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Nodding, Riley shook his hand. “Riley Shaughnessy.”
“I haven’t seen you guys playing anywhere before. Have you been in L.A. long?”
“About three months.” He eyed Mick warily. “Are you some sort of scout or something?”
With a casual shrug, he said, “Or something.”
“Yeah, uh...look, we’ve got to get this crap secured, so...”
“How about I buy you guys a couple of drinks?” Mick suggested, suddenly feeling like the world’s biggest creeper.
And from the look on Riley’s face, that was his opinion too.
“Look, I’d like to know more about your music and curious if anyone’s representing you?”
The bassist, Dylan, walked over, resting his arm on Riley’s shoulder. “Representing us?” he asked with a laugh. “Dude, no one’s coming into bars like this. Although, this is actually a step up from the place we played at last week, so...”
Riley looked a little sheepish. “We figured every couple of weeks we’ll move up until we get to play places like The Whiskey or the Viper Room or even The Roxy.” Then he laughed softly. “At least...we hope that’s how it works.”
“How what works?” Julian, the drummer, asked as he joined them and eyed Mick with a hint a menace.
“Moving up the L.A. ladder,” Dylan said. “We need to pay our dues, but hopefully we can pay them fast."
Matty Reed walked by with an amp and glared at the lot of them. “Yeah, no worries. I got this shit.” He muttered a string of colorful curses before turning back to them. “It would be nice if I didn’t have to do all the heavy lifting, you know.”
This was his opening...
“You shouldn’t have to do any lifting,” Mick said confidently. “You should be playing bigger clubs—like The Whiskey—and have people moving all your equipment for you.” Then he stood a little straighter. “And I can make that happen for you.”
Four pairs of wide eyes stared back at him before Julian snorted and turned away, Matt went back to grab the last of his guitars, and Dylan wandered off.
Only Riley remained.
“You seriously think you can get us into The Whiskey?” he asked cautiously.
“Absolutely.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s the catch?”
“Honestly? It won’t happen overnight, but together, we can make it happen sooner than you doing it on your own.” Pausing, he considered his next words. “Give me three months, Riley Shaughnessy, and I’ll make you a star.”
Riley snorted with disbelief. “Dude, seriously?”
But Mick didn’t take offense. This was the moment he’d been working toward.
“You stick with me, and I can guarantee you that one day, you’ll play the Hollywood Bowl.” He smiled. “So what do you say? Can I buy you a drink and we’ll talk about it?”
Glancing around at his bandmates, he seemed to make his decision. With a smile of his own, he said, “Make it some burgers at the diner and you’re on.”
They shook hands and made arrangements to meet at the diner around the block in an hour.
Walking back through the bar and out onto the strip, Mick fought the urge to high-five himself and jump up and down victoriously. As he began to walk down the street, he pulled out his cell phone and thought about how there was only one person he wanted to share this news with. This was a big night—the one he’d been working toward for so damn long—and he needed to share the news with someone.
A quick glance at his watch showed it was a little after five a.m. on the East Coast. It was possibly too early to call, but...
He did.
His heart was racing like mad and he wished he was sharing the news in person rather than from three-thousand miles away on a dirty street corner on a cheap cell phone.
