I nod, even though I have every intention of slipping away the second I can. I watch Jimmy Stallworth and Vince disappear.

The conversation resumes and there is an irritated heaviness within Vince’s band that tells me they know about Jimmy Stallworth, and are not at all pleased with Vince’s association with him. Studying my glass, I try to follow the fast moving conversation, but I feel that edgy feeling you get when something is nagging at your memory.

I look up to see one of the guys watching and waiting expectantly for some kind of answer. What was the question? Oh, yes… “I’m just in New York just for a few days. No, Jack isn’t here. I had an audition at Juilliard.”

The conversation flows rapidly past me, and I stare at my glass, lost in my thoughts, feeling strange and not knowing why. I look up as Vince and Jimmy return. I can tell by Jimmy’s satisfied smirk that he just got paid by Vince whatever he needed to make up from Rene’s stealing. Vince’s glassy eyes reveal that some things never change. I feel a knot strangling my throat and try to escape the vividly rising pictures in my mind of Sammy and Vince in the old days. Only Sammy is dead and Vince is here, exactly the same.

Vince lifts my near empty glass from the table and sets a fresh drink before me. Their laughter and talking swirls around, not penetrating whatever this strangeness is that’s overtaken me.

Vince points at me. “You’ve got to sing one song with us, Chrissie.”

“No. I don’t sing. I’m a cellist.”

My words are slightly slurred. Did they notice? It’s hard to tell. Vince looks the same, but Jimmy Stallworth is staring at me in a way I find worrisome. I sway in my chair and Jimmy darts out a hand to steady me.

Jimmy leans into me. “You OK?”

“I want to go home,” I whisper, though why I implore Jimmy Stallworth for help makes no sense at all.

“She has the best set of female pipes I’ve ever heard and that was at eight,” I hear Vince say. “Come on, Chrissie. One song.”

“No, Vince. I really can’t.”

The action around me suddenly seems very fast, it moves in and out like a movie shock wave, and my befuddled brain registers that Vince has called Kevin the manager over.

Through my foggy senses I feel panic. “No, Vince. I can’t. I really can’t…”

“Sing one for Sammy tonight,” Vince says, rising.

Sing one for Sammy, and I would because I loved Sammy and it would make him smile.

Vince has me by the hand, pulling me through the crowd. I’m staggering slightly and I don’t remember answering him. Did I answer him? Oh shit, he’s taking me on stage. Vince pulls off my jacket and the cool air touches my sweaty flesh.

I have to grab his arm to hold steady center stage. I don’t know if it’s my vodka-based fire drink or the welling panic inside me that is making it nearly impossible to stay balanced. It feels like I’m about to hyperventilate as he explains who I am. Jeez, now they know who I am, and I’m about to sing in front of Johnny Ramone and whoever that is from the Beastie Boys. And this is a New York crowd. A tough sell. I’ll be lucky if they don’t throw things and boo me tonight.

I shake my head and body to loosen up. The guys are waiting for a song. “Death by Degrees,” I say into the microphone.

Sammy’s one and only hit before he overdosed. It was the first song up on the tape in the apartment. I already sang it once to the city from our terrace. The words are fresh in my mind. Just pretend you’re on the terrace, Chrissie, and be prepared to run for the door.

Stay on the beat, Chrissie. Listen. Listen. Hit the beat. I never perform. I never sing for anyone. But I just know how to do this. How to sing. How to move. How to use a stage and an audience. I always have.

Shit, one of my lockboxes has opened and I’m remembering things I don’t want to. Sammy used to say music was in our blood. We had no choice—it was who we are. The only place he felt alive was center stage. He was going to die on stage. But you didn’t, Sammy, you died in your bedroom. And I’m the one who found you. Damn you, Sammy, I’m the one who found you!

I lean against the mike stand, breathing heavily, fighting the emotion, relieved that it’s done, and trying to figure out all the other stuff going on inside of me.

“One more, Chrissie. One more,” says Vince from the drum stand.

I am shakier and whatever is inside me is running loose, even more wildly than before I left the table. I should never have sung Death by Degrees. Why did I pick that song?

Across the room by the entrance there is a stir, a sudden gathering of people. I wonder who has arrived. It must be someone. The entire chemistry of the club has changed. An electric current shoots up my flesh. Black eyes lock on me. Alan. And I can tell by how he is staring that he heard every part of that wretched performance.

Oh god, I want to die. That’s all there is to it. I rush across the stage. I’m beginning to feel nauseated, but not from the alcohol, though the Kamikazes are making my head spin. It’s seeing Alan with Nia, and knowing he just saw me make a fool of myself.

I hit the cooler air in the dirty, dark walkway leading from the club to the back alley and realize how messed up I am. I’m not seeing double, but I did let myself get pretty messed up. And to make matters worse, I am cowering in a back alley, afraid to go back into the club because I just made a fool of myself on stage in front of Alan Manzone, who couldn’t care less, because he is with Nia, and I haven’t a clue how to get from the alley to Bowery to find my blond Nordic driver.

Oh shit! Oh Shit! Oh Shit! I lean back into the chilled wall and want it to swallow me whole.

“Chrissie?” Vince has joined me. “You OK?”

I fan my burning checks with a hand. “I’m OK. Just feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“I get that. I miss Sam too.”

He steps closer, putting his arm around me. I look up at him. “Is there a way to get to Bowery from this alley? My car is out front and I don’t want to go back into the club.”

If he thought my request strange, it doesn’t show in his expression. Instead, he looks very no big deal about the whole thing.

“I can get you through the club without taking you through the club.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry to be such a pain.”

“You’re Sammy’s sister. I wouldn’t leave you hanging in an alley.”

I smile weakly at him and relax into the comforting coolness of the wall. I won’t look completely alone and pathetic if Alan should see me leave the club. Not that Alan would notice. Not that he’d care. I feel my emotions start to churn again.

“Chrissie, it’s amazing that we just bumped into each other,” Vince murmurs, and I look up to find his eyes regarding me intently. “I’m glad you’re in New York.” He steps closer, putting his arms on either side of me, and I now feel trapped against the supporting wall.

I fumble for words. “I won’t be in New York. I’ve decided to stay in California.”

“But you’re here tonight,” Vince says, and now I’m in his arms being pulled into him.

Panic. The feel of him sends me into instant panic. “Vince, please!” I try to squirm out of his hold. He’s going to kiss me and if he does I think I’m going to be sick. I twist and he quiets me with his hands.

“You know I’ve always liked you, Chrissie.”

That small child voice in my head screams: No you didn’t. You were always mean to me. His hand is on the base of my spine moving me into him and his face is lowering. His mouth flattens against mine and the feeling is suffocating.

“Please stop, Vince,” I plead, as his lips move to my jaw.

I slip my hands between us, up against his chest, but my arms are like putty and I can’t force him off of me. His breath smells of beer and pot, his mouth is cruelly hard against me, and his hand is moving upward under my shirt.