Everyone ate like crap at the club with candy in the break room, salty snacks behind the bar, and mimosas for breakfast in the meeting rooms. But everyone felt like they needed to look good all the time, which left Brit with her curves challenged and her appetite conflicted.
Since Brit wasn’t on the payroll, she felt weird buying the employees’ snacks anyway. She eyed the glass of the vending machine wistfully. Her hand went to her Fendi crossbody bag in search of quarters when the door opened.
Her heart dropped into her guilty stomach, but it was only Cord.
His full lips turned up in a mocking smile. “Were you about to buy that eighties candy?”
“Someday I’m going to do it. Out of spite.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Brit smirked. “Nah, you’re right. I wouldn’t.”
Brit went back to look for some coins in her bag, but she only had plastic. With her head down, she heard the clang of money drop into the machine.
“Hey, I was just about to do that!”
Cord shrunk back like a child being scolded by the teacher, and she felt bad for yelling at him for a second. But he could clearly see that she was standing right there. Why would he go ahead of her like that?
“I was doing it for you,” he said shyly.
Brit was still trying to figure Cord out. When Cord was in meetings, he was so confident. Outside of meetings, though, he seemed a little too eager to be liked. She couldn’t decide yet if it was an attractive quality or not.
Brit made a move to leave. “I shouldn’t be eating this crap anyway.” His face looked so hurt that she sighed, pivoted, and punched the button for the Reese’s Peanut Butter cups. His face lifted again.
“You like the Reese’s, eh?”
“It’s my favorite. And I’ll be wearing it on my hips later, so thanks for that.”
With his chivalry, she almost expected that he would grab her snack, unwrap it, and subsequently feed it to her, but he didn’t, so she hinged at the knee without bending her waist, thus avoiding flashing him under her miniskirt. With a passing nod and a mutual “see you later,” she stowed away to her favorite hiding spot in the club.
Club Stanza had been a landmark since Lonnie founded it in the eighties, but the building had been around since the twenties. Lonnie bought it because it was built to be a speakeasy. It had been revamped throughout the years, but a couple of the doorframes were still original, small, and narrow. Including the one just outside the coatroom in the lobby. The rickety door opened into a stairway that led straight up to the roof. After a potential jumper incident years ago, Lonnie kept it locked, but he didn’t notice when Brit took the key. No one had any reason to come that way when it wasn’t a show night.
Brit ripped open the package of peanut butter cups and nibbled around the perimeter of the first cup while she swiped at her phone with the opposite hand. Her first stop was always YouTube. If someone was going to find new talent, she wanted it to be her.
They were between talent bookers right now, and Lonnie was considering a few people to bestow the responsibility on. Brit wasn’t sure she wanted to be on the payroll, but she had a strong idea of who she wanted this club to book as far as musicians.
In Brit’s suggested videos on YouTube, an attractive kid popped up. His look was generic—another swoopy-bang wannabe, but his dark brown eyes said more. This kid called himself J.J. Mack, which seemed a little pretentious to Brit. If they got him in there, they could find this kid some representation to do better by him as far as image. He sure had the good looks. She tapped the screen to make his most popular video play. He was a rapper, but also could play the violin. Brit was into the fusion thing lately. With Daisy and her hip-folk, and now this guy with his classical rap, they were exactly where she wanted the club to be going.
She had to have him. And even if he didn’t draw in the crowds, he would be nice to look at while he tried.
After finishing the first peanut butter cup, Brit licked the melted chocolate off the tips of her fingers and wiped them on her denim skirt. Stuffing the second cup into her purse, she pushed open the door. The door scraped against the frame and moved an inch without opening. With an unladylike shove with her shoulder, the door begrudgingly yawned open the rest of the way.
“They need to get that piece of junk fixed,” she muttered, fully aware that “they” was her father.
She needed to get back on a real computer to find J.J.’s contact info.
“Hey, Britnee.”
“It’s Brit,” she corrected before she turned around to see who had called her the wrong name.
“Right, sorry.”
