by Lauren Rowe
“Enough,” I say sharply to the blonde, cutting off her rambling. “When I told you I don’t accept unsolicited demos a minute ago, that was your cue to fuck off.”
The girl’s mouth hangs open, just as Josh shifts his weight next to me, letting me know he thinks that was too harsh.
But fuck it. What this girl and Josh and Georgina don’t understand—what nobody could understand, unless they’ve walked a mile in my shoes—is that I’m not on this earth to give out participation medals. I’m here to find and disseminate rare musical greatness, while also living my best life. And guess what? Pretending to give a shit every time some wannabe ambushes me with a demo isn’t living my goddamned best fucking life!
I’m pissed as hell this blonde torpedoed my “see you later” with Georgina. And in the process quite possibly outed me to Georgina as the asshole that I am. But those aren’t the main reasons I just told her to fuck off. In truth, the far less prickish reason for my behavior is that I’m helping this kid out. Teaching her something. If she truly wants to make it in music, she’s going to encounter assholes far worse than me. On a daily basis, she’s going to discover nobody will hold her fucking hand in this business. Not even if she’s “the next Adele.” Which she’s not.
I glance at Georgina at the far end of the bar, making sure she’s not overhearing anything, and to my relief, she’s busy serving a customer. “Courtney,” I say, “I’m doing you a favor here by not sugarcoating anything. Music is a brutal business, filled with savage, endless rejections that are going to crush your soul and disembowel your spirit and make you question your talent on a daily basis. And, to be perfectly honest, I can already see in your eyes you’re not built to withstand any of that. Do you honestly think you are? Tell the truth. Swear on a stack of bibles you’re up for that kind of abuse.”
It’s a test. If this kid caves, then my instinct about her is right: she’ll never make it in the cruel world of music. But if she tells me to fuck off, if she says I’m wrong about her, and that she’s going to hustle until her dying breath to prove me wrong, then, hell, maybe I’ve misjudged her. Maybe, if she pushes back like that, today will be her lucky day and I’ll do something I never do: listen to her stupid fucking demo.
But, nope. Courtney doesn’t push back. In fact, she does exactly what I’m expecting: she crumples, right before my eyes. “Sorry to... ,” she murmurs, before scooping up her flash drive and sprinting away, tears pooling in her eyes.
“Jesus, Reed,” Josh says. “That was a bit much.”
“No, it wasn’t.” I pick up a mystery drink and take a long sip. “An Old Fashioned. Nice.”
“Seriously, man. That was brutal.”
“Yeah, well, tough shit. I can’t go anywhere these days without someone trying to convince me they’re the next Adele, Beyoncé, Laila, or Aloha. Or, if they’re in a band, then they’re the next Red Card Riot or 22 Goats. And guess what? They never are. Can I afford to waste five minutes, now and again, pretending to give a shit when someone approaches me with stars in their eyes? Maybe, though I wouldn’t be happy about it. But, Josh, this shit happens ten times a day, every day. Am I supposed to waste a full hour out of every twenty-four on this shit? I bet even your mother-in-law, the nicest person I know, would tell me I’m well within my rights to shut this kind of shit down.”
Josh sips a martini. “I strongly doubt my mother-in-law would be okay with you telling a young college student with stars in her eyes to fuck off.”
My stomach clenches. “Okay, well. Maybe that one thing was a bit harsh. Do me a favor and don’t tell your mother-in-law I said that, okay?”
Josh laughs. “Look, I get it. I can’t imagine how annoying it would be to get bombarded like that all the time. I’m just saying there are other ways to say what you did that aren’t going to scar the kid for life.”
“If me telling her to fuck off scars her for life, then she shouldn’t even think of trying to make it in music.”
Josh sighs. “Whatever. Don’t mind me. I fully admit I’ve turned into a huge softie these days. You should see how Gracie has me wrapped around her little finger. If Little G cries a single tear, I’m wrecked. Kat’s gotta play bad cop with her all the time, because I’m too big a pussy to do it.” He chuckles. “That kid is so damned cute. Same with Jack.”
