“Yep.” I shot him a wave, then pulled my parka tighter around me. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” he called as I stepped back out into the snow.
The quiet street was now alight with loud chatter, people shouting, and someone arguing with the bouncer to try and get into the club. I knew celebrities had to make their money, but did they have to fucking disrupt my night like this?
Part of me wanted to get a glimpse of the fucker’s face so I knew who to picture when I was throwing darts back at the station. Especially if it was his fault I had to dig my way out of a goddamn snowbank to get to our next call.
Ducking past the crowd, who were not paying attention to me at all, I made it into the alley, then gently knocked on a thick metal service entrance. I didn’t want to be too loud and draw attention, because I didn’t think this Fred guy would appreciate me bringing the horde of demanding people to his doorstep.
Luckily, they were too busy yelling at each other and the guys working the front to notice me.
After what felt like a short forever of shivering in my wet shoes, the door opened a crack, and I could see a single eye staring at me.
I offered an awkward wave. “Uh. I was sent here from the shop across the street?” I waved my EMT badge at him. “The kebab shop guy said I could come grab our drinks.”
The door opened further, and Fred—I assumed it was Fred—appeared. He was basically Mr. Clean come to life. Bald, tall, tan skin, and a white T-shirt that left nothing to the imagination. And fuck, were those leather pants?
I didn’t have to imagine anything with those either. The man was packing.
He towered over me and gave me a look. “You can come in, but make it quick. It’s a nightmare out there.” He had a pretty heavy accent. I wasn’t great with being able to tell one from the other, but it was definitely something like Ukrainian.
“The celebrity guy playing tonight?”
“Mm,” he grunted. The further we walked into the building, the louder the sound got. I started to be able to make out the sound of an acoustic guitar and then a voice. It was a low, rough, gorgeous rumble, which immediately irritated me because I didn’t want to like the source of tonight’s complications. “Around the corner,” Fred said, pointing a meaty finger toward a swinging door. “Go around the counter. Bartender is Alice. She’ll help you.”
I crept forward, feeling entirely out of place and wrong in the employee hallway. I nearly bumped into a couple of harried cocktail servers, who gave me withering stares before I made it through the side door and darted across what was obviously a server station.
The music in the bar immediately overwhelmed me, though it wasn’t a heavy rock show or, god forbid, EDM. From where I was standing, and without my glasses, I couldn’t quite make outthe guy onstage apart from shaggy dark hair, pale skin under the bright stage light, and an amber guitar in his hands.
The music only lasted a few seconds longer before his guitar and voice trailed off and the room erupted into cheers. I caught movement from him, which was probably the singer taking a drink, so I used the opportunity to slide up to the corner of the bar and smile at the blonde woman who was punching something angrily into her computer.
“If you’re here to ask how long your drink is going to be—” she began.
“No, uh…I got sent from the kebab shop,” I said.
She rolled her eyes, and as she turned toward me, I could see massive amounts of glitter smeared over her eyelids. “Seriously? Is Hasan fucking kidding me with this?”
Hasan must be the guy who owned the shop.
I shot her an apologetic grimace. “I’m really sorry. I’m on duty right now, and my partner is going to murder me if I don’t bring her a Diet Coke.”
Her eyes narrowed angrily. “Cop?”
I held up my hands in surrender. I got that a lot these days, and considering the state of the country, I didn’t blame her. “EMT. I’m just trying to keep her awake for the inevitable bullshit on the roads once the parties end.”
She sighed and sagged forward. “Okay, that’s fair. Give me two seconds, babe.” Then she was gone, and I leaned against the bar, tapping my fingers and praying that my radio didn’t go off while I was waiting.
My gaze strayed back to the guy onstage, and eventually, I gave up and pulled my glasses out of my pocket. I’d been storing them to avoid the film that was fucking impossible to get off during snow season after the city salted the streets, and Gracie was always the driver, so no one was at risk of me succumbing to the glowing trails of my astigmatism.
When the room became clear, I blinked at the starburst of lights on the stage, then focused on the singer. He was…well,fuck, he was gorgeous. He had wavy black hair and a button nose, full lips, and a five-o’clock shadow that seemed more neglect than him trying to look rugged.
He was wearing a sweater that went all the way down to cover his palms, only his fingers sticking out over his pick and guitar strings.
And he looked…well, he looked sad. Not that I was the best at reading emotions on strangers’ faces, but something about him said this was not a good night. That this show was not something he wanted to do.
Or maybe he did, but not because he was full of New Year’s joy.
“Play ‘Backstabber’!” someone called.