She pivoted on her heel to find Isaiah Cox with one foot out the front door of the club. Employees never used the front doors outside of business hours, but vendors didn’t know any better.
“Coming or going, Isaiah? I thought we were all stocked up on your vodka.”
Isaiah smiled, his nice white teeth brilliant against dark skin. He let the door close behind him and leaned one elbow against the wall. “You are. I was making sure the place down the street was set for the party tomorrow. You coming?”
Brit had forgotten all about the Premiya vodka-sponsored bash tomorrow night. As one of Premiya’s best customers, a few of the Club Stanza VIPs had been invited by Isaiah. Of course, Brit had to go even though it had nothing to do with music. And she didn’t drink vodka. But the clubs had to support each other, and she wouldn’t mind a night of letting loose and dancing.
“Wouldn’t miss it. See you then, Isaiah.” She stood with her mouth in a straight line until Isaiah got the hint that it was time to go and ducked out the door.
DOWN A SHORT, DARK hallway from her father’s office was a spacious but empty office for Mike, the general manager of the club. He was hardly ever there. Mike was in charge of the day-to-day operation since Lonnie essentially retired. Although Mike was always reachable by phone, he let the team run itself. He came in once a week to figure out the schedule and address any issues that came up, and then he was out again to who knows where. Brit asked her father time and time again why he hadn’t fired Mike, but in the end, he always got things done. Somehow.
Brit settled behind the computer as someone peeked into the doorway and said quietly, “Oh, I thought you were Mike.”
Glancing up, Brit greeted who she thought was one of the new bartenders Mike had just hired. The gorgeous black girl looked more like someone who could’ve been in a print ad for the club rather than working in it. Brit wondered how Mike had scored her as an employee.
“Anything I can help you with...?” Brit paused, wanting to call the girl by name, but she didn’t know her name. She hoped the girl would say no.
“Something came up. I need to ask off for tomorrow night.”
“We’re going to be short-staffed tomorrow with the—” Brit stopped and shook her head. She didn’t know why she was doing Mike’s job for him. “You know what, send Mike a text. I don’t know how the schedule looks.” The schedule, Brit knew, was a mere turn of her head away, posted on the wall immediately to her left.
“Oh OK, good idea.” The girl turned halfway to leave, but then said, “Hey, you’re Brit, right? Brit Byers?”
Brit sighed.
“You probably get that a lot. Sorry. I’m Sharnita.”
Sharnita’s hopeful smile faded without a response from Brit.
“I’m sorry. I’m zoning out. That time of the month, you know?”
Sharnita exhaled in relief. “Yeah, totally.”
“Hey, Sharnita, have you heard of this J.J. Mack guy?”
“Yeah! He’s hella hot. And you know, talented, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
Brit laughed, and Sharnita’s eyes looked pleased.
“I’m going to get him to play here. We have to have him.”
“That’s awesome. I gotta get back to the bar, but it was nice meeting you, Brit.” Sharnita waved a hand with manicured long electric blue nails.
“Likewise.”
Brit expected a little more of a reaction, but no matter. She went back to J.J.’s video page and scoured it for contact info. She found it with ease. There was no way someone with that kind of talent went unrepresented for long. The name of the talent agency was familiar. Brit couldn’t believe her luck. Cord’s stepbrother, Lander, owned the joint.
Lander was his last name, but it’s what everyone called him. To the point that Brit couldn’t remember his first name even though he was engaged to her sister, Barbara.
Dialing her sister’s number first, Brit leaned back in the creaky, seldom used but somehow worn office chair. “Hey, Barbie.”
“Hey, Burt, what’s up?”
An early fascination with Sesame Street and an understandable inability to spell at the tender age of five gifted Brit with the nickname of Burt from her older sister, who never let her live it down. It helped that her sister, who worked as a model and was usually poised beyond belief, broke her composure for a moment to do the Ernie voice.
Brit laughed. “You’re such a dork. Hey, listen, is Lander around?”
“No, he works like normal people. You can call his office.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks, Barbie. Hey, are you going to the vodka thing tomorrow at Elysium?”