I take a sip of my drink, and say nothing. Truthfully, I don’t think I’m that different from Josh. Tears wreck me, too, but only when they’re shed by someone I love, not a stranger in a bar. For fuck’s sake, I’ve spent my entire life wiping my mother’s tears, and where is she now? In Scarsdale, in the finest mental facility money can buy, painting with outrageously expensive paints I’ve imported for her from France. And all of it, to keep her tears away.
And when my baby sister got her heart smashed by her teenage love, and her tears wouldn’t stop flowing, what did I do? Well, right after threatening to kill the bastard who broke her heart, I packed my sister off to the best college money could buy, three thousand miles away from the guy she couldn’t seem to break away from on her own. All to keep her tears away.
And when my housekeeper, Amalia, cried for the first and only time in my presence—when that sweet woman broke down four years ago at my kitchen table and confessed her brother needed surgery and couldn’t afford it and she was terrified of losing him—I not only wound up paying for the brother’s four surgeries, I paid off his apartment lease for two years, too. All to keep sweet Amalia’s tears away.
But some random chick in a bar cries because, waah, waah, the music industry is so hard? Because she’s got a dream and I’m not rolling out the red carpet for her? Yeah, well, fuck her. I had a dream, too. And I mortgaged my soul, heart, blood, sweat, and tears to make my dream happen. I hustled and scrambled. And, yeah, I lied, too, on occasion, whenever truly necessary. But, most of all, I never gave up, no matter how many people told me I was crazy. No matter how many people said making money in music was impossible these days, thanks to streaming and illegal downloading and the new “singles instead of albums” culture. And now, here I am, laughing at all the naysayers, all the way to the bank.
Suddenly, I’m pinged with the thought of how supportive and awesome Josh and Henn have always been, which, of course, makes me curious about Henn’s whereabouts through all this. I turn around and spot him at the pool table, happily playing a game of partners pool with three strangers. It’s so fucking Henn, I can’t help smiling about it.
“Come on,” I say to Josh. “Grab as many of these drinks as you can carry, and let’s shoot some pool. I’m in the mood to kick some ass.”
“Well, you’re not gonna kick mine. I’ve been sinking balls like a pro since we got here.”
“Well, of course, I didn’t mean your ass, dumbass. I meant Henny’s. Come on.”
As I start wrangling glasses off the bar, my gaze finds Georgina’s on the other end of the bar. Instantly, my blood flash-boils at the way she’s looking at me—like she wants to suck my dick. I smile, and Georgina looks away, her face blushing crimson. And, just this fast, I know a certain something about Little Miss Georgina Ricci... I’m not sure how much of my exchange with the blonde Georgina overheard, but I’m pretty sure it was enough for her to realize I’m maybe more of an asshole than she’d previously thought... Which is okay. Because, based on the heated look Georgina just flashed me before looking away, she very much likes assholes. Oh yeah, based on that scorching hot smolder, Little Miss Sexy-as-Fuck Georgina Ricci likes assholes... a whole fucking lot.
Chapter 12
Georgina
I put my phone down and sneak another peek at Reed across the crowded bar. For the past forty-five minutes, while I’ve been busy working, he’s been playing pool with his two buddies. And looking scrumptious while he does. I shouldn’t feel this attracted to the guy. Not when I’ve got a strong hunch he’s actually a big ol’ prick. A charming one, for sure. A sexy one. But a prick nonetheless. And yet, I can’t help myself. My attraction to him isn’t
admirable. But it’s primal and raw and, apparently, not going to subside until I scratch my freaking itch.
A customer flags me down, and I peel my eyes off Reed’s hard ass to tend to him. When I’m done, I glance at Reed again, salivate over his ass for a bit—also, his forearms, biceps, and profile—and then grab my phone to find out if Alessandra has replied to my most recent text. She has.
Alessandra: It’s not RR’s fault that girl cried. All he said is he doesn’t accept unsolicited demos. Which, btw, comes as no surprise to me. (I told you so.)
Me: That’s all I HEARD him say to her. After I walked away, he said a lot more I couldn’t hear. And, whatever it was, it made her run away crying. Is that what he’s going to do to me when I give him your demo? Make me cry?
Alessandra: Not if he wants to have sex with you, which he obviously does.
