Where was that girl now?
Satisfied that Hanson isn’t going to bust down our bathroom door, Charlotte lightly swats my shoulder. “No, silly. You need a night out. Blow off some steam, have a drink, let loose. What kind of music do you like?”
My shoulders rise and fall with effort. My head has been throbbing all afternoon after dealing with that tragedy of a photoshoot, and it shows little sign of easing. “I don’t know. I like everything, I guess, but I don’t know if music is the answer.”
Charlotte’s green eyes dance with delight. “Sure it is. There’s this amazing little dive bar across town. They always have the best up and coming bands. You should go and dance away your drama.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, running a finger down my tender arm. “I’m pretty beat. This week has been hell.”
“Nonsense, Morgan May! You’re made of tougher stuff than that,” Charlotte insists, pumping her fist with enthusiasm. “I’d meet you out but I have a meeting with—” She cuts herself off abruptly, eyes going wide as she bites down hard on her lip to stop herself from spilling whatever secret meeting she’s trying to hide.
The truth, however, is obvious to me. Had I thought Charlotte would be gone from Hanson’s agency within the month? Make that within the week.
“You’re in talks to be signed somewhere else, aren’t you?” I ask softly, already bracing myself for the answer.
Charlotte bites her lower lip again, clearly contemplating lying. In the end, she gives a short nod instead. “It’s not like Hanson isn’t a good agent,” she says, still struggling not to lie. “It’s just . . .”
“You don’t have to explain. He sent me to a fake photoshoot with a guy more interested in my boobs than in doing a real gig.”
Again, Charlotte nods before rifling through her purse and pulling out a slightly crumpled cocktail napkin. “This is the place. They always have a great band. Have you heard of the Rasping Sallies? They’re playing tonight and they’re total badass bitches.”
“I don’t know . . .” I start to repeat, but I know Charlotte is right. I could use a drink and a second or two to unwind after all the failed auditions this week. “I guess it couldn't hurt.”
And it was Friday. That meant I could invite my roommate, Stacy. We could both use a night on the town. Maybe that was just what I needed to clear my head and get ready for a brand-new week of go-sees.
“That’s the spirit. Now I’ve got places to be. If all goes well maybe I’ll meet you out to celebrate.” Charlotte winks at me before heading out of the bathroom, the heavy door swinging shut behind her.
I’m left staring at myself in the mirror, inspecting my blonde locks. They tumble over my thin shoulders. I do half a twirl, inspecting myself from head to toe. “You’re beautiful,” I remind myself quietly, though the eyes that are gazing back at me look less than convinced. “Your time will come,” I add, though I can’t help the small, “hopefully,” that squeaks out after.
Turning my back on the aspiring model in the mirror, I dial my roommate’s number.
“Hey Morgan!” Stacy’s cheerful voice answers. I can hear the shrill cries of the cluster of seven-year-old’s she’s tutoring after her college courses are done for the day. “I’m done here in like ten minutes. Can I call you back?”
“Not necessary,” I say. “Just meet me on the corner of Dunst and Brook when you get off. We’re going out.”
“Uh, okay . . .” Stacy slowly answers, not one to turn down a Friday out despite her bookish nature. “Is everything okay?”
I lean back against the counter of the bathroom. Brushing a thumb over the logo on the bar napkin Charlotte gave me. I give a faint nod that Stacy can’t see. “It will be,” I whisper, unsure if I’m trying to convince her or myself.
Chapter 3
Eric
By the time we’re hustling off the stage for a brief intermission in our performance, my heart is racing and every hair on my body is standing on edge. Excitement pulses through me, spurred on by each cheer of the crowd. Just like I thought, they only needed half a song before they realized we’re the real deal.
We have all of fifteen minutes to chug as much water and whiskey as we can before we jump back onto the stage for our last set of the night. I prop Camilla against the table as James, Alex, and I reach for red plastic cups. I chug a beer before rubbing my sleeve against my damp forehead while Alex pours whiskey in the plastic cups.
