“He married an unstable woman and left the band,” I point out.
“Semantics. If we make it twenty plus years, I won’t care at that point.”
“But you care now?” I ask.
She nods. “I do. You’re the reason I went to Elle in the first place. I’ve seen you play. Hell, I just watched you play with Liam Page like it was no big deal.”
“It really isn’t.” Especially when you’ve known him all your life.
“See that’s my point. You’re the laid-back-don’t-give-a-shit guy I need. I need someone to keep me in check.”
“I’m not a babysitter,” I tell her.
“No, you’re a stellar musician who I’m begging to join my band. I want to co-write with you, sing back up to you and you to me. I want to jam out in my garage and watch you shred a Les Paul.”
I sigh and run my hand over my beanie. “You seem to know a lot about me.”
“I did my research. Please.” She squeezes my hand, which I hadn’t realized she’s still holding, until now. “I need you.”
Just as she says that, Nola walks by. This time, there isn’t a smile. She doesn’t show me her pretty eyes, and I don’t like it. I pull my hand away from Dana’s and set it in my lap.
“I’ll think about it.” I get up, leaving her at the table and seek out Nola. I find her at a table, taking an order and wait.
When she approaches me, I step in front of her and lean toward her ear. “What time do you get off?”
“Two,” she whisper-yells.
I don’t say anything else as I walk away. It’s the only thing I can do. Being that close to her and feeling her body press against mine, even slightly, caused a stirring below the belt. I could be that guy, the one who asks her to come out back, but I’m not, and never will be.
16
Eleanora
Did that just h
appen? Did this extremely sexy, very hot, gorgeous rocker of a man just ask me when I got off work? Yes, yes, he did.
The tray I’m carrying wobbles. Not from my clumsiness, but because I’m standing in the middle of a very crowded aisle and the only way to get by me is to bump my shoulder. The man apologizes, and I believe I mumble some sort of remark about it being okay. I wouldn’t know though because my eyes are glued to the retreating back of said dazzling rocker.
“Excuse me?” The person next to me taps my arm. I glance over, but not before checking to see that Quinn has left the area. “Hello!” The voice is exaggerated, frustrated. If she only knew how I felt on the insides, watching the reason for my clammy hands walk away, they’d understand.
“I’m sorry, forgive me. What can I get for you?”
“The check, please,” the man says. I smile and tell him I’ll be right back. On my way to the kitchen, I pull out my phone and look at the time. Why do I still have two hours left? Why couldn’t Quinn ask me to meet him outside right now? Where did he go? Because he’s not in the green room. And why for the love of all things holy, am I so focused and obsessed with this? All he did was ask me what time I got off, nothing more.
I punch in my code and finalize the printout for the table wanting to leave. Every few seconds, I’m glancing at the door, waiting for it to open and for Quinn to walk back in. When it does open, my heart jumps into my throat with anticipation that I’ll see him, but no, it’s one of the line cooks, who gives me an awkward glance as he walks by.
For the next one hundred and twenty minutes, I bust my butt, making sure my tables are well taken care of, even working hard to ignore the woman who’s talking non-stop about how hot Quinn is. He is, in that brooding creative way, and so different from the guys back home. You’d never catch Rhett, for example, wearing a beanie. Yet, Quinn, he wears one all the time, and it works. It adds an air of mystery to him, which I like. A lot.
By the time my shift is over the Bean Song is all but empty. There are a few stragglers. Mostly people who have their noses buried in books or behind laptop screens. I’m guessing these folks fall in line with Quinn on the artistic side. I saw him scribbling on a napkin the other night and was tempted to ask him what he was writing. Of course, my imagination went rampant, thinking he was writing a song that he’d play tonight, but no, that Liam guy did all the singing.
“Do you have a ride home?” Zeke asks as I take off my apron.
“Of course,” I lie. I’ve walked home a few times, which freaks Kellie out. It’s true, this side of the Strip isn’t the safest, but a taxi or shared car service can be expensive, especially as some of the bars are closing now and prices are jacked up.
I breathe in the air. It’s a bit stifling and still warm out, and the air quality isn’t as good as it was in Idaho, but I still feel at peace. This is better than being at home, under the watchful eye of Roy and my parents, pestering me to make adult decisions I’m not ready for.
As soon as I reach the corner, the sound of a motorcycle stops me dead in my tracks. The overhead light illuminates the figure on the bike, dressed in all black. They idle there with the rider staring at me or past me. I can’t be sure. I swallow hard and contemplate my chances of running back into the café when the driver lifts the helmet off their head.