Me: He should be nice to people, whether he wants to sleep with them or not.
Alessandra: He can’t take every demo shoved at him, G. He’d suffocate underneath an avalanche of plastic.
Me: Well, I’m going to make him take yours, if it’s the last thing I do. The only question is... WHEN should I bring it up? Tonight? And if so, before or after we have sex? Or should I gamble that I’ll see him when he gets back from NYC and do it then? Gaaaah!!! DECISIONS, DECISIONS!!!
Alessandra: Follow your gut. As long as you promise not to prostitute yourself to help me, I’m happy.
Me: Dude. If you could see his ass right now, you’d know my desire to sleep with RR has absolutely nothing to do with you and your demo.
It’s the truth. In fact, having Alessandra’s demo in my purse has become the bane of my existence. An albatross around my neck. Although, of course, I’d never tell that to Alessandra. My phone buzzes again, and I look down.
Alessandra: Send me an ass photo, please.
Chuckling, I take yet another surreptitious photo of Reed, this one while he’s bending over the pool table, and send it off to my stepsister. And then I glance at the clock. It’s two minutes until midnight. Holy crap. Is Reed really planning to do something at midnight, like he said before? He did call me Cinderella, after all, but that was almost an hour ago... My phone buzzes again.
Alessandra: Dat ass! OMG!
Me: I know. I’ve been wiping drool off my chin all night. Hey, why aren’t you sleeping? It’s almost 3:00 there.
Alessandra: I couldn’t sleep now if my life depended on it. I’m dying to see what’s going to happen at midnight, Cinderella.
Me: Probably nothing, considering RR is no Prince Charming.
“Georgie,” a male voice says, making me look up from my phone. It’s Bernie, the owner of the bar... accompanied by none other than Reed and Reed’s two friends.
“Oh, hi,” I say lamely. I glance at the clock. Midnight on the button. “I didn’t know you were coming into the bar tonight, Bernie.”
Bernie claps Josh on his shoulder. “I wasn’t planning on it, but then I got a call from this guy. Hey, Marcus! Come here!”
As we await Marcus, I glance at Reed, and the look of molten lust on his face sends arousal whooshing between my legs.
“What’s up?” Marcus says.
Bernie introduces Reed and his friends, and explains that Josh used to work here many moons ago. “Reed wants to see Josh behind the bar again, for old time’s sake. So, he’s offered to pay for everyone’s drinks until closing—at double our usual prices, just in case Josh is rusty.” Bernie grins at Marcus and me. “He’s going to tip each of you four hundred bucks, since you’re both unexpectedly getting the boot for the rest of the night.”
“The boot?” Marcus asks.
“You’re off the clock,” Bernie says. “Stick around and play pool or go home. Whatever you want. You’re getting paid not to work.”
“Wow, that’s generous,” I say, my eyes locked with Reed’s. Holy hell, he’s looking at me like I’m a sizzling steak on a plate, and he’s a man with a fork and sharp knife. I keep my tone prim and proper. “Thank you, Mr. Rivers.”
Reed smirks. “My pleasure, Georgina.”
Bernie nudges Josh’s arm. “I’ll work alongside you, in case you’ve lost a step since your glory days. Come on.”
“Lost a step?” Josh says playfully, following Bernie behind the bar. “I’m still in my prime, old man.”
Laughing, the two men shoo Marcus and me out of the well, while Reed’s other friend, the nerdy one, takes a stool. And, suddenly, I find myself standing on the customers’ side of the bar with Marcus and Reed. Which isn’t awkward at all.
Marcus looks suspicious as he assesses Reed. “I assume you did this because you’re trying to impress Georgie.”
“Marcus!” I say, shocked.
Marcus looks at me, his eyes blazing. “He’s been ogling you all night, Georgie. Even when he’s supposedly been playing pool, he hasn’t stopped peeking at you.”
My body zings with arousal, which is probably not the result Marcus was going for. Well, well, well. As I’ve been covertly ogling Reed from across the bar, he’s been covertly ogling me?
Marcus turns to Reed. “I don’t know who you are, but Georgina isn’t going to fall at your feet, just because you’re tossing out hundred-dollar bills like candy. Georgie’s smart. Special. She’s worth a hundred of the women you’re probably used to picking up in bars by flashing your money clip.”
