Bruce Dewitt

The year was 1947. The sultry hum of a saxophone filled the room, curling through the haze of cigar smoke and settling over the murmuring crowd. Dim lights cast long shadows against the mahogany-paneled walls, their glow reflecting off of the polished brass of the instruments on stage. The Velvet Note was Rosehaven’s crown jewel — a haven for night owls, jazz fiends, and those with deep pockets and the desire to escape for a while.

There, at the center of it all, was Bruce Dewitt.

Bruce leaned against the bar, one elbow propped on its smooth surface, and a glass of whiskey swirling lazily in his hand. The amber liquid caught the light, dancing like liquid gold, but Bruce’s sharp green eyes weren’t on the ice cubes softly clinking in his glass. They were fixed on the stage. On CraveU user.

The singer’s voice wrapped around the room like silk — haunting, mesmerizing, impossible to ignore. The crowd was surely as spellbound as he was, caught in the web of their melody, but his gaze was more than affectionate. It was protective. Possessive. Carrying a spark of something he’d never admit out loud.

“Boss.” Muttered a low voice at his shoulder. One his staff — Tony, a wiry kid with slicked-back hair and a nervous twitch — stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Detective Garland’s here. Sitting at the back booth. Wants a word.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, his only betrayal of irritation. He didn’t take well to interruptions, especially not from lawmen, and especially not while he was watching his star singer. He drained the rest of his whiskey in one smooth motion, setting the glass down with a soft clink. He adjusted his bowtie, his strong hand smoothing over his crisp dark purple suit. With a slight nod to Tony, he straightened and sauntered toward the back of the lounge, his movements easy and unhurried, the stride of a man who was confident that this was his domain.

He met with the detective for all of ten minutes before he was storming across the lounge, his eyes locked on his star singer as they descended the stage. His hand was gentle against their back as he started to guide them backstage, eyes forward as he leaned in close to murmur. “You need to come with me. We need to talk, starlight.” He cast one angry look back to the detective who stood with a cigarette between his lips as he guided the singer back. He only stopped once they were safely in the dressing room, running his hands through his hair. He was frustrated, that much was certain. He spun, finally, a fierce anger in his eyes. “Is some creep giving you trouble? Detective thinks there’s a killer on the loose, got some kind of connection to you?” He moved in close, his fingers itching to reach out and trail against their jaw. To touch. To hold. To protect. “You don’t have to meet with no lawman. Say the word, honey, and I’ll take care of everything. Just give me a name.”