by Vi Keeland
“You don’t work here anymore.”
“No. But Avery does. What am I supposed to do, let her drown? Plus, I’m still half owner.”
Dylan sips his beer. “She should have hired someone.”
“She did. It didn’t work out.”
“Excuse me. Mr. Ryder?” We’re interrupted by yet another duo of girls saddling up to Dylan. Both blond, both wearing bustiers, with skintight jeans and leather boots reaching to the knee. “Can we take your picture?”
Dylan looks to me and then to the two girls.
“Can I see some ID, ladies?” I lean closer to the bar and extend my hand palm up.
“We showed it at the door.”
Jase is working the door tonight. His idea of proper identification when a young, hot girl wants inside is to measure their bra cup size. Anything better than a C is automatically of age. My eyes drop to their well-endowed chests. “Still going to need to see ID to stay inside.”
The eye contact between the two girls as they stall, fishing for their fake IDs, confirms my suspicion. Definitely underage. I’d guess nineteen at best. Hesitantly, they pass me their licenses. The picture on one resembles the first girl, but her age is certainly not thirty-two. The second girl doesn’t come close to being the woman in the picture I’m looking at.
“Sorry, ladies. You’re going to need to leave.”
The two girls pout but are smart enough not to argue. They’re lucky I’m even offering the licenses back to them. With a scowl at me, they snatch the IDs from my hand and return their attention to Dylan. “Can we please”—they coo in unison—”take a quick picture before we go?”
Dylan looks to me and I lift my hand as if to say, by all means. The two snuggle against him and extend their arms for a barrage of pictures—all three smiling.
I tend to a few customers, then walk around the bar to greet Dylan properly for the first time.
He curls his arms around my waist and pulls me close to him, rubbing his nose to mine. “I like you jealous.”
“I wasn’t jealous.” Maybe just a little.
“Mmm mmm.” He kisses me. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” I rest my head to his shoulder and sag into him as he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed his touch—until I feel it again.
“I thought now that you had a normal job I would have more nights with you to myself. Why don’t we get out of here?” His hand slips into the back of my jeans.
“I can’t. Avery needs me.”
“I need you.” His lips brush against my neck. “Need to be inside you.”
I groan. “That will give me incentive to work faster.”
Dylan shifts me so our bodies are lined up and draws me even closer. “Feel what you do to me?” Evidence of his arousal digs into my stomach. “The longer you keep us here, the more difficult it will be for you to walk tomorrow.”
After a quick peck on the lips that Dylan tries to turn into more, I hurry back behind the bar, before I don’t. Sometimes I still can’t believe how things turned out. I’m dating the man whose poster spent years on my bedroom wall, the rockstar who helped put Lucky’s on the map. The sign behind the bar catches my eye, and I’m suddenly feeling nostalgic about so many things.
Lucky—
Twelve years earlier,
age thirteen
“Keep your eyes shut, Luciana.”
Uh oh. He’s using Luciana. That usually means I’m in trouble. I was named after my grandfather, Luciano Valentine. My parents thought changing the o to an a would make it a more acceptable feminine name. They’d planned to call me Luciana Alessandra Valentine, until I was born. Apparently, my auburn hair and fair skin didn’t match the name, so Lucky I became.
“Where are we going?” Dad insisted I keep my eyes closed since we climbed the stairs from the subway. That had to be a whole block ago.
“We’re almost there. No peeking.” A door creaks and he guides me inside. I open my lids just enough for a quick peep, but wherever he’s taking me is darker inside than outside, and the sun is already long gone.
Another couple of steps, the floor squeaks beneath us, and then I hear a light switch flip on.
“Okay. You can open up.”
I open my eyes and look around. The big room is empty, but I know where I am. I should have guessed from the smell. He’s snuck me into the back room at plenty of places like this, since the day I could walk. “A bar? You brought me to a bar?”
He smiles. “It’s not just any bar.” Dad’s eyes meet mine. “It’s ours.”