“Marcus, stop,” I say, putting my hand on his forearm. “I appreciate you looking out for me, but I don’t need your protection this time. Truthfully, I’ve been ogling Reed all night, too. And not because of his money clip, but because we had great chemistry when we talked.”
Marcus looks crestfallen. A knight toppled from his horse. The good guy, once again, not getting the girl.
My heart aching for Marcus, I turn to Reed. “Marcus is right about one thing, though. Your penchant for throwing around hundred-dollar bills is a bit much. Thank you for your generosity tonight. We both appreciate it. But if you keep throwing big money at me, I’m going to start wondering if you think I’m a stripper, rather than a bartender—which isn’t something I want to be wondering.”
Reed bites back a smile. “Sorry if I’ve offended you. Money was really tight for me in college. I waited tables and counted my lucky stars whenever I got a big tip. I just wanted to pay it forward.”
Oh.
Well.
That was a pretty nice response.
And now I feel like an ungrateful bitch.
“Oh, yeah, thank you again,” I say lamely. “Like I said, Marcus and I both appreciate your generosity a lot.” I glare at Marcus, feeling annoyed he pushed me into making that embarrassing speech. “Right, Marcus? Reed has been incredibly generous, and we both appreciate it.”
Marcus presses his lips together, clearly pissed.
I pat Marcus’s shoulder. “I’m good, okay? I’m going to head off to enjoy this unexpected time off now. You should do the same.”
Marcus looks heartbroken, but, after visibly recalibrating, he tells me to have a good time and stalks away with his big tips and unexpected two hours off.
“Are you two more than friends?” Reed asks.
“No.”
“Much to his disappointment, I’m sure.” He rubs his hands together. “But enough about him. Are you ready to head to my castle now, Cinderella? The clock has struck midnight, and your carriage—”
“Georgie!”
Oh, for the love of fuck, what now?
I turn around and palm my forehead. It’s Bryce McKellar. The football star and Cling-on. The momma’s boy who supposedly started believing in love at first sight when he saw me. He’s here. And striding toward me with a bright smile on his face.
“Bryce,” I gasp out, my heart rate spiking. “What are you doing here?”
Bryce hugs my stiff body. “You said you were working tonight, so I came by to say hi. I thought we could hang out when you get off.”
I bristle. Bryce already asked me to hang out after work tonig
ht, when I bumped into him on-campus, and I told him it wasn’t going to work out. But he came here, anyway?
Bryce motions vaguely behind him. “I’m here with some teammates, so don’t mind me until then. I can see you’re busy... ” His eyes drift to Reed and light up. “Hey, you’re Reed Rivers!”
“And you’re Bryce McKellar,” Reed replies smoothly, extending his hand. “I’ve got season tickets. Congrats on last season. I can’t wait for this upcoming one.”
“Thanks. Wow. My sister is obsessed with you, man. What a trip.”
“Your sister’s a musician?”
“An amazing singer-songwriter. She plays piano. She’s two years younger than me—going to USC, actually.”
“Oh no. Yours is a house divided.”
Bryce chuckles. “Yeah, she’s a filthy traitor. But we still love her. Just barely, though.” He chuckles. “Hey, how can I get my sister’s music to you? You’d go crazy for it. She’s the next Beyoncé.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t accept unsolicited demos, Bryce. No exceptions. But, as a favor to you, and only you, so don’t tell anyone, I’ll check out your sister’s Instagram when I get a free minute.”
“Really? Wow. Thanks!”
“Your sister’s music is posted there?”
“Yeah. She always posts her stuff there.”
Bryce tells Reed his sister’s handle while Reed makes a note on his phone. And then, Reed shakes Bryce’s hand and says, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hot date with a gorgeous woman.”
“So do I, as a matter of fact,” Bryce replies, winking at me. “It’s been great meeting you.”
“You, too. Kick ass next season.”
“I will.”
There’s a beat. During which I feel like I’m going to pass out. Or barf. Or both. And then, both men say, “Georgina?” at the exact same time—a strange turn of events that would be comical, if it weren’t so damned mortifying.