Faded (Faded Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  He holds up a menacing finger. “One chance.”

  I practically squeak with glee.

  “You screw up, you’re out. No severance.”

  “Thank you, sir— Isaac!” I correct quickly. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”

  He glares at me. “Are you even old enough to work in a bar?”

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  Minus three.

  “Uh huh.” His mouth presses into a stern line, as if he knows I’m lying.

  “Look, if you need to see my ID…” My fingers tremble a bit as I reach for the tattered wallet in the side pocket of my backpack. The fake driver’s license tucked inside isn’t perfect, but I’m praying it’s good enough to pass Isaac’s inspection. The date next to my laminated picture proudly proclaims I’m twenty-one, not barely eighteen. It also says my last name is Wilkes and that I was born in the fine state of Oklahoma.

  I’m not overly fond of lying, but I’m also not naive enough to believe it’s never necessary. Survival trumps ethical scruples.

  His hand slices the air, stilling my motions. “We’ll sort out the paperwork later.”

  I let the bag fall back to my side.

  “You free to start now?” he grunts again.

  “Well, I—”

  “Great. Dotty called out sick,” he cuts me off, turns, and starts walking. “Come on, cupcake. Let’s get you a uniform.”

  “My name is Felicity!” I call after him, but he’s already disappeared through a swinging set of doors, into the back room. He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t believe a response is mandatory, because there’s no answer except for the slight squeaking of hinges in the otherwise silent bar. With a deep sigh, I clutch my guitar case a bit more firmly and hustle after him, toward the back room of The Nightingale.

  Chapter Two

  felicity

  “This is supposed to be a vodka tonic, not a vodka soda.” The blonde pushes the tumbler at me, her cherry-red lips pursed in distaste. The expression on her face suggests my IQ ranks somewhere in the single digit range.

  “Also, I asked for a jack and coke with lemon,” her friend chimes in. “These green ones are called limes, honey.”

  Gritting my teeth in a bracing smile, I grab their glasses off the high top and place them on my tray. “So sorry about that, y’all. I’ll be back in just a second.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” I hear one of them snicker as I walk away. “It took so long to get our last drinks, I think she might be barrel-aging the whiskey herself.”

  The fake smile falters on my lips.

  It’s been six hours since I started this job, but it feels like an eternity. Feet aching, I make my way back to the bar to replace the messed up drink order. I hear Carly at the mic introducing the next act, but I don’t spare a glance in her direction. Every hour like clockwork a fresh performer has taken the stage at The Nightingale, each somehow more impressive than their predecessors. Over the course of my shift I’ve seen a folksy girl with a fiddle, a trio of bonafide cowboys with fringe shirts and banjos, a Johnny Cash cover artist so convincing you’d believe in reincarnation if you heard him sing, and a fading queen of love ballads coaxed out of retirement for a one-night-only acoustic set.

  The only thing they clearly have in common is talent — sheer, indescribable, undeniable talent.

  Their mouths open, the music pours out… and the whole crowd goes totally silent to listen, staring with rapt attention toward the stage, shushing those who dare to speak during the sets. As the hours slip by, it gets more and more crowded, but the air of quiet reverence never changes.

  Other bars are for flirting and idle chitchat over drinks. At The Nightingale, the music isn’t a background distraction — it’s the main event.

  People are packed in wall-to-wall, filling every table, sucking every molecule of air from the dark bar. We can only fit fifty or so in here at any given time, but through the hazy windows, I see a line of waiting patrons wrapped all the way around the building, hoping a table will clear out before the next artist takes the stage.

  It doesn’t surprise me. If they weren’t paying me to be here, I’d be paying to get in, too.

  As I wait for the bartender to mix my drinks, Adam, the shift manager, brushes past with an inventory list in hand. He’s so close I can feel the graze of his knuckles against my ass through the charcoal gray booty shorts that function as my work uniform, the scrape of his broad shoulder against the plane of my back beneath the tight-fitted black shirt, cropped to expose my stomach. In this getup, I look like a sluttier version of Sookie Stackhouse on her way to a shift at Merlotte’s, but if showing a little skin makes for better tips, I’m not complaining. I need the money too desperately to occupy any kind of moral high ground.