“You know that’s not my scene.”
“Why, ‘cause it’s not knitting club?”
“Oh, shut up. You’re terrible.”
“You need to get out more. You were the hot Byers sister. Never forget that. But then you settled down.”
“Hey now, you set me up with Lander!”
“That’s because he’s related to Cord, who seems nice and stable. Figured if his brother is half as lame as he is, he might be a good change from the grade A meat you usually bring home.” Brit allowed her voice to drip with the appropriate amount of sarcasm.
“You should talk, little sis. Not dating guys with adjectives for names from now on might be a good life lesson for you, too.”
“That’s some sweeping generalization you got there. Sure, Crazy was bad, but Pious seems like a catch.”
The line was silent for a moment.
“Barbie?”
“Tell me you aren’t dating a guy named Pious.”
“Barbara Anne Snickerdoodle Mariah Byers, come on.”
Barbara laughed at the lengthening of her name. “I just had to check!”
“Whatever, I’m off to call your man. Peace. Have fun at knitting club tomorrow.”
“Have fun with Pious. Don’t get pregnant.”
Brit was about to argue the irony of an imaginary guy named Pious impregnating a woman out of wedlock, but she let her sister’s joke hang in the air instead. She hit End and dialed Lander’s cell.
“Abednego Lander.”
Right, that’s why he went by Lander.
“Hi, it’s Brit.”
“Hey, sis. How you livin’?”
Brit rolled her eyes. “We’re not related until the ink’s dry. And you know Barbara could do better.”
Lander picked up on her teasing tone. “Should’ve thought about that sooner before you set her up with someone so irresistible. What’s up?”
“Have you heard of this kid called J.J. Mack?”
“Name sounds familiar. Does my company represent him?”
“Actually, yeah. Can you get him in here to do a gig?”
Lander groaned like he was about to play hardball. “He’s a pretty busy guy right now, but for you, I’ll see what I can do.”
“He’s just what we need. Trust me.”
“Brit knows best.”
“And if I ever take over Club Stanza, that’s exactly what my business cards will say. Just make it happen. Bye, Lander.”
“No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”
CHAPTER FOUR
BRIT’S HEAD HURT. THE music at Elysium was even louder than Club Stanza when they had screaming hard rock bands play. The strobe lights were not helping either.
“Hey, pretty girl, want to dance?”
Brit was about to tell whatever creep was talking to her where he could stick it, but she turned around to find a thin middle-aged black man in plastic zebra-print sunglasses and shiny lip gloss.
“Rube! I wear my sunglasses at night,” Brit sang.
“Just had some work done. My eyes are puffy, but I couldn’t miss the par-tay.” He leaned in and air kissed each of Brit’s cheeks. He smelled like the entire fragrance section of Holt Renfrew with a hint of cloves he was obviously trying to hide.
“Back on the e-cigs again, Rube?”
“Don’t judge me, you prude.”
Ruben Weiskopf was the VIP host for Club Stanza, and he had worked for Lonnie since the beginning of time. The two had met because Rube was the president of Lonnie’s fanclub in the eighties, and Rube barely left Lonnie’s shadow ever since. He was also currently dating the club’s bouncer, Walter, which Brit also had a hand in setting up.
He stepped back and revealed a small girl with big dreadlocks standing directly behind him.
“I wanted to introduce you to my newest find, Daisy Song.” He held the “o” longer than necessary like he was actually singing it and presented her to Brit with a sweep of his hand.
“You discovered her? I just told Dad yesterday that we needed to get her in. So I’m taking the credit for this one.”
“Sweetie, no. I’m getting the commish.”
“We don’t get commission.”
“Maybe you don’t, Daddy’s girl.”
Daisy Song stuck out her small hand. “I love your hair.”
Brit squeezed Daisy’s hand and found it rougher than she expected. “Oh thanks.” Brit ran her hand through her own straightened reddish-purple hair that just brushed her collarbone and ruffled her bangs. “I love it, but I have to go to the salon every other week. And let’s just say I’m behind. I love yours too.”
