Maybe I'm not quite as immune to serving drinks to a world famous rock band as I thought. Just because I'm not into the band doesn't mean they aren't somewhat thrilling to encounter this close. Plus, the excitement from literally every single other person in the vicinity is hard not to catch. I breathe in deep through my nose, twice, to steady the touch of anxiety in my stomach and then weave my way through a few of the people on the patio to get to the bar.
Clark's already working; he lifts a hand toward me while pouring a beer with the other. "You ready for the onslaught?"
"I'm ready for the tips." I wish it wasn't quite so humid out. The sticky heat sticks to my skin and I already feel a little off my game, being so close to pop rock royalty. (Not pop rock royalty in my eyes, of course. But in most of the rest of the world's. It's…intimidating.)
"That's my girl." Clark nods and turns to give the beer to the guy he's poured it for.
Polly Acadia, lone female band member, bassist and backup vocalist with spiky blue-tipped black hair and a pierced lip, lifts a finger in my direction. I wonder if her hair was the inspiration for their song, "Blue." (Yes, I know several of their more recent songs. Not on purpose—but it's impossible to go about your daily life without hearing them on the radio the past few years.)
"Budweiser and a shot of whiskey," she says, her voice husky and low. Her eyes are startlingly blue, practically turquoise. So maybe they were the song's inspiration. "And a water with lemon. Thanks, honey."
I like her order. She seems like the kind of girl I'd enjoy drinking with. If, you know, she wasn't a rock star and all. I have to clear my throat to speak. "No problem."
Clark stops me from pouring well whiskey, shaking his head, and whispering, "Girl, bands this big get top-shelf liquor—even if she ordered a bumpkin-level beer to take it down with."
"Why doesn't it surprise me that you're a snob about beer?"
"I have refined tastes in all areas of my life." He nudges me and tilts his head toward a guy at the end of the bar. Tall, light brown skin, big friendly eyes, lips curved right back at Clark in a sultry little smile. "Point in case."
"Good for you." I nudge him back and grab a Budweiser from the beer cooler.
"I think what you're trying to say is good for him." He pulls out a shot glass and slides it toward me.
"Yes. Exactly."
He grins and shows me where the good liquor lines a shelf under the far side of the bar. I bring Polly her drinks. Joking around with Clark helped ease my nerves, so I'm smooth in my delivery, my words coming out like she's just a regular customer. "Let me know if I can get you anything else."
She thanks me with a nod and throws back the shot, chasing it with the beer and then moving away to speak with someone else. A moment later there's a hush across the patio. I turn to see that Luca James—the Luca James, be still my beating heart (just kidding, gag)—has arrived. Everyone's looking at him, and he's glancing around, a small smile playing across his lips. He loves this. The attention. The glory.
Really. Gag me. Please.
Except then his eyes, heavy lidded and such a deep brown they're almost black, sweep over mine—and they linger, just for a split second longer than if they were to continue gliding past. It's like I can feel my pupils dilate with the spiked jolt of attraction that slams through me. Long lashes. High cheekbones. Sharp jawline. He's so pretty. The backs of my arms tingle, the nerves heating and spreading up to my shoulders and shocking the muscles across my neck and back. Damn. He's too slick, too commercial—I don't even like him—but he's also panty-wetting gorgeous. I get it, Vera. I so get it.
"Fucking hot." The words slip through my lips—and he freaking hears me. Everyone hears me, considering the stupid hush that's still captive across the patio. He tilts his head toward me, amusement in the half curve of his mouth. My cheeks heat, embarrassment rushing through my veins, but an odd sort of excitement, too, to have his attention on me. Ugh. I grab a rag from the bar and blot my forehead, like maybe I was talking about the weather… But yeah. Pretty sure nobody buys it, especially Luca, considering he still looks like he's trying not to laugh.
And here I stand like an idiot, wiping my face with a dirty, wet rag.
Gross.
"Drink! Drink! Pretend I'm not here!" Luca claps his hands, the sound echoing through the space. People laugh—either at his audacity, or at how unlikely it is to be able to pretend he's not there—but things kind of simmer down. Conversations start back up, muted at first but then growing in volume.
