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"The audacity," she murmurs through clenched teeth, acting like I'm putting her out by asking for money.
Hello, it says cover charge right behind my head, bish. Can't you read? But I remain as professional as I can when she continues her tirade on the ethics of our bar. The audacity is correct. Fuck.
I want to bang my head against the wall and crack my skull open when she murmurs more angry words under her breath, digging into her tiny purse. Her nose crinkles when she takes out a few hundred dollar bills, looks through them, and finally finds a ten in the stack. And she was complaining? Jesus. She has enough money in her purse to feed Ma and me for six months and pay all our bills. She thrusts it in my hands with a sneer and holds out her hand for me to stamp.
I raise a brow, stamping her hand. "And your ID?" I ask again, earning another huff.
"I'm twenty-one," she says, digging in her purse again. "You should know that," she hisses again, finally acknowledging we also knew each other from high school.
Sure, high school was big, but when you're a punching bag for half the school, everyone knows who you are. And she's no different, seeing as she was the ringleader of it all.
"Yeah, well…this is a bar, and there's the sign to enter for the show," I say in a bored tone, pointing to the sign behind me. "You either show your ID or get an underage stamp, so they know not to serve you any booze." I shrug when she scoffs again, throwing her pretty blonde hair over her shoulder.
"Here," she grumbles again, flashing me her ID, and confirming the bitch is twenty-one.
"Thanks a bunch," I say sarcastically with a sugary, sweet grin.
Stay professional. Stay fucking professional.
This earns me a mean scowl when I throw her ID back at her, and it falls to the floor. Her blue eyes connect with mine with disdain; it would kill me if it could—cue eye roll.
Was it a classy move? Hell no. But I'm tired of these grown adults insulting me and giving me attitude because of where I live and work. Grow up, already. This isn't high school anymore.
Besides, it’s not my fault my father decided to kick us out and leave us destitute when he found a new woman to put his wandering schlong in. Gross—shudders—I shouldn't think about my father's dick. Like ever. Also, fuck him for leaving us poorer than shit, forcing us to return to my mom’s hometown without a penny to our name. What we've made here is all our own. We didn't need his help, and we never will.
I wave her along, getting the same reaction from her friends behind her. And the people behind them. And so on and so forth. Where’s the common decency these days, people? The compassion? The respect for humankind?
Nowhere, that's where. Why would there be any here in Central City, Illinois? We're the poor people, the people breaking their backs to earn our money. At the same time, they live in huge mansions and turn their pointy noses down at us from the outskirts of the same damn town just because of our financial differences.
My wandering gaze lands on Kieran again, singing his life away into the microphone. A dreamy sigh slips between my parted lips. Sometimes I miss the boy who told me everything would be okay.
I wonder if I ever crossed his mind. Probably not. Now he lives the good life with his new stepdad in a mansion overlooking the lake. What I wouldn't give to have a conversation with him, or you know, a good romp in the back seat of my car. That would suffice, too. Because he may have been my bestie as a kid, but I always harbored an insatiable crush on the tall, dark, and handsome singer.
Ma always said I shouldn't touch poisonous things, but I can't seem to stay away from the bad boys who will bring me nothing but ruin. Getting Kieran Knight in the backseat of my car for a quickie is nothing out of the ordinary for my toxic ass. In fact, it's right on schedule.
It's happened a few times with other bands that passed through. They gave me the best two hours of my life–or, let's be honest, the best night of my life–and then they were on their way out the door with a thank you, ma’am. That’s the beauty of it, though. I got mine. They got theirs—multiple times. Threesomes. Foursomes. Hell, even some fivesomes. It didn't fucking matter. Freedom liberated every inch of me at their hands. Oh, and the orgasms were nice, too. Nothing beats multiple partners at one time. Some call it being a whore, but I call it sexually freeing. Fuck the labels!
Then the sun would come up, stream through my car window, or hotel room that accommodated us for the night, and they'd move on to the next city. We didn't exchange names or numbers. It was just a simple roll in the hay. And the best part? No expectations of a relationship in the future. I have way too much going on to be in any sort of relationship. Besides, I’d never date a fucking musician. Fuck them? You bet your ass. Relationship? No. The last thing I'd want is a relationship with flighty rock stars who are unreliable. Good in the sack, sure. But on the boyfriend, girlfriend end? Nope. Thank God for birth control and condoms, or I'd be tied to them for life.
If there’s one thing my ma taught me, it was to stay away from rock stars. They bring you nothing but heartache.
Now, if only my heart would continue to listen to that sage advice instead of falling head over heels…. Thankfully that shit has only happened once. Past best friends don’t count.
I smile when my best friend, Odette, comes bouncing into view, wrinkling her button nose at the crowd forming at the front of the small stage. Her beautiful curls bounce with every step she takes, giving her an angelic presence.
Darkness would have taken over my entire existence if I didn't have her in my life. She moved into Kieran's old apartment after he left, and we've been inseparable ever since. Her family is my second family, not by blood, but by our bond. Her mom, Korrine, helped raise me into the woman I am, constantly taking me in when my mom had to work nights. Ode's brother, Leon, is like my brother and treats me as such.
"Girl," she says, as her dark eyes scan the screaming crowd. "What is up with all the...the…." She scrunches her nose, looking back at me with her mouth gaping. "Damn suburban moms and dads in training. Is that girl wearing pearls?" She gapes, pointing to the mean girl from earlier. “By God, it's fucking Tessa, and she's wearing pearls,” she murmurs, looking at me with wide eyes.
"You think she clutches them when her boyfriend suggests booty sex?" I snort when she cackles, drawing the attention of the devil herself.
Once again, Tessa's face contorts into a sneer, twisting her gorgeous face into something ugly. Eventually, her eyes drift back to the man candy on stage with a heavy swoon, and dear God, she fucking clutches her pearls as she throws her head back and sings at the top of her lungs, knowing every lyric.
“How’s the first day as the head bitch in charge going?” Ode asks, leaning in to talk over the loud music. "HBIC in da house!" she hoots, shoving my shoulder playfully with a proud grin.
A laugh bursts from me, joy filling my being. I've worked long and hard since I was fifteen to get to this point. I've scrubbed toilets, removed trash, washed tables, and cleaned the floors. Slowly, I've worked toward the manager's position over the years, even at a young age. Some consider a nineteen-year-old manager impossible, but I've bled for this place. And Booker, the owner of Dead End, has always had my back like a father. Years before, he dated my mom, and I got to know him that way. Booker was the best boyfriend she ever had. They may have only lasted two years, but he forever cemented himself into my life. By age fifteen, I was begging on his doorstep for a job to start making my own money. Ma did her best, but it was never enough to keep the heat on. So, with reluctance, he started me out small, and here I am today–the manager. And my specialty? Bringing in bands from around the area draws more crowds and money for us.
I pull my loud best friend next to the podium, allowing the rest of the patrons to pile in. I give her a thumbs up, waving more people in line forward.