  “Hey.” Adam’s dark blue eyes slide to mine. “Crazy night for a first shift.”

  “Is it always this crowded?”

  “Nah. It’s much worse on the weekends.” He grins at me, boyish and charming. He’s handsome in a homegrown, Clark Kent kind of way — square jaw, dark bronze hair, broad shoulders. Give him a cape, he could probably save the world. “Doing okay so far? Confused about anything?”

  I shrug. “I’m fine.”

  His eyes slide slowly down my body, lingering in a way that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “You certainly are.”

  I laugh thinly, doing my best to ignore the implication in his words. I can’t afford to lose this job — especially not on my first night. Adam leans his side against the bar as his eyes finally work their way back up to mine. A half-grin tugs at his lips. I’d like to slap it off his face.

  “You know…” His smile widens a shade. “Isaac usually leaves the hiring to me.”

  “I didn’t know, actually.”

  “I’m surprised he hired you.”

  My brows lift. “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “He may own the place, but I’m the one who runs things around here.” There’s a spark of anger in the depths of his eyes, extinguished so fast I barely catch it. “That includes final approval of the staff — who stays, who goes, who gets the best shifts on the schedule. Understood?”

  A bolt of unease shoots through me. It’s not hard to miss his meaning.

  You screw up here, I’m the one who’ll toss you out on the street.

  Maybe he’s not Clark Kent at all. Beneath the charm, I’m picking up some Lex Luthor villain vibes.

  “Well?” he prompts.

  “Understood.”

  “Good.” He pulls back, winks at me, and turns away, that carefree all-American act back in place. “I’ll see you around.”

  I’m still mulling over his veiled threat as I make my way through the crowd and deliver the cocktails. The last thing I need is to be caught in some power struggle between Isaac and his shift manager.

  Why are men always so dang territorial?

  Sliding the thin order pad from my apron pocket, I’ve just begun to scan my section for anyone in need of a fresh drink when I hear a voice echo out over the speakers.

  “Hey.”

  One word. It strikes me like a bolt of lightning — zipping along my nerve endings, lighting me up from the inside out like a supercharged shock of electricity. Before I even swivel around to look at him, I know the guy standing at the microphone is going to take my breath away. He’s just got one of those voices.

  I’m not the only one who notices, either. Every girl in my section is suddenly sitting up straighter, fluffing her hair, arching her back so her cleavage is displayed a bit more perkily. I should be taking advantage of the lull between sets to scribble down drink orders, but instead I find my feet turning toward the stage without conscious thought. It’s an automatic reflex, like hearing your name shouted out in a crowd. You can’t help looking up.

  There are three musicians onstage but my eyes barely spare the drummer or bassist a glance, locking immediately on the man standing at the microphone, illuminated by the streaming overhead lights. H
e’s wearing ripped black jeans and a t-shirt so faded the band logo on the front is illegible. His only accessory is the black guitar strapped over his shoulder.

  He isn’t the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, but there’s something utterly captivating about him. Lush dark hair falls into his eyes in that messy-on-purpose way musicians pull off so effortlessly. Crooked nose, smirking mouth. Tall, with the lean build of a soccer player and a voice like a lazy Sunday morning — slow, smooth, with the faintest southern twang on the end of his vowels that makes you want to linger in bed all day.

  “I know y’all came out tonight to hear Lacey sing…”

  The crowd cheers, clearly familiar with whoever he’s talking about.

  “But she’s running a bit late, so you’ll just have to settle for me and the boys tonight,” he drawls, mouth twisting sardonically.

  The females in the crowd holler louder; the men look a bit dejected by the news.

  “Now, I usually hide back there behind my guitar and leave the singing to the professionals.” He chuckles lowly, and the sound alone is enough to make a breath catch in my throat. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t do this stage justice.”

  Forgive him?

