A/N: I've agonized over this story for the past two days. Not wholly satisfied but it will suffice until I can make it better. Inspired by Nat King Cole's music, who is a phenomenal musician and I suggest you check him out.

Comments, thoughts and reviews are always appreciated.

Dedicated to thatquietgirl

It's the sound of heels that wake him, that gentle click-clack, click-clack, the ray of sunshine that illuminates the dim lighting of the club as thin finger prop the metal door open.

"Welcome to Sinner's Nest." He calls out to her, green eyes squinting at the sudden onslaught of light.

The day has dragged on somnolently. Nothing had changed, between his shifts, the jazz trio's soft melodies ringing his between his ears. The air, once calm with a hint of normality stirred as dust on a highway previously un-traversed.

She walks in, head held high, surveying the quiet bar. There are no patrons, daylight still creeping at the edges of horizon but only for another hour until twilight. In an hour, the people will then emerge from the shadows, making their way to the Sinner's Nest.

Trent's eyes travel back to the woman, sitting in his section, elbows propped on the glass counter. Her skin is pale, fragile as the inner layers if an onion. He feels as if she could break, just by looking. She oozes affluence, wealth, yet a stability he craves.

Trent has never seen her before, not in town, definitely not in this upscale jazz bar that he likes to call his second home. Either way she belongs here, everything about her screaming wealth and old money, down to velvet wedges criss-crossing her thighs.

Her hair is dyed sensually black, akin to the starless night outside, small teal colored braids holding the messy bun up past the nape of her neck. The soft shawl around her shoulders dips at a seductive angle down her shoulder blades, exposing that snow-white skin to the cold air.

But it is not her dark eyeliner that his eyes are drawn too, nor the diamonds nestling in small earlobes. All of this entrances him, and yet it is her lips he is drawn to. It is her lips, heart shaped and moist.

Her lipstick is the epitome of blue. It pulls along from the side of her lip whenever she smiles over at him, the bartender, but she's only looked at him that once, then seems to retreat to someplace far away, an un-light cigarette hanging from her mouth.

"Need a light?" He has made his way over to her, for a better eye. Tension is building in the room, mounting even when she doesn't care to look up at him. Now, his words have pulled her from that distant place. She is here, yet not, her eyes wandering to every place any part of her is missing from here.

"That would be lovingly." He pulls a box of matches from under the counter. And lights her cigarette for her. Trent takes in her mussed curled black and teal hair, takes her grey eyes and a small line on the left side of her face that adds to her half smile that she wears now. Not a full one, she is holding back but even for him.

"Thank you." A pause, and belated, Trent realizes she is waiting on him. She is eyeing him, waiting for a move to be made but all of the words have disappeared from the tip of his tongue, even the never ending monologue that runs through his head.

The jazz trio finishes "Star crossed lovers", swinging languidly into "Pretend".

Trent cocks his head to the side, black locks falling over his light green eyes as the jazz trio starts up one of his favorite tracks, Pretend. Smooth melodies spring. Simple chords create the bulk of the track, one of Trent's favorite from the master (Nat King Cole) himself, but nevertheless they strike a chord within the young man. So absorbed is he in the song, he almost doesn't notice the parting of the woman's lips, singing along softly to the instrumental-

"And if you sing this melody, you'll be pretending just like me." It's not the voice of a professional singer, but it is husky, coming deep from her throat. Those blue lips part, softly blowing minty smoke in his Trent's face, daring him to say a word of protest.

"The world is mine, it can be yours my friend,-" He we stretches out his arms from either side- finishing-

"So why don't you pretend?" His timbre is powerful and rich. feeling the crevices of the Sinner's Nest with a warmth in the way only a powerful voice can. The woman giggles, clapping and so do the members of the jazz trio not playing.

"What's your name?" He finally breaks and asks. This beautiful, mysterious woman is anything but forthcoming.

"Depends on who's asking." She responds, coyly.

"Trent."

"Trent. A pretty ordinary, run of the mill name." He was almost hurt, but her smile had widened, crossing its way up pale cheeks to those light grey eyes.

"What's your name, bonny lass?"

"So you're Scottish?" Now she's teasing him, leaning forward, really smiling at him now and his heart is pounding in his chest, ears red.

"On my fathers side."

"Hmm… You're the oldest aren't you?"

"Yes. Oldest of three. You're an only child?"

"Yes and no."

"Mona Lisa." He grumbles, propping his hand under his chin, trying not to look aggravated.

"Some would say." She shrugs, nonchalantly not noticing or caring about the effect her presence is causing him.

"Tell me your name." Instead, she drops her cigarette in the ashtray, placing anther one between azure lips. Instinctively, Trent lights a match, leaning forward, lighting her cigarette for her. The proximity is, well close. He sees the shadow of the flame against her cheek, dancing. Her lashes are downcast, smoking billowing in a steady stream into his face, his eyes flickering shut breathing it down into his lungs.

Cancer be damned.

"Gwendolyn Brooks." The words are pushed out hesitantly, eyes flickering back up to his face for a half a heartbeat, taking his jet black hair, green eyes holding nothing but curiosity.

"Good night. I should be going." She states, abruptly, grey flickering back up to green, as if she is trying to say I'm sorry.

"Will I see you again?"

At this she laughs, exposing perfectly white teeth, pressing the half finished cigarette against the ashtray. Her nails aren't manicured, but are shaped beautifully covered with a clear lacquer. Trent reaches out, brushing his fingers against her. She sighs.

"Probably." She states with an air of finality. Gwen's hand grips her shawl, pulling it over ivory shoulders. She slides down from the glass chair exposing a slender, feminine figure. Her walk is quick, graceful, head thrown up, holding the undeniable air of a queen. Something causes her to pause at the edge of the door, and she turns back to face him, clear nails shimmering in the light. One hand tucks a strand of curled hair behind her ear, looking up at him. Her eyes are black in this light, infinitively fathomless, deep and esoteric.

"Good night, Trent." And she is gone. The rain outside stops, and Trent is left, bewildered, unsatisfied, cravng for something he cannot quite comprehend.

"Did that really happen?" He wonders aloud to himself, causing the trio on stage to chuckle.

Her glass and her daiquiri are still on the bar. The ashtray is full of half crushed cigarette buds, faintly traced with that blue lipstick.

…

..

.

It was fascination

I know

And it might have ended

Right then, at the start

Just a passing glance

Just a brief romance

And I might have gone

On my way

Empty hearted.