For some reason, annoyingly, my peripheral attention remains tuned to Luca James. Apparently, star power has way more force than I'd ever thought about. If I'm so sensitive to his movements, and I think his music's awful, I can't imagine what it's like for a real fan.
He's deep in conversation with Norris Marshal now, Gold Rush Standard guitarist—and Teagan's complete musical obsession. I slide my phone from my back pocket and text her, breaking the radio silence that's hanging so heavy between us. The fact that Norris is here is too huge not to tell her. We might be fighting still about the way she stormed off at the beginning of the summer—but we'll get over it eventually. And this is a one-time opportunity. She has to come meet him.
I tell her I'm bartending and how to get in and to use my name. Barely a second passes before I get a response. Fucknuts. I can't. Stupid Grams is making me sort through shit in the attic all day.
Of course. Of course, she'll respond if it's about Norris. But I text her that he'll be here for the next two days, and that she can come tomorrow if she wants, reminding myself it took seeing Norris for me to text her in the first place. So if it takes receiving my message about him for her to text me back, well…that seems fair. I guess.
What's he look like?
I check him out a little further. Beautiful, dark skin. Wide mouth pulled in an easy smile. Tight jeans and a tight T-shirt, showing off the muscles along his arms.
Pretty hot, I respond. Oh, and by the way, I'm okay, thanks for asking. Haven't spoken to my parents. Still having nightmares about Jason. I could use my best freaking friend these days. But it's cool.
Okay, I don't actually send that second part. But I want to.
Then Luca James comes to the bar with Zach. And they sit in my section. And even the little zip of irritation I feel toward Teagan can't cut through the stupid awe that washes over me when I look at Luca.
He's famous.
He's hot. (I mean, Jesus. He's all broody-looking with dark, amused eyes, and there's not a person in the USA who hasn't seen his practically naked body on the cover of a magazine at some point, so I know exactly what he's rocking under his looser-than-I'd-like-it-to-be faded T-shirt.) (Oh my God. I do not want his shirt to be tighter. I have no idea where that thought came from.)
Every other girl in the world would die to be in my shoes.
I shouldn't care because I don't like his music, and I think he's full of it from any interview I've ever accidentally caught, but for some reason I have trouble breathing when I look at him.
So instead, I look at Clark, trying to grab his attention, hoping he'll take their orders. But he's flirting with the guy from earlier.
Luca and Zach are just sitting here and Luca doesn't have a drink and I should offer to make one. I can't make my feet move, though. Who knew I'd be so starstruck over someone I don't even like. Somehow he managed to make me shiver with just one look.
Raw magnetism. He's got it.
And probably a different girl—or two, or five—every night.
And I have Gage.
I don't need to lose it over some sell-out rock star. Not when I get to bring Gage home with me tonight.
I glance over at his regular spot on the deck stage, but he's not here yet. He doesn't go on until the patio opens to customers. Either way, I don't need to get carried away about Luca freaking James. I square my shoulders and put one foot in front of another until I'm standing in front of them, waiting to speak until Zach lifts an amused eyebrow i
n my direction.
"What can I get you?" I can't stop staring at Luca James—and, oh, God. My words come out sounding not like me at all. Like I'm trying to sound seductive. Shit.
"And who's this?" Luca asks Zach but looks at me.
"This is Cassidy," says Zach. "She's my little talent muse—great taste in music." Then he mouths relax to me. Which of course has the opposite effect. When I freeze, he continues, "We somehow snagged her away from a fancy business internship this summer."
"A girl on her own path, I like that," Luca says, quirking his brow.
"Yep." One little word. So many nerves tightening in my chest. I place my hands on the bar because the tingling in them is threatening to turn into shaking.
"And you have a great ear for music, huh?" Luca asks, a cocky smile parting his lips to reveal perfect teeth. "Are you the reason we're playing here, then?"
