Arthur plays, and in ones and twos the people in the club get up to dance.
They don’t notice they can’t stop, most of them. Every now and then, when he ends a song, someone will look shaken as they make their way back to their table—usually to grab their things and leave, in those cases. But most of them are so lost to the music that all they know is that the music is moving them and they want to move to the music.
He’s glad for the ones who can escape. Because the ones who stay…
He feels the presence of the owner behind him before his hands close over Arthur’s shoulders and pull him back against that broad chest. “Good, Arthur. You’ve done well tonight.”
The owner presses a dripping slice of orange between Arthur’s lips, and then covers his mouth and nose. He resists as long as he can, but when the owner’s other hand closes tight about his throat and begins to massage, he has no choice left but to swallow. It’s delicious, sweet and sour and sparkling in his mouth and throat as it slides down.
He plays, and the people dance. The owner studies the dancing crowd over Arthur’s head and the top of the piano. While he thinks, his hands slide down Arthur’s front, fingers splayed possessively over him. The vivid goldenrod sleeves of the owner’s suit jacket push up his wrists.
“Play another,” he says as Arthur comes to the end of the song. “I want a good look at tonight’s selection before I pick.”
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and nods helplessly.