Two shots later and my veins still throb with adrenaline. The last forty minutes of our show plays on a loop in the back of my mind. Notes I hit, ones I could’ve hit better, a few mental notes to tell Alex to work on with the rhythm. There’s as much to boast about as there is to work on, especially with that big show coming up. Sure, we’re playing fine right now, but we’ve got to be absolutely flawless by then.
Donovan always teases me about constantly being with my band, but he has no idea how hard we actually work, or what it takes to catch a break. Donovan was lucky. He struck gold early in his career and he’s soared ever since. He’s never had to struggle the way I have.
My thoughts are interrupted by the same severe-faced bar owner from earlier. His eyes are slightly less bored now. He must’ve listened to us play. Pride curves a smile across my jaw. Our music really has been banging tonight.
“This came for you,” he says, holding a box in his arms.
The box is simple, wrapped in brown parchment paper and a red bow. I eye it uncertainly until the man thrusts it into my hands when he tires of holding it. I jostle it back and forth, spilling my beer until I set it down and slowly begin to pull the paper off until I reveal a bottle of silver tequila that’s probably more expensive than all the band’s equipment.
With a low whistle, the bar owner gives a slight nod of admiration. “That’s some high-quality stuff.”
I roll my eyes, earning an even more curious look from the guy.
“Not a fan of tequila?” he asks, palms clearly itching to take the bottle off me if that’s the case.
“It’s not that,” I grumble. “Let me guess, this is from Donovan Dunn?”
He nods. “It was delivered just a few minutes ago. He’s got some good taste. That tequila is the real deal. I never carry stuff like that here. All anyone orders is the cheap stuff.”
I take in the glistening, clear liquid inside the bottle. Though I’m disappointed my billionaire best buddy is trying to buy my forgiveness because he bailed on me tonight, it’s not like I’m going to let tequila this grand go to waste.
“So,” I start slowly, eyeing the bar owner, “you like tequila?”
Again, the man nods. Perfect. Wet his whistle with this stuff and he’ll be recommending our band to everyone who will listen.
“Logan,” Mick’s southern drawl interrupts as the announcer quickly approaches. I’m relieved to be reminded of the bar owner’s name before embarrassing myself having to ask him again. “I don’t care how much the crowd likes this band, I am not staying for three more encores like I did last time. You never pay me when I stay extra—”
Logan holds up a hand, cutting Mick off, his eyes never leaving the expensive tequila bottle. “I’ll give you whatever you want, Mick, but you’re walking away right now,” he snaps.
Mick arches an eyebrow but nods, finally seeming to notice me standing there. He appraises me coolly then shrugs. “Nice show,” he calls as he walks away.
For some reason, I get the feeling that’s a distinct compliment coming from him.
“About that tequila?” Logan urges when Mick vanishes back around the curtain to entertain the audience a bit more while the minutes of our intermission tick slowly away.
“Here’s to you, Logan. And many more shows at your bar.”
He answers with a smirk, the first hint of a smile I’ve seen on his face tonight. “Reggie was right about you guys. You’re the real deal, just like this tequila.”
Chuckling, I clink the plastic cup against Logan’s. I drink deeply before h
e gives a faint cough and rifles something out of his back pocket. I savor the taste of the expensive booze, almost startled by just how smooth it is. Then again, Donovan only buys the best.
“Here,” Logan says, withdrawing an envelope from his back pocket and holding it out toward me. “This came too. I almost forgot.”
I take it, noticing my name written on the front in familiar handwriting.
It’s funny, the ways both Donovan and I have changed over the years. We’ve known one another since elementary school, becoming fast friends in our youth. Even as our paths began to diverge as we grew older, we still managed to hold a friendship together. While he was growing a successful business that brought him billions, I formed a rock band in my garage. It might not have brought me quite the same profit as Donovan’s business, but at least I could be bothered to show up and support my friends when they needed it.
