I roll my eyes, earning an even more curious look from the guy.
“Not a fan of tequila?” he asks, palms clearly itching to take the bottle off me if that’s the case.
“It’s not that,” I grumble. “Let me guess, this is from Donovan Dunn?”
He nods. “It was delivered just a few minutes ago. He’s got some good taste. That tequila is the real deal. I never carry stuff like that here. All anyone orders is the cheap stuff.”
I take in the glistening, clear liquid inside the bottle. Though I’m disappointed my billionaire best buddy is trying to buy my forgiveness because he bailed on me tonight, it’s not like I’m going to let tequila this grand go to waste.
“So,” I start slowly, eyeing the bar owner, “you like tequila?”
Again, the man nods. Perfect. Wet his whistle with this stuff and he’ll be recommending our band to everyone who will listen.
“Logan,” Mick’s southern drawl interrupts as the announcer quickly approaches. I’m relieved to be reminded of the bar owner’s name before embarrassing myself having to ask him again. “I don’t care how much the crowd likes this band, I am not staying for three more encores like I did last time. You never pay me when I stay extra—”
Logan holds up a hand, cutting Mick off, his eyes never leaving the expensive tequila bottle. “I’ll give you whatever you want, Mick, but you’re walking away right now,” he snaps.
Mick arches an eyebrow but nods, finally seeming to notice me standing there. He appraises me coolly then shrugs. “Nice show,” he calls as he walks away.
For some reason, I get the feeling that’s a distinct compliment coming from him.
“About that tequila?” Logan urges when Mick vanishes back around the curtain to entertain the audience a bit more while the minutes of our intermission tick slowly away.
“Here’s to you, Logan. And many more shows at your bar.”
He answers with a smirk, the first hint of a smile I’ve seen on his face tonight. “Reggie was right about you guys. You’re the real deal, just like this tequila.”
Chuckling, I clink the plastic cup against Logan’s. I drink deeply before he gives a faint cough and rifles something out of his back pocket. I savor the taste of the expensive booze, almost startled by just how smooth it is. Then again, Donovan only buys the best.
“Here,” Logan says, withdrawing an envelope from his back pocket and holding it out toward me. “This came too. I almost forgot.”
I take it, noticing my name written on the front in familiar handwriting.
It’s funny, the ways both Donovan and I have changed over the years. We’ve known one another since elementary school, becoming fast friends in our youth. Even as our paths began to diverge as we grew older, we still managed to hold a friendship together. While he was growing a successful business that brought him billions, I formed a rock band in my garage. It might not have brought me quite the same profit as Donovan’s business, but at least I could be bothered to show up and support my friends when they needed it.
As much as we’ve both changed, our handwriting styles are still the same. While mine is wild and scrawling, his is as neat as a typewriter.
“Are you going to open it?” Logan asks idly, his eyes interested.
Frowning, I glide my thumb under the seal of the letter and pop it open. Always a fan of showing off, Donovan had gone the extra mile and sealed the note with one of those wax dots like he’s some great empire’s monarch or something.
Typical . . . and kind of badass too.
The note is a short one, which I’m grateful for. I only have moments before I have to rush out onto the stage again.
“Easy E,” Donovan printed neatly. I could all but hear him chuckling with the use of my elementary school nickname. I’d gotten it from my easy attitude and tendency to chase after girls with the determination I should’ve put toward my studies. It’s a habit I’ve yet to shake.
What can I say? I love the ladies. All of them.
Donovan didn’t use the nickname regularly. He must be feeling pretty guilty about not showing up today. My eyes dart down impatiently to the bottom of the note.
“Leave them wanting more,” Donovan concluded simply.
It was a familiar statement coming from him. He liked to throw it in my face when I was chasing a girl around like a puppy. He always said I tried too hard to impress people, and that if I just reeled it back a bit, I’d have them chasing me instead. But what does he know? He has everything he’s ever wanted.
Irritated, I roll my eyes and toss the letter in a nearby garbage, pouring Logan and myself another shot. I make this one a double.
“I’d ask you if you’re warmed up, but I already know the answer to that,” Logan teases lightly as we clink our plastic cups together one last time.
Without a word, I chug the alcohol, letting it dull my disappointment. I should’ve known Donovan wouldn’t make it. I tell myself it’s not a big deal, but it is. I always show up when he needs me. For once it would be nice to have someone in the crowd just for me, especially in a venue where the people had been expecting someone else.
“You ready to rock, Eric King?” Alex asks, bright eyes glowing with the comforted sheen of alcohol.
I would’ve been worried about his playing had I not already known all three of us play better plastered. It made us loose enough to truly feel the music.
“Hell yeah! Let’s pound out some tunes and then some ladies.” James interjects with a whoop. His cynical detachment has been dissolved by his time at the bar.
I nod in agreement trying to muster up some enthusiasm, but Donovan’s words still remain etched in the back of my mind. Something about it stays with me, curling like icy claws around my stomach.
All my life I’ve chased my emotions away with alcohol. It was easier to avoid my painful past and just be the fun guy my friends expected. So what if I spent my time chasing women and this music dream of mine? But maybe Donovan is right. What do I have to show for it? Maybe it’s time to change.
This is my first real step toward being a rockstar. If that’s really my dream, maybe I need to stop falling over every single pretty girl that glances my way. Maybe I need to put down the bottle and face my fears. Maybe that’s what’s been holding me back all along.
Chapter 4
Morgan
Stacy’s arm is hooked around mine as we push our way toward the bar at the front of the seedy rock venue. I’ve never been in a place like this. The closest I’ve come was when I did a photoshoot where I had to dance around on a bar Coyote Ugly style. On the shoot the grunge atmosphere had been manufactured, but here every layer of grit is authentic. Strangely, I kind of liked it—the dim lights and the thud of the music pounding through the speakers. I let it slither under my skin and drive away the stress of my day, making my hips sway without effort.
My roommate and I are entirely out of place amongst the sea of dark shirts, ripped jeans and leather jackets—not that I mind standing out. The more attention I get, the better. I like to feel eyes on me. I like to feel like I’m the center of attention and the life of the party. The way we’re dressed, we’re definitely getting our share of curious looks.