  He has nothing to apologize for. Hell, If his speaking voice is any indication, he could probably sing the Teletubbies theme song and put James Taylor to shame.

  “We’re Lacey Briggs’ band. But seeing as we’re short one Lacey Briggs this fine evening… I’m Ryder, that’s Aiden on bass, Lincoln on drums… and we’re just three nobodies looking to have a good time. Y’all think you can help us out with that?”

  The crowd roars.

  “Well, all right then, Nashville. Let’s do the damn thing.”

  Lincoln cracks his drumsticks together in the air, counting down a beat. A few seconds later, they launch into a Zac Brown Band cover song. It’s an instant crowd-pleaser — everyone starts nodding along, dancing in their seats, swaying to the beat. With considerable effort, I manage to tear my eyes away from the stage and start circulating through my section. I take several drink orders, smiling politely for the sake of my tips, but the entire time my focus is honed on the man behind me, who’s singing about fried chicken and cold beer with more conviction than some musicians can muster for their most poignant love songs.

  Remember your rules, Felicity, I scold myself sternly when I catch my hips sashaying to the song rhythm. No musicians. Ever. Even if he’s hot. Even if he’s got a voice like a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach.

  I try to heed the warning bells ringing inside my head, to tell myself I’m totally unaffected by the man on stage… but I can’t deny there’s a bit more bounce in my step as I make my way to the bar. I rattle off my order to Jay, the bartender, and turn to watch the performance while I wait. The band has segued into a rowdy rendition of “Wagon Wheel” and the singer — Ryder — is working the audience for everything they’re worth. He’s swaggering back and forth, serenading the girls at the front, throwing winks at the ones in the back. It’s hard to believe he’s usually resigned to guitar chords and backup vocals. He was born to be front and center. The star of the show.

  I’m so entranced, I don’t even notice Carly appear at my side.

  “Make sure you wipe that drool before you carry out your drinks.”

  I flinch and tear my eyes from Ryder. “I wasn’t— It’s not what you think. I was just—”

  “Blatantly ogling the goods?”

  A blush threatens to stain my cheeks.

  “Oh, relax.” She grins. “That boy is hotter than a cast iron skillet. No need to apologize for noticing.”

  “I guess,” I say, striving for nonchalance. “If that’s your type.”

  She bumps her hip against mine. “Ryder is everyone’s type. There’s not a girl in this room who wouldn’t like to take a ride on that bicycle.”

  “Not me.” I shake my head. “I don’t date musicians.”

  Carly snorts. “Good thing you moved to Nashville, then.”

  “Not everyone here is a musician.”

  “Damn near everyone.”

  “Well, I’ll just have to find someone tone-deaf.”

  “Best of luck with that.” She shakes her head, eyes still locked on the stage. “They play here at least twice a month. Their lead singer, Lacey, is talented, but she’s a total flake. She used to work here, actually, but she’s pursuing a singing career now. Or… she was. Half the time she doesn’t show up, so Ryder takes over.”

  “I’m surprised they keep giving her gigs. Isaac mentioned there’s quite the waitlist to perform here.”

  Carly laughs. “Yeah, well, I suppose Lacey has worked out some kind of special arrangement with Wade, because he keeps booking her.”

  My brows go up in question, but she doesn’t elaborate further. She’s too busy watching the stage — or, the man on it. “You have to admit, he’s pretty damn sexy.”

  I shrug.

  “Seriously?” Her nose crinkles. “Look at him!”

  “Sorry. Musicians just… don’t do it for me.”

  “Why?” Her gaze turns curious. “Bad breakup?”

  My eyes rove over Ryder, who’s hyping up the crowd with an expression of pure exhilaration on his face. I shake myself so I’ll stop looking and turn my back to the stage.

  “Anyone who needs that much validation isn’t ever going to be satisfied in a relationship,” I say, staring down at my drink tray. “Musicians and monogamy don’t mix well. And I’ve never seen the point in diving into something doomed to fail.”

