“Says the guy who’s been locked up in his room or stuck at the library twenty-four-seven. Maybe you just need to get out more if my raccoon eyes are threatening to knock you on your ass.”
With another dark laugh, he reaches for my cup of juice and chugs half the damn thing before setting it next to my plate. “Trust me. I’ve tried that already. Didn’t take.”
“Liar.” Shoving him in the shoulder, I roll my eyes then finish off my juice before he can steal the rest of it.
And even though most of our conversations are filled with meaningless banter, I’ve missed it. I’ve missed him. But I’m not going to be a distraction for the guy when he’s meant for so much more.
Even if he’s practically begging me to be.
Nope. He deserves more than that.
15
Reese
A few hours later, my blood is thrumming through my veins as Gibson pulls up to SeaBird and parks near the back entrance.
“You ready?” he asks. The car’s engine stops rumbling as he takes out the key.
“I think so?” Fidgeting with my slicked-back high ponytail, I glance in the side mirror then brush back a few of my flyaways.
“You’ll do great. And you look fine, by the way. Stop stressing. The people who work here are a good bunch. Well, other than TJ, but I doubt you’ll have to worry about him. He’s terrified of Milo, so you should be in the clear.”
“Everyone’s terrified of Milo,” I point out with a laugh.
“And they have every reason to be. Now, let’s get going, Reese’s Pieces. You don’t want to be late on your first day.”
Wiping my sweaty palms along my black jeans, I open the passenger door, and we make our way inside.
The place is already crowded, and it’s not even six o’clock yet. Gibson leads me down the dark hall and to the back room, weaving in between the people waiting in line for the bathrooms like a champ.
“Is it always this crazy?” I ask.
“You’ve seen the place.”
“Well, yeah, but I’ve never been here before nine.”
“The band usually plays their own stuff in their first set, and the second set is usually covers of other artists,” he explains while pointing out the olive green lockers at the back of the small, square break room. “This one’s yours, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Once my purse is safely tucked away, I turn back to him. “So what you’re telling me is that the band is pretty good.”
He laughs. “Meh. They’re all right.”
“Mm-hmm. And do people know you’re the genius behind the music?”
Narrowing his eyes, he scans the empty break room. “Not exactly, and I’d prefer we keep it that way.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not one for the limelight.”
“Is there a reason for that?” I prod.
Something else grabs his attention behind me, and he grins like the Cheshire cat. “Oh, look at that…a pretty new girl who’s lost.” He winks at me, then calls out, “Hey, can I help you?”
The blonde reminds me of a mouse as she skids to a halt in the doorway and smiles shyly back at us. “Um, hi. I’m looking for Ashton or…”––she checks her phone––“Gibbs? Gibson?”
“Are you the other new girl?” Gibbs questions, his earlier interest morphing into…annoyance?
Her brows pinch––probably because she can feel the same shift I can––before she nods. “Yes, that’s me.”
Striding toward her, he offers his hand. “I’m Gibbs.”
She tucks a gossip magazine with Monet Cavier’s face printed on the cover and the title Washed Up and Wanting beneath her arm, then takes his hand. “Hi. I’m Dove.”
“Dove? Like the bird?”
Her cheeks heat. “Um, yes?”
“Huh.” He cocks his head to the side and scans her up and down. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?”
As her gaze drops to the ground, she tucks her white-blonde hair behind her ear. “I don’t think so. I’ve only been here once, and that was for my interview with Chuck, so…”
“Huh,” he grunts again. “Interesting. You must just have one of those average faces.”
She peeks up at him with crystal blue eyes that are unique, and gorgeous, and definitely not average.
“Uh…thank you?” she returns, clearly just as confused as I am.
Realizing the backhanded compliment he just dished out, Gibson clears his throat but doesn’t correct himself. “Your locker’s over here.” He motions to the bottom locker next to mine.
Uh, why is Gibson being a jerk?
Hell, she caught Gibson’s attention with a single glance, and the guy could have any girl he wants. She definitely pulls off the whole innocent girl next door vibe, though I doubt she knows it. Which makes me like her instantly.
“I’m Reese, by the way,” I introduce myself to her in an attempt to salvage the uncomfortable situation as she carefully sets her things into the open locker.
Peeking up at me, that same white smile nearly splits her face in two.
“Dove. Hi,” she returns with a small wave.
Damn, she’s adorable.
Like a little puppy you want to pat on the head and take home with you. I’ve never really gotten along with girls. I’ve just never been one for drama, but I might be willing to make an exception for this one.
“Hi,” I repeat. “So, Monet Cavier’s washed up and wanting, huh?” I dip my chin toward her magazine.
“What? Oh. I have no idea.” She grimaces, then explains, “It’s my sister’s magazine. She left it in my car, and I’m not a clutter person, so in the garbage, it shall go.” She demonstrates by tossing the magazine in the garbage can next to the set of lockers.
“Wanna come clean my car out?” I quip. “‘Cause, it could use a little extra love.”
“I mean if you need help––”
“I’m kidding.”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course. Sorry, I guess I’m just a little nervous.”
“Same,” I admit. “It’s my first day too.”
Her light blue eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “Oh, so you’re the other new girl?”
“Yup. That’s me. I’ve heard we’ll be training together. Have you ever worked at a bar before?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. This is definitely a first for me.”
“Me too. The closest experience I have is when I waitressed at a diner, and that was for like two weeks before a different job landed in my lap.”
“All right, ladies,” Gibson interrupts. “I gotta get to work. Follow me out to the bar, and I’ll pass you off to Ashton, who will show you the ropes. But if you have any questions, come find me. I’ll help you out.”
“Okay,” Dove murmurs, her pale complexion burning from Gibbs’ offer.
I think someone has an admirer.
“Yo, Gibbs!” a voice yells as a familiar head pops through the doorway from the hall. He’s one of the members from Broken Vows, Fender’s and Gibson’s band. The drummer, I think? With long, curly red hair and a big, bushy beard, he reminds me of a Viking more than a rock star, but his eyes are kind, and his usual smile is contagious, yet somehow absent as his gaze finds Gibbs’.