As much as we’ve both changed, our handwriting styles are still the same. While mine is wild and scrawling, his is as neat as a typewriter.
“Are you going to open it?” Logan asks idly, his eyes interested.
Frowning, I glide my thumb under the seal of the letter and pop it open. Always a fan of showing off, Donovan had gone the extra mile and sealed the note with one of those wax dots like he’s some great empire’s monarch or something.
Typical . . . and kind of badass too.
The note is a short one, which I’m grateful for. I only have moments before I have to rush out onto the stage again.
“Easy E,” Donovan printed neatly. I could all but hear him chuckling with the use of my elementary school nickname. I’d gotten it from my easy attitude and tendency to chase after girls with the determination I should’ve put toward my studies. It’s a habit I’ve yet to shake.
What can I say? I love the ladies. All of them.
Donovan didn’t use the nickname regularly. He must be feeling pretty guilty about not showing up today. My eyes dart down impatiently to the bottom of the note.
“Leave them wanting more,” Donovan concluded simply.
It was a familiar statement coming from him. He liked to throw it in my face when I was chasing a girl around like a puppy. He always said I tried too hard to impress people, and that if I just reeled it back a bit, I’d have them chasing me instead. But what does he know? He has everything he’s ever wanted.
Irritated, I roll my eyes and toss the letter in a nearby garbage, pouring Logan and myself another shot. I make this one a double.
“I’d ask you if you’re warmed up, but I already know the answer to that,” Logan teases lightly as we clink our plastic cups together one last time.
Without a word, I chug the alcohol, letting it dull my disappointment. I should’ve known Donovan wouldn’t make it. I tell myself it’s not a big deal, but it is. I always show up when he needs me. For once it would be nice to have someone in the crowd just for me, especially in a venue where the people had been expecting someone else.
“You ready to rock, Eric King?” Alex asks, bright eyes glowing with the comforted sheen of alcohol.
I would’ve been worried about his playing had I not already known all three of us play better plastered. It made us loose enough to truly feel the music.
“Hell yeah! Let’s pound out some tunes and then some ladies.” James interjects with a whoop. His cynical detachment has been dissolved by his time at the bar.
I nod in agreement trying to muster up some enthusiasm, but Donovan’s words still remain etched in the back of my mind. Something about it stays with me, curling like icy claws around my stomach.
All my life I’ve chased my emotions away with alcohol. It was easier to avoid my painful past and just be the fun guy my friends expected. So what if I spent my time chasing women and this music dream of mine? But maybe Donovan is right. What do I have to show for it? Maybe it’s time to change.
This is my first real step toward being a rockstar. If that’s really my dream, maybe I need to stop falling over every single pretty girl that glances my way. Maybe I need to put down the bottle and face my fears. Maybe that’s what’s been holding me back all along.
Chapter 4
Morgan
Stacy’s arm is hooked around mine as we push our way toward the bar at the front of the seedy rock venue. I’ve never been in a place like this. The closest I’ve come was when I did a photoshoot where I had to dance around on a bar Coyote Ugly style. On the shoot the grunge atmosphere had been manufactured, but here every layer of grit is authentic. Strangely, I kind of liked it—the dim lights and the thud of the music pounding through the speakers. I let it slither under my skin and drive away the stress of my day, making my hips sway without effort.
My roommate and I are entirely out of place amongst the sea of dark shirts, ripped jeans and leather jackets—not that I mind standing out. The more attention I get, the better. I like to feel eyes on me. I like to feel like I’m the center of attention and the life of the party. The way we’re dressed, we’re definitely getting our share of curious looks.
Stacy is dressed in her usual prim cardigan that screams teacher-in-training, while I’m in a floaty miniskirt and a white gossamer blouse with open shoulders and billowy sleeves that connect at my wrists. It’s what I’d worn to my pervy photoshoot earlier and it’s one of my favorite outfits. Though part of me wanted to toss it in my apartment’s fireplace, I’d chosen instead to rock it at this bar that Charlotte suggested in the hopes that the memory of earlier would fade.
