Maybe it’s the alcohol in my bloodstream or simply the idea of Adam beckoning me like a parent does a disobedient child, but suddenly I’m pissed. My head cranes back and though my voice is lazy, there’s a steel undercurrent that can’t be ignored.
“Tell his highness to stop holding court. If he wants to talk, he can come to us.”
“He won’t like that.”
“And I don’t like Mondays, but we all deal with them eventually.”
“Could you just cease being a prick for, like, two seconds?” she snaps, folding her arms over her chest. “We’re short staffed tonight because Dotty’s out sick, your lead singer didn’t bother to show up for her set, and busy I’m training a new waitress. I don’t have time to deal with your egos on top of all that — my hands are full enough.”
“They could be a lot fuller if you’d go home with me tonight,” Lincoln mutters.
Carly rolls her eyes and says something in retaliation, but my focus is elsewhere. Specifically, on her mention of the new waitress. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I shift the groupie off my lap with an apologetic wink and scramble to my feet. I’m a bit wobbly from all the Jack in my system.
Carly watches me warily as I move to her side. “How drunk are you?”
“Exactly drunk enough to deal with Adam.” I shrug. “Can’t make any promises I won’t be a prick, though.”
“Evidently, that would be asking too much.”
We make our way through the crowd toward the bar. I spot Isaac, the owner, polishing glasses and helping mix drinks elbow-to-elbow with his bartender. I’ve always liked that about him, since I first started coming here — he’s in the trenches with his employees, running things from the front lines… not hiding out in some back room like Adam, putting on airs of importance.
We slip through a door to the back. It’s eerily quiet in comparison to the bar. Muffled sounds of music and conversation barely permeate the thick walls as we make our way down the hall, passing the staff lockers, bathroom, and break room.
“So. This new girl,” I say casually.
Carly’s shoulders tense. She glances back at me. “What about her?”
“What’s she like?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Uh huh.” She looks doubtful. “Sure you are.”
“What? I can’t make casual conversation about the new waitress?”
“You don’t do casual. You always have an endgame. And that endgame is usually sex.”
“I asked what she’s like, not what color underwear she’s wearing.”
She snorts. “Just trust me when I say she’s not your type.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means she’s sweet as sunshine and way too young for you to corrupt.” She glances sidelong at me. “Plus, she doesn’t date musicians.”
My brows pull together. “What kind of bullshit rule is that?”
“Probably a smart one if she’s going to be working here.” She raps her knuckles against Adam’s door twice, then swings it open and peeks her head inside. “Hey, boss. Ryder’s here for you.”
I hear Adam sigh as though it’s a tremendous inconvenience; as though I’m interruptinghisnight, not the other way around. My hands curl into fists.
“If you punch him, he’ll never let you play here again,” Carly whispers as she walks away. “Don’t take the bait.”
With a grimace, I unclench my fists and step into the small, closet-like space. There isn’t even a window. It’s so stuffy in here I can barely breathe, though that may have more to do with the man seated behind the desk than the air circulation.
He watches me walk in, arms crossed over his chest. I collapse into the uncomfortable folding chair across from him, staring back in stagnant silence. I refuse to speak first. I’m not the one who called this little detente.