“What do you mean, it’s ours?”
“I mean, no more road. I know you like it here. So we’re going to stay.”
“Really?” The teenage I-don’t-give-a-crap attitude I wear most of the time slips off, the excitement of a little kid gleaming through in its place. Of all the places we’ve lived, I love New York the most. The trains, the sidewalks packed with people, even the blare of the cabbies’ horns sounds like urban music to my ears. And I have a best friend here. OhmyGod. I can’t wait to tell Avery.
“Yep. I’m going to turn it into a karaoke bar.” Dad lifts me up onto the dusty bar and points to a corner. The dimly lit room is mostly empty, with some lingering garbage strewn over the floor, but I can see the vision through Dad’s excited eyes. “We’re going to build a stage over there. And over here”—he waves his hand toward the other side—”we’ll put little round tables for people to watch the singers.”
“Can I sing on stage?”
My dad chuckles. “Once we’re open, it will be over twenty-one only, squirt.”
The enthusiasm I felt fades a bit. My life has been filled with places I’m not really supposed to be. Bars, clubs, festivals. I’m always stuck hiding backstage. I’ve heard some of the best bands play, but seen only a few perform.
Dad lifts my chin. “You will be on that stage when you’re ready. If it’s before you’re twenty-one, we’ll shut the bar down and have a private party. Think your old man will be good enough on drums to back you?”
“Do you think Mom will come?”
His face wilts a bit. “I don’t know, Lucky. She’s on the road a lot.”
“Can I ask her?”
“Of course.”
“So what’s the name of this place?”
“I was thinking of naming it after my favorite woman.”
“Iris sounds nice. I’m sure Mom will love it.”
“Who said anything about Iris? This place is ours. I’m going to call it Lucky’s.”
Unlike most bars in New York City, Lucky’s has been blessed with a crowd since the first night we opened. We get an eclectic mix of tourists who’ve read about the occasional surprise musical guest that stops in, and the local crowd that appreciates friendly service with live music. On nights like tonight, when a celebrity is in the bar, word spreads quickly.
“Hey, Avery,” Dylan calls. His posse seems to have grown from ten to thirty over the last hour; they’re taking up one entire end of the bar. Dylan has his phone up to his ear and he’s gesturing Avery over, even though her hands are elbow-deep in the double sink.
“Sure. Don’t get up,” she mutters so I can hear her as she passes.
“The guy you have working the door won’t let someone in who’s coming to meet me.”
“That’s because we’re at capacity. Someone needs to leave in order to let someone in.”
“It’s one person.”
“It’s a five-thousand-dollar fine, not to mention a fire hazard.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “So kick someone out.”
“I’m not going to kick out people. Tell someone from your entourage to leave.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dylan’s voice rises, so I step in.
“What’s wrong?”
“Rockstar here wants me to kick a customer out so he can bring another member of his tribe in.”
“You know what, don’t do me a
ny favors.” Dylan looks around and calls to a guy I’ve seen before. I think he’s part of the road crew. “You.” He points. “Go wait outside.”
The man points to himself.
Dylan huffs, annoyed that he has to explain. “The place is at capacity. I’m meeting someone here and they won’t let him in until someone leaves. Can you go outside so he can get in?”
“Sure.” The guy looks put off, but finishes his beer and heads to the door.
Avery disappears to serve customers. “Who else are you meeting? It looks like you have your usual crew all here.”
“The singer from the new band we signed to open the tour.”
Chapter Four
Flynn
The place is twice as crowded as when I was here last week. The same woman is bartending, no sign of Lucky anywhere. It’s not hard to find Dylan once I’m finally inside—he’s got an entourage the size of his ego.
“What’s up, Foreplay?” Dylan shakes my hand. He motions to the men around him, some of whom I recognize from Easy Ryder. “Guys…this is Flynn Beckham from In Like Flynn. His band is going to replace Resin for the second half of the tour. Get the audience all worked up so we can slide in and finish the job.”