We finally reach the bar and the bartender leans over the counter, one dark eyebrow arching as he inspects our outfits.
“Two shots, hardest stuff you got,” I shout, glaring at him and daring his eyes to wander down the front of my nearly translucent shirt. Though I like attention, I don’t like to be ogled. There’s a stark difference between appreciation and aggression. “The cheaper the better,” I add, internally noting the lack of funds in my bank account.
“You sure?” the bartender asks, visibly taken aback by my request. “We’ve got some real cheap stuff back here. It’ll grow hair on your chest, lady.”
I lean over the bar toward him, my elbows brushing the slightly sticky surface. “Do I look like I’m not sure?”
A slow grin spreads over the bartender’s face. With a nod, he holds up one of his hands in surrender while he grabs his cocktail shaker with his other.
“Don’t bother to chill them,” I bark, feeling bossy.
“Um, or do?” Stacy pipes up, quieting when I turn my death glare toward her. “Never mind . . .” she mumbles with a faint pout on her full lips.
She hooks her arm around mine again, pulling me toward her so that I can hear her voice over the music playing through speakers. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, I’m just thirsty.”
I turn away from Stacy, not wanting her to push me for more. The stage is empty though the red curtain occasionally flutters back and forth as people walk behind it. I’d heard live music playing as we approached on the sidewalk. I guess we’d missed it by a hair. Hopefully the band will be back on the stage soon. Charlotte had promised some good music and I needed an excuse to dance away my drama, as she put it. Plus, a stiff drink and some loud music was always my preferred method of destressing.
“Morgan?” Stacy asks, giving me a gentle squeeze. “What’s got you all worked up?”
When I don’t answer right away, she begins self-consciously tugging at her tan cardigan. I can tell by her face that she wishes she’d gone home to change before coming out in her teaching gear.
She doesn’t notice the eyes of the other guys wandering over toward her, drinking in the sight of her like they’re drinking in their cocktails. We stick out, making everybody else interested. Funnily enough, instead of enjoying the idea of being marveled at, I find that I’m annoyed instead. Though I’d been hoping a night out would be just what I needed to blow off some steam and relax, I find myself getting more worked up instead. I want to tell each and every man
looking our way to shove off. The last thing I want is another guy’s attention after that perv of a fake photographer tried to feel me up earlier.
Normally, I tell Stacy everything, but at this moment I’m just not ready to deal with my life. I feel like a failure, like I’m never going to be a successful model, like my life will be endless car shows and fake studio shoots.
Though I know Stacy probably won’t leave it alone, I still offer her a vague answer. “I had a bad day,” I settle on saying artlessly.
“I guessed as much,” Stacy answers, unimpressed.
Frowning at me, she thanks the bartender as he passes us the shots. He’s overpoured them, giving us doubles instead of the singles I’d requested. I’m not quite ready to speak to another man kindly yet, but I do my best to soften the edge of my expression so that I look at least partially grateful for the extra booze.
He winks as though he did me a favor, accepting a few bills that Stacy thrusts into his hand before he turns toward other waiting people at the bar.
“Now,” Stacy orders, lifting her shot up toward me, “we’re going to drink this and then you’re going to tell me what made today so bad.”
Even under the dim lights, I can see that the liquid in our shot glasses is tinted a yellow that makes my tongue prickle, like it does before I eat sour candy. I can tell this shot is going to hurt, but I’m so damn ready for it. A hangover is a welcome improvement over how I feel right now.
“I’m just so over men!” I grumble before I can help it, still holding my shot midair. “I’m never dating again. I’m done. I’ll be single forever just so I don’t have to deal with guys anymore. They’re all the same, undignified and womanizing.”
Stacy just giggles when I finish my rant, clearly unconvinced. She doesn’t speak, choosing instead to smile at me.
“No, you don’t get it, Stacy. I mean it this time!”
Eric: A Clean Billionaire Romance Page 2
