band played the music that fit. Whether it was a dark piano, or the corporeal notes of a saxophone, the clear blaring of the trumpet and the rhythmic pounding of the drum set, they answered the customer's unspoken request. The audience always swore the music reached out and wrapped itself around their very souls.
Playing the saxophone as if it were an extension of himself was Victor. He was a large man, dwarfing everybody he stood near. He had eyes the color of chocolate and the dark skin to match. He looked intimidating, but no one who could play the sax with such passion could have a cruel bone in his body. But the audience knew; he had a fast and hot temper that was only overshadowed by his sense of humor.
Keeping beat on the drums, keeping everyone in line and on time, was Raven. Her pale skin made her seem ghostlike, and none in the audience dared look straight into her amethyst eyes for fear she'd see all his deepest, darkest secrets. She was as beautiful as she was mysterious, as desired as she was hauntingly dark.
Blowing out the crystalline notes on the brass trumpet was Garfield Logan. He would be the one who'd strike up a friendly conversation. He'd buy a random patron a drink, and she'd get lost in his green eyes, and later swear she'd seen in their depths the wildness of a forest. He was playful and easygoing, ever ready with a quick smile or joke. Garfield played the trumpet as if he were seducing the audience. It didn't matter what he played, he poured his heart into each note.
Finally, on the piano, the corner stone of the group, the leader, the one in charge, sat Richard. He was the owner of Robin's Nest. If Raven was merely mysterious, then Richard was truly enigmatic. He always stayed in the shadows, more comfortable with the dark. No one knew much about him, not even those who worked for him. He didn't trust easily. The only ones to breach his defenses were those in the band.
All the audience really knew of him was his appearance. His hair was ebony black; it was so dark it seemed to absorb what little light hit it. His features were stern, sharp and angular, a throwback to days when the Roman conquerors ruled. His mouth was always in a straight line; he rarely smiled. Those were only reserved to the people closest to him. The color of his eyes was a mystery, to everybody. Richard always wore dark glasses, fueling rumors of his eyes. They ranged from the logical; he was blind, to the completely inane; he sockets were empty, he had no eyes. Whatever the reason, the audience didn't care, so long as he played his music. His fingers gracefully played over the keys, just lightly touching them.
The music he played was dark and haunting, always leaving the audience and his fellow band mates stirred. Richard painted pictures with his melodies and harmonies. It induced fantasies of tangled sheets, pleasurable sighs, erotic words and soft, lingering touches. Even more, the man in the bed was Richard. It was the deepest dream of the female clientele to un-mask him, to be the one who melted the ice that clung to his heart.
This was the routine of Robin's Nest, a haven for the down trodden, for those who needed an escape from their lives. Come to forget, stay for the music. Have dreams fulfilled, wishes granted, and souls put to rest, if only for a little while.
Hi, this is something new, even for me. I wanted to try out a different style, and since I've gotten major writter's block with my story Necessary, I figured I'd go somewhere else for a minute. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this. I have some general ideas, but I like how it starts.
If anyone has any suggestions, let me know. I'd love to hear them.