I smile, even though everything about this guy rubs me the wrong way.
“You want a beer, Flynn?” Avery yells from behind the bar with a warm smile.
“Absolutely.”
“Guinness?”
“Sure.”
“You’ve been here before?” Dylan asks.
“Last week. I was already here when you had to cancel.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, man. Got a last-minute proposition that was too good to pass up. You know how that is.” Dylan winks. “Had to miss my flight.”
“No worries. Worked out pretty good. Actually came back twice this week.” Avery delivers my beer with a smile. “The owner is smokin’ and pretty cool too.”
Dylan chuckles. “I know her well. She’s actually a cunt.” He takes a swig from his beer. “But I bet she’s a hot lay. She’s tight with my girl. Wonder if I can talk her into a little two-on-one action.”
If I thought the guy was a dick before, hearing him call Lucky a cunt makes me want to knock him on his ass. But I keep my mouth shut and drink my beer instead. “This place is great. It has a sixties vibe to it.”
“It’s not bad. The singing can be fucking torture though. You ready to start practicing soon?”
“Looking forward to it. Doc’s had my voice on strict bed rest the last two months to bring down the swelling on the nodule I flared from the forty-shows-in-forty-days gig I did for that reality TV show.”
“But you’re good now?”
“Voice has never been stronger. Last follow-up scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”
“Good. Because I don’t want your voice breaking and sounding like shit when you’re warming up my fans.”
“Wouldn’t sign on unless I was good to go.”
“Here comes my girl. Maybe she can hook you up with her friend.”
I prefer to arrange my own hookups, but I nod and smile nonetheless. Dylan raises his hand and yells over a crowd of people, “Babe, come here. I want you to meet someone.”
Following the lead of his voice, I turn to check out the woman walking toward us and my heart wrenches in my chest. You have got to be kidding me. There are eight million people in New York City. Her?
I blink a few times. The dimly lit bar is mobbed. Maybe it’s not her. Or maybe he’s calling to someone else. She takes a few steps closer. Fuck. There’s no mistaking it’s her now. That auburn hair, pale skin and green eyes—I’ve been seeing her face in my head for a week. She looks even better than I remember too. Green sleeveless blouse that dips to show a hint of cleavage, dozens of bracelets sparkling their way up her flawless skin. Tight jeans and leather boots that run halfway up her legs.
I’m staring, mesmerized by her every step as she makes her way through the crowd and over to us. My pulse quickens and there’s a primal urge inside me to reach out and grab her as she comes within my grasp. Wrap her into my arms so no one else can touch her. Certainly not Dylan douchebag Ryder.
But then, before I start breathing again, he’s reaching for her arm and pulling her close to him.
“Lucky, this is Flynn. He’s the new opening act for the Wylde Ryde tour.”
Seeing me for the first time, Lucky’s eyes flare. A lump forms in my throat, and I’m forced to swallow it down. I take a long pull from my beer to help wash away the bad taste.
“Nice to meet you, Lucky.” I extend my hand. I’m naturally a flirt; the last woman whose hand I shook was probably a teacher in high school. Actually, scratch that, Miss Cleary was hot, pretty sure I kissed her on the last day of school.
Lucky’s hesitant, but places her hand in mine. The feel of her soft skin makes me wish I’d taken a chance and run my lips over the silky smoothness of her cheek. Only, I know the cheek wouldn’t be enough. “Nice to meet you too.”
Dylan pulls her against his body possessively and wraps his hand around her waist before delivering more than a friendly kiss.
“Flynn here has a thing for Avery,” Dylan announces, looking at me.
Lucky flushes and I think I see what might be a hint of disappointment.
“Is that so? Well, don’t listen to anything Dylan has to say about my best friend. These two don’t get along. She’s a great catch.”
“Sure she is, if you’re into sadistic ball-breakers,” Dylan comments. “Me, I prefer sweet on the outside, with a side order of slut in the bedroom.”
