“Is it true Zander used to play here?” the redhead in front of me asks as I mix her Malibu and Coke. She’s barely a day over twenty-one—believe me, I checked—and her hopeful gaze roams the crowd like Zander himself will manifest any second and whisk her away.
It takes every ounce of willpower not to roll my eyes. Zander never comes here anymore. He can’t—not when celebrity-themed tour buses like the one that’s parked outside stop by on the regular.
“Oh, I wouldn’t really know,” I lie. I’m not in the mood to chit-chat, especially when there is a line behind her that nearly reaches the door.
“You do know he worked here, right?” she says in a condescending tone. “He’s friends with the owner—the new guy who’s covering for Evans. Hendrix? Do you know him?”
I almost laugh.
It’s not the first time a fan of Manic at Midnight has come into the bar asking if I know the newest member of Manic at Midnight, Hendrix Creed—my brother.
When Hendrix got the gig to temporarily replace Evans, their bass guitarist on tour, I knew he might gain some notoriety.
I just didn’t realize it would happen so fast. The band’s tour has barely started.
“A little,” I reply as politely as I can. I may have agreed to these tour buses coming into the bar—purely for the financial opportunity they provide—but that does not mean I have to share personal information about the band members.
Especially the ones who happen to be my family members.
“Well, enjoy the rest of your night,” I say, handing her the drink with the biggest fake smile I can muster. As much as I try not to judge what others are into, I just cannot get on board with this level of celebrity worship.
Love their movies, geek out over their music, but leave their personal lives alone. Zander hasn’t been able to visit the bar in years. The attention is so intense, he can barely go to the pharmacy to buy cold medicine for his daughter without getting mobbed. Will that be my brother’s life now that his name is plastered all over the internet? “Be sure to check out the pictures on the wall. I think there’s a photo or two of him there.”
“A photo of who?”
I turn to see my boyfriend sauntering up to me as if he has all the time in the world. He gives the redhead a wolfish grin before bending down to kiss the corner of my mouth. His hand slides around my waist as he brushes his lips over mine.
It’s completely inappropriate for work, but I can’t help but be momentarily distracted until I see the girl’s cheeks flush. Her eyes quickly dart away just before he lifts his head and smiles. Was he looking at her while kissing me?
“Zander,” the redhead answers. “From Manic at Midnight. I’m here with a tour group that visits all the MAM hot spots around LA.”
“Well, there’s no better place than Creeds.” Jace gives her a flirty wink as he runs his hand through his unruly blond hair to push it away from his face. I really wish he were less hot. It would make being mad at him a lot easier. With his edgy style, ink, and piercings, he fits in perfectly with the rocker stylethe Creeds exude. The customers love it. Sometimes a little too much.
“I take it you’re a big fan?”
The redhead bobs her head with enthusiasm. He strikes up a conversation with her about the band while I move around him, serving pints and mixing drinks. He doesn’t seem to notice, leaning over the bar, like he’s hanging on to her every word.
“Jace, I need some help here,” I whisper into his ear about ten minutes later.
He hasn’t moved an inch. Sweat is dripping down the back of my neck, and my feet are numb. It’s barely eight, and I feel like I’ve already worked an entire shift.
“Yeah, I got you, babe.” He gives me a lazy smile and grabs a bar towel, and slings it over his shoulder. “No worries.”
I sag in relief as he begins to mix a drink until I see him reach for the Malibu rum and realize the drink he’s making is for her.
Did she even ask for a refill?
I glance over and see that her drink is barely half empty.
“You know Zander used to work here, right?” he asks her, sliding the drink over the counter. He knows we’re not in a financial position to be giving away free drinks, and yet, he doesn’t even touch the register. Instead, he just leans in and watches as she nods eagerly in reply. “And I’m sure Presley told you about her brother?”
“Presley?” She says my name in confusion.
He jerks his head in my direction as I hand a pint of beer to the customer next to her. “My girlfriend, Presley Creed. She didn’t tell you she’s related to Hendrix?”
No, because I was trying to make her go away so I could work. Something you seem to be allergic to at the moment.
“Really?” Her voice jumps about five octaves, not caring in the least that I lied to her earlier.