"You were booked way before I got this job." Plus, your music is lame. But I can't quite gather the disdain toward his overly commercial style the way I usually can. At least my voice came out steady this time.
He studies my face, and I fight to maintain eye contact even when the flames in my cheeks let me know I'm turning bright red. My coloring doesn't seem to faze him, though. He's probably used to making girls blush. He tilts his chin, just a fraction of an inch, like he's figured something out. "Not a fan of Gold Rush Standard—or is it just me?"
"You're not a fan of Gold Rush Standard? That's weird to hear coming from the lead singer." I stall, trying control my expression better—and not be so easily readable.
"We all love you guys, Luca, especially Cassidy." Zach laughs, shooting me a look ripe with warning.
But Luca is laughing, too. It's a clear and pleasant sound. "You're a clever little thing, huh, Cassidy?"
"At least once a day." I should probably be offended at being referred to as a little thing, but I'm too relieved I haven't offended him, either. "What can I get you?"
"Just a water, please."
"You don't drink?" I wonder if his anti-drug campaign includes alcohol. And then embarrassment heats my face, yet again, because it's really none of my business. "Never mind. Sorry. Water it is."
He shrugs off my apology. "I drink. Just not before shows."
"Oh. Okay." I don't know what else to say, so I turn to Zach. "What about you?"
He shakes his head. "I have a few things to handle before the show starts. But you make sure Luca gets anything he needs in the meantime."
I turn to pour a water for Luca and catch eyes with Vera. Her eyebrows are raised into exclamation points, and she's staring at me, incredulously. I shake my head and frown back at her. Because I can read the question she's asking, but, really, I have no clue how I've managed to get myself in this situation. One on one with Luca James. She probably hates me right now. But she gives a little wave and takes another customer's order, letting me off the silent hook between us.
Smoothing my expression the best I can, I turn back to Luca and hand him the water.
"I have a feeling you'd rather be giving this to Norris."
"Why?" I look over my shoulder to find Norris sitting at one of the cocktail tables, with a gorgeous girl right next to him—something tells me she's more than a groupie; his arm's draped protectively around her shoulders and his eyes are all for her. I think Teagan may be headed for disappointment here.
Vera stops at their table to take their order next. Man, we should really change spots. She could work with Luca, and I could spy on Norris for Teagan.
"I saw you checking him out, just like you're doing right now." Luca's tone is amused; he's trying not to laugh at me—again.
"I am not!" My cheeks heat and I snap my gaze back to him. "My best friend is obsessed with him. That's all."
Luca shrugs. "I like it better when your eyes are on me. Everyone else's usually are."
He's so sure of himself, so smug.
Still, I fight a smile. "I'm looking at you now." Am I flirting? Better question: why am I flirting? I need to quit it. So I add, "And do you want more water?"
"That's all you're thinking?" There's a cocky little twist to his mouth and somehow I find it charming.
No. Irritating, I mean. I find it irritating.
"Where's your entourage?" I change the subject, gesturing down the bar. "The rest of your band is surrounded by people." More than a few of those people are looking at me right now. Well, at Luca, mostly. But me, too. Anxiety sneaks its spindly fingers through my ribs. Turns out I'm not a huge fan of this much attention.
"I'm a bit of a lone wolf before shows. It's how I get in the mindset to perform."
A lone wolf? Wow. I try, really hard, not to roll my eyes.
"Well, I'll leave you to it." No wonder people are staring. I'm breaking some pre-show Luca James diva rule. I reach to grab a leftover beer bottle and start to turn away.
His fingers circle my wrist a split second before I drag my hand from the bar. "No. Stay. This is fine. This is perfect, actually. You don't even like me."
"I…" I can't deny that he's literally stolen the earlier thoughts from my head. "Can you blame me? You just referred to yourself as a lone wolf."
His cheeks bunch up, kind of adorably, when he grins. "See, you call me out. It's refreshing."
"I don't dislike you." Strangely, instead of a lie, the statement feels almost like a half-truth. Maybe even more than half. I'm a little rattled by the realization. There's just something easy about being around him—which is not what I expected. "I don't know you."