  “Do my ears deceive me, or did we finally hire an employee with taste?” Adam walks up and joins our conversation, his eyes scanning me with new appreciation. “Most girls are falling over themselves for a chance to get close to any poser who can strum a guitar and sing a few half-decent cover songs.”

  I give him a wan smile, curbing the impulse to roll my eyes. Despite his big talk, it’s clear from the way he’s glaring enviously at the stage that Adam would love to be up there with them, the subject of several dozen female sexual fantasies.

  Carly snorts indelicately. “Jeeze, Adam. Jealous much?”

  “Jealous? Try pissed off.” He grits his teeth. “This is un-fucking-believable. Third time Lacey has pulled this no-show shit.”

  Carly tucks a short strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear. “Talk to Wade. He’s the one who keeps giving her time slots.”

  “Wade is too busy thinking with his dick to actually do his job.” Adam’s scowl intensifies as Ryder launches into a popular Sam Hunt song. “For fuck’s sake, this is The Nightingale, not a karaoke bar.”

  “Lacey has never been the most reliable. Isn’t that why you fired her?”

  “She was a shit waitress, but she can sing.” His tone is begrudging. “Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to have much interest in actually singing these days, seeing as she keeps leaving us high and dry with a lead guitarist who can hardly string a melody together…”

  “I don’t think the girls in the audience are complaining,” Carly says wryly, looking around at the nearly rabid crowd. Every woman in the bar has her eyes fixed on Ryder like he’s a piece of Grade A beef as he belts out the verses.

  Adam makes a sound of disgust. “Yeah, well do me a favor. Tell the boy-toy to swing by my office after their set. We need to have a discussion about their future here. If Wade isn’t going to handle this Lacey situation, I’ll do it my damn self.”

  “Will do, boss.” Carly salutes him mockingly as he walks away. Her voice drops to an amused murmur once he’s out of earshot. “God, that stick is shoved extra far up his ass today, isn’t it?”

  I snort. “I don’t have any other days to compare it to — it’s my first shift.”

  “Oh! Right, sorry. Feel like I’ve known you forever.”

  “Can I ask you about something?”

  “I’m an open book.”

  “Isaac is the owner… but it seems like Adam is the one who makes all the decisions
…”

  Carly heaves a deep sigh. “That’s true enough. Isaac opened this place about forty years ago, but seeing as Adam’s the one who’ll inherit it someday… I guess there’s a bit of a power struggle between the old world and the new when it comes to running things.”

  I blink in surprise. “They’re father and son?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow. The apple fell pretty far, huh?”

  She grins. “Like you’ve already figured out, Isaac’s a big softie beneath that gruff exterior. Adam’s the same. His exterior is just… harder to break through.”

  “So, he’s not always such a jerk?”

  “He’s never exactly a basket of puppies but, for the most part, his bark is worse than his bite. Ryder just… has a way of bringing out the ass in him.”

  “Why?”

  “They used to be friends, I think. Not sure what happened, I just know they had a falling out a while back. Every time Ryder shows up to play, Adam is extra pissy.” She sighs. “Word of advice? Stay out of the warpath on nights Lacey’s band is on the schedule.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I’ve got to go talk to the guys playing next, and you’ve got to deliver those drinks before all your ice melts.” She gives me a quick elbow squeeze and a warm smile. “See you around, Felicity.”

  My heart pangs as I watch her disappear into the crowd. Maybe working here won’t be so bad after all. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll even manage to make some friends.

  That would be a first.

  I’m still smiling to myself as I grab my tray and head into the crowd to deliver the drink orders.

  Chapter Three

  ryder

  “Well, all right then, Nashville!” I yell into the mic, looking out over the sea of screaming women. “Let’s do the damn thing.”

  I give them my most smoldering grin — the one that makes their eyes flash with lust, their chests perk up so I can see their tits better. They don’t give a shit what my name is, where I come from, or whether I even like this fucking song I’m singing. All they see is the guitar in my hands, the smirk on my face, the body they’d like to run their hands over after the show, just so they can say they hooked up with someone in a band.