Lucky elbows him in the ribs. “Dylan! What the hell is wrong with you?” She turns to me. “Avery is not a sadistic ball-breaker. I need to go give her a hand. She’s swamped again.”
For the next few hours, I try not to let my eyes wander to Lucky. But I’m fighting a losing battle. The smile on her face, the way she tilts her head to the side when she’s listening to someone, her body constantly moving in some small way to the music. Watching her is like watching a butterfly. It’s beautiful on the outside, its wings decorated with color that captures your eye, but it’s the way the butterfly flutters around, always seemingly out of reach, that makes you follow it with your eyes.
When Lucky starts dancing with Avery behind the bar, and I don’t even notice the woman standing at my side vying for my attention, I decide it’s time to get some air. I head toward the bathrooms and escape out the back door, a place I discovered this week that all the smokers seem to know about.
The fresh air feels good. It’s a warm spring night that reminds me of what’s right around the corner. Long days filled with sunlight, nights filled with women who finally have an excuse to wear little clothing. I should be looking forward to it, to getting back on tour. A different city, a different woman every night if I want it. Hell, on the road, one a night is by no means the daily limit. Yet the only thing I’m looking forward to is getting back on stage and playing my music.
“I should’ve known you were a smoker,” Avery says as she slips outside and joins me.
“Oh yeah, why is that?”
“Oral fixation. Explains why you’ve been staring at Lucky’s mouth all night.”
“I actually quit.” I inhale a long drag.
“Me too.” She pulls a cigarette from her cleavage and brings it to her lips. I light it for her.
“I only smoke one every now and then. I just bummed this one.”
“Then you haven’t quit yet, have you?”
“Close enough.” I pause. “Thanks for the heads-up that Lucky was meeting her boyfriend here tonight, by the way.”
“No problem.” Avery smiles and takes a puff of her cigarette. “I’m hoping Doucheluck doesn’t last as long as TomKat.”
“You lost me?”
“Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise. That disaster took six years to unravel. Dylan was Lucky’s teenage crush. He’s also a douche. He doesn’t deserve my best friend. She needs a new boyfriend
.”
“Yeah, well. I tend to keep away from women with boyfriends. Too many problems.”
“Sounds like you’ve been there before?”
“Not intentionally. Only when they fail to mention it before it’s too late.”
“Well, Lucky is worth breaking your rule.”
“She’s also the girlfriend of the lead singer of the band I’m going to spend six months traveling with.”
“I heard. Sounds like fate to me.”
“I think you’re confusing fate with fatal.”
Nolan Blake taught me how to smoke. How to hold a cigarette so I didn’t look like a chick, how to ditch it out with my bare foot so I looked cool yet didn’t burn the sole of my foot and, most importantly, how to smoke the whole thing between my lips without using my hands. The last lesson came naturally to him, considering he needed both hands free to strum his guitar twelve out of twenty-four hours of the day for as far back as I can remember.
“You know, this shit’s your fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you hadn’t taught me to smoke in sixth grade, I probably wouldn’t have developed the nodule on my throat that’s keeping us sitting in this waiting room looking like two gay guys.”
“If I hadn’t taught you to smoke, you wouldn’t have ever turned cool, and you wouldn’t have gotten to feel up Ellie Martin that summer.”
Ellie Martin. Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in fifteen years. That girl had double-Ds in sixth grade. Perfectly round, like two giant cantaloupes. I sigh, thinking back to that day. “Totally worth a nodule.”
Nolan chuckles. “By the way, if we were gay, you’d be the catcher taking it up the ass. I’d be pitching.”
“I definitely would not be taking your skinny little prick. My anaconda would be splitting your ass in two.” I pause. “And why are we even having this fucking conversation anyway?” We both laugh.
“Mr. Beckham,” the nurse calls.
“You want me to come with you, honey?” Nolan says, loudly enough for the entire waiting room to hear. Then, with his hand adorned with a half dozen gaudy rings, he blows me a kiss.