"Let's change that."
"Uh." Great. Very succinct, Cassidy. But is he hitting on me?
Mention Gage. I should mention Gage. I open my mouth to do just that, but Luca beats me to the punch, answering the question I didn't ask. "I'm not hitting on you, don't worry. It's nice hanging out with someone who isn't kissing my ass for something in return. It's rare. I enjoy your company."
"Aw, you poor little rock star."
There is definitely not an inkling of disappointment flickering in my stomach that he's not interested in me. I don't feel a thing. Not at all.
Nope.
Not even the littlest flutter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
"Poor little rock star?" Luca repeats my words, his face twisting into something that's half amusement, half something else.
"Yes," I say, straight-faced. "It must be so hard to deal with all the money and the cars and the toys and the huge house—more than one, I'd assume—and the supermodels and the fame and the—"
"All right, all right." He throws a hand up to stop me, grinning. "I get it. You aren't impressed."
"On the contrary." I grab a rag and wipe down the bar between us, needing something to do with my hands. "I'm very impressed. But I also think people wanting things from you is pretty par for the course. You get the perks of fame, but you have to deal with everything that comes with it."
Someone calls his name and he turns his face away from me for a moment, waving to a girl, pretty thing, all legs and undulating dirty blonde curls down her back. I wonder if she'll come up to speak with him. She doesn't, though, and she looks at me and her face twists into an expression that tells me I shouldn't be talking to him either.
Guess it's pretty widely known among the in-crowd that you're not supposed to bother Luca before a show. I shouldn't be so pleased he wants to keep talking to me, but I am.
"So what you're saying," he faces me again, "is that I shouldn't complain."
"Not to a bartender who makes in a year what you might in an hour or even thirty minutes. Hell, maybe one minute." I smile to show him I'm not really serious. I'm aware of how miserable it can be for people to assume that having some money (or, in Luca's case, oodles of it) means you should be completely happy in life no matter what. Teagan never understood when I was upset about anything in high school because she figured I could just buy something to fill whatever void I felt. It took a long time to show her otherwise.
I'm also aw
are, though, that having money enough to live comfortably (or, again, in Luca's case, like a rock star) puts a person in a spot of privilege, which makes complaining about most things seem trivial. But either way, who am I to judge this guy who's turning out to be nicer than I ever would've given him credit for? I'm sure he gets it from everyone he encounters.
Shame blows gently against the back of my neck. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't assume."
"It's all good." He cracks a disarming smile, shrugging. "Want me to introduce you to Norris?"
I glance at the guitarist, who's now completely making out with the girl from before. "He looks kind of busy. And anyway, doesn't that go against your whole no talking to people before a show deal?"
"I meant after the show."
"Oh. I…won't be here." I have plans with Gage. Naked, sweaty, non-speaking plans.
Right.
Gage.
The beautiful boy I'm involved with.
"Maybe tomorrow then?" Luca doesn't pout that I'm not going to watch his performance. Is it sad I wish he'd show at least a small dash of disappointment? Yes, Cassidy, yes it is.
"Maybe tomorrow then." I repeat his words, and then, "Oh—actually that's perfect. My friend—the one I mentioned earlier, is coming up. Would you introduce both of us?"
He bites his lower lip but can't keep a smile from spreading, and soon that turns to outright laughter.
I stare at him. "What?"
"I know I offered first. It's just that it's been a very long time," he says, still chuckling, "since anyone's wanted me to introduce them to someone else. It's been the other way around for…God, I can't even remember how long."
I almost call him out for being vain—it's on the tip of my tongue, and he seems to enjoy this sort of back and forth—but realize at the last second he's not actually being vain. He's only stating the truth.
I laugh too, a deluge of giggles bubbling up from my chest, at the surreality of this entire situation. I'm keeping a rock star entertained—and he thinks I'm more excited to get an introduction to his guitarist than I am to be hanging out with him. Which, it turns out, isn't even true. Not that I'm going to let him in on that tiny fact.
Rock & Release Page 13
