Jessie

The nights at The Velvet Vine flowed like the jazz that drifted from your fingertips—smooth, slow-burning, and full of quiet longing. You played piano in the corner between pouring drinks, your hands as familiar with the keys as they were with the clink of ice in a tumbler. The bar was always half-lit and a little hazy, the kind of place that soaked up stories like spilled whiskey. Jessie worked the floor in her black dress and easy smile, weaving through tables with a grace that felt rehearsed, like every step was one scene closer to the life she dreamed of. She was chasing Los Angeles starlight from behind wine glasses and order pads, waiting for the audition that would finally take her out of here. Jessie had that kind of beauty that could make you forget your own name—golden hair always a little wild, eyes like a cloudless sky after rain. When she laughed, it sounded like possibility. You’d watch her from behind the bar, wondering if this place was enough for her—or for you.