“You think I’d be careless enough to have you drinking on street level?” He leans into the car, thanks the driver, then closes the door. “We’re on the roof.” He jerks his chin skyward and places a hand at the curve of my back, directing me toward the building. “You’re going to love it.”
“And you said your friend owns this place?”
“Manages,” he corrects. “Zack works most nights.” He leads me toward the automatic doors and into the lobby.
Again, there’s no signage. No hint of a bar anywhere in the building.
Do I have this situation all wrong? Is Linden’s condo inside? Could his playful smile be hiding a misconception that our explicit lyric session is more than just work?
He directs me to the elevators and I frantically scan the directory listing for a familiar business name. For anything that might be linked to a drinking establishment. But the elevator doors open before I find a glimpse of evidence.
He steps inside and waits at the control panel. “Are you coming?”
“Umm…I think maybe—”
“Look.” He points a thumb over his shoulder to the framed poster on the wall behind him. “The bar is real.”
I squint, reading the details. Pint’s Rooftop Bar. Happy Hour 5-6. Canapes. Reservations recommended.
I sigh with relief.
“And here I was thinking we were friends.” He snickers.
“We are.” I step into the elevator. “But I haven’t made great choices with those in the past either.”
“I’ve got you, okay?” He presses the button for the top floor and the doors close. “This place is quiet. It’s mainly a hangout for people who work in the building. Zack isn’t allowed to promote it because mass popularity would be frowned upon. Nobody wants drunken revelers messing up the reputation of the businesses inside.”
“That makes sense.” I guess.
The elevator ascends with a jolt.
“That’s also why it’s my favorite place to relax. It’s not completely free from prying eyes, but it’s the closest I’ve found around these parts.”
I focus on the poster with its spectacular chandelier beside a window overlooking an equally impressive Richmond night skyline until the elevator stops and the doors open.
“Come on.” He leads the way into the sunlit hall.
I trail a foot behind, taking in my surroundings—the polished black tiles that glisten beneath my feet, the wall of glass displaying a stunning bar with an unending view.
Chatter carries from inside, the gentle hum of conversation daunting me.
I was meant to be going out tonight with the band members and their respective partners. This shouldn’t be any different.
But it is.
Walking into a bar without security or a reservation is the exact opposite of having a private room arranged in a glitzy restaurant with a highly curated, security-escorted entrance and exit.
I enter the establishment a step behind Linden, using him as a shield.
People sit at booths along the wall of glass. More are scattered amongst the round tables in the middle of the room, seated on stools. Very few pay us attention.
It’s classy. Clean. The chandelier from the elevator poster hangs in the middle of the room, the glistening lights sparkling off the immaculately clean furniture.
“Lee?” The middle-aged guy behind the bar drops his dish rag to the counter. “What the fuck are you doing here, you piece of shit?”
I shrink into myself, my throat drying.
“I felt like drinking shitty beer,” Linden replies, louder than necessary, making a scene. “So, there’s no better place than here, right?”
The bartender grins and stalks around the bar, both men meeting in the middle with a laugh and a rough hug.
Great. They have one of those relationships. The smack talk and condescension is way too familiar thanks to Mason and his band.
“You should’ve told me you were coming.” The bartender claps Linden on the back. “I would’ve ordered more canapés, you fat fuck.”
I chance a glance toward the hall. It’s not too late to leave. I could start for the elevator and not look back.
Any minute now, Linden will be recognized, then so will I. Pictures will be taken. Autographs demanded. All while the rumor mill starts to churn.
“And who is this pretty lady who is most definitely out of your league?” The bartender looks me up and down, his eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”
“This is Sidney Higgins, songstress extraordinaire, soon-to-be wife of none other than Mason fucking Lynch, and most certainly out of my league.”
The bartender glances from me to Linden and back again. “For real?”
“For real.” Linden inches closer to me while I desperately scope the room, making sure my name-drop wasn’t overheard. “Zack, this is Sidney. Sidney, this is Zack.”
I clear my throat, caught between relief that nobody has rushed us and apprehension at how that will change at any second.
“It’s a pleasure, Sid.” Zack doesn’t make a move to shake my hand. I suspect he knows I’m a heartbeat away from fleeing. “Let me get you a drink. What would you like?” He backtracks toward the bar. “Wine? Spirits? Maybe a cocktail?”
“Make her something potent.” Linden follows. “She isn’t a fan of society, and it doesn’t help that this place is a bit of a hellhole.”
“It is not.” My feet act as if they’re caught in cement. “Your bar is beautiful. I just…”
“No explanation necessary.” Zack grabs a bottle of vodka from the shelf behind him, then a cocktail shaker from under the counter. “Go get settled in Lee’s booth. I’ll make sure nobody bothers you. The drinks won’t take long.” He glances at Linden. “I assume you want the usual.”
“Always.” Linden dips his head toward the far corner. “Follow me.” He leads the way across the room, not paying attention to the people who hush their chatter as we pass.
I try not to make eye contact.
I already feel exposed. A target. Yet other than curious stares and a few silenced whispers, nobody salivates over our presence like Mason’s groupies usually do.
Maybe I’m paranoid.
It’s not as if I know how to act in public anymore.
Linden stops before the farthest booth in the corner, the cushioned benches and polished wooden table cordoned off by a flimsy rope barrier held up by two thigh-high metal poles. “Your throne, milady.” He unhooks the rope and draws it back to wait for me to take a seat. “It’s our own little oasis.”
“Is it always cordoned off?”
“Yep.” He hooks the rope back onto the pole and slides into the opposite side of the booth. “Not that it’s necessary. This place doesn’t get a lot of new clientele and the regulars know I’m not to be treated like a side-show. Besides, I’m pretty sure they don’t like me a whole hell of a lot.”
“Why would you think that?”
He eyes me thoughtfully, as if determining whether he should tell the truth. “Because when I come here, I’m not a persona. I’m me. As you saw with Zack when we arrived. I talk shit. Sometimes I get myself in trouble. But at least I’m me. So, you don’t need to worry. Worst-case scenario, we might get one or two people asking for an autograph.”