Daisy smiled, showing off the tiny silver ring around the side of her bottom lip. “Thank you! My hair’s the opposite. Low, low maintenance. Just how I like it.” Daisy’s voice, which Brit could barely hear over the din, was low and scratchy like she was getting over a cold.
Rube appeared again and swept both girls onto the dance floor, Brit on one elbow and Daisy on the other.
Daisy waved her arms and did some sort of a hippie two-step while Brit shimmied around Rube. “We gotta teach you how to move,” Brit called to Daisy. Rube took Daisy’s hands in front and raised them over her head while Brit gyrated behind her.
Some guy brushed his backside against Brit. “Mind if I join you?”
“Yes.” Brit rotated so the guy was behind her and out of her line of sight.
“Can I have this dance?” asked another voice.
Brit was about to bite the dude’s face off for not getting the picture, but when she spun around, she came face to face with a broad chest and a hint of blond chest hair peeking out of the top of his unbuttoned dress shirt.
“Cord!” Rube opened his arms to the taller man.
Cord smiled a tight smile and locked uncomfortable eyes with Brit as Rube enclosed Cord in a skinny-armed vice.
Brit guffawed and pulled Daisy away from the dance floor. “Wanna go someplace and talk? These guys need to have a moment alone.”
Brit watched Cord as she navigated through the crowd. He moved his arms in an attempt at dancing before he yelled something to Rube and excused himself to the bar.
The fresh air dried the sweat on Brit’s brow, and her ears rang in celebration of the silence. Brit smoothed the sequins of her jumpsuit under her and sat on the stoop with her legs tucked under her. She was showing major side-boob with the open back design, but she was so used to the attention that she didn’t notice if any passerby looked. Brit was a colorful beacon with her navy blue sequins and red-purple hair next to head-to-toe beige Daisy, who wore a white calf-length suede tank dress and block platform heels.
Instead of sitting, Daisy leaned against the railing, saving th
e light camel fabric from the sidewalk grime.
“What’s the deal with Rube?” asked Daisy.
Brit smiled a wry smile. “Rube’s a clinger. He’s worked at our club since the eighties, and he was in one magazine spread, so he thinks he’s famous or something.”
“He still works there then?”
“If you can call it that. He only schedules himself one night a week. And on a Tuesday. Our slowest night. It’s pretty much so he can swoon at his boyfriend working the door and make sure no one flirts with Walter. And of course schmooze with the occasional celeb that rolls in.”
“He seemed OK tonight.”
“Oh, he’s alright. He’s entertaining at least, and he’s still better than any of those scumbags in there. The dating scene is dire. That’s why I don’t have a boyfriend.” Brit piled her hair on top of her head and enjoyed a passing breeze against her bare neck. “You? Are you with anyone?”
“No.”
“Good, keep it that way. I’m on Slammer, but that’s just for fun. Which reminds me, I’m supposed to be meeting someone tomorrow.”
“You’re meeting who?” asked a man’s voice.
People had to stop sneaking up on her tonight.
“Hey, Cord. Cord, Daisy. Daisy, Cord.”
“Nice to meet you.” The skin around Cord’s blue eyes crinkled, and he shook Daisy’s hand in his charming way he had.
Daisy’s brown eyes smiled into upside-down moons as she eagerly shook Cord’s hand.
Brit followed her gaze to Cord. She could see the appeal tonight. Cord’s hair was messy instead of slicked across his forehead, and that flash of skin below his neck was enough to make any woman want to see more.
“Daisy.” Brit brought the attention back to her. “You should totally open for Vincent Gordon. He’s playing our club in a couple weeks. He’s really talented, cocky in a good way, and cute if you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Vincent Gordon is the opener,” Cord reminded her.
“He can have his own opener.”
“He’s not that big,” muttered Cord.
“You wanna head back in?” Brit stood up and smoothed the sequins on her backside back into place.
Brit with the Pink Hair (The Rockin' Austen Series, #1) Page 2