I grin at her, nodding. “I’m obsessed with them. They’re from Philadelphia, which is right near my hometown.” Well,right nearlike a few hours from my town, where actual civilization exists. “They used to play at a small venue there before they became more popular. I even met Alex once. He signed my jeans.”
Her eyes widen. “You’rekidding.”
“I would never joke about Alex. Or anything to do with Accident Prone, trust me.”
She sighs. “I woulddieto have Alex Masen sign myanything.”
I discovered the band’s music when I was thirteen, not long after my mother’s death. There was something about their otherworldly lyrics and unique musicality that gripped me, and I became an immediate—some might sayobsessive—fan. I went to my first concert a few years later, though I didn’t have anyone to go with, so I lied to Dad and went alone. It was what I’d call a formative experience. Squeezed right up against the stage in a crowd of screaming fans, I lost myself in the music and the angelic voice of Alex Masen. And when those blue-green eyes of his landed right on me during the chorus of one of my favorite songs, I swear, I melted right then and there.
“You know they’re playing here in a few months,” the redhead’s saying. “At the new music hall that just opened up downtown.”
“Are you serious?” I’d been so consumed with my plan to leave town that I stopped tracking the band and their tour schedule, minimizing the urge to spend money on a ticket I couldn’t really afford. For the past two years, almost every cent I made went to my escape fund. I’m in dire need of a wardrobe upgrade. “I would kill to go, but as you probably overheard, I’m a bit money strapped.” I give her a sheepish smile, and her face turns thoughtful.
“You know…I might know a place with a job opening.”
My shoulders perk up, and I try not to look like a total lunatic when I say, “Oh my god, I will take you to the next closest coffee shop and buy you the most expensive drink on the menu if you can give me any sort of lead.”
She laughs, waving me off. “Not necessary. My friend’s been working at The Golden Palm, and she told me they’re hiring.”
I blink in confusion. “The Golden Palm? Sorry, I’m not from around here.”
“The Golden Palm Country Club. It’s just up the street. You can’t actually see the club from the road, but you can’t miss the giant fence blocking the view.” She leans in, rolling her eyes. “Keeps out all the riff-raff, I guess.”
“Does your friend like working there?”
She hesitates. “She likes the money.”
A country club isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’s better than nothing, I guess. “Alright. I’ll check it out. Thank you so much. Seriously. This is my fifth rejection of the day. I was considering throwing myself into oncoming traffic.”
“Anything for a fellow AP fan. Here, let me give you Brit’s number. You can call her and ask about the job. And I’m Sienna, by the way.”
“Violet. And mark my words, if I get this job, I’ll be back to buy you that expensive drink. Hell, I’ll buy you ten of them.”
She just laughs. “Alright, your prerogative.”
“Sienna!” snaps Ashley, from behind the pastry display. “If you’re done socializing, I could use your help over here.”
Sienna rolls her eyes in a way that makes it clear I didn’t imagine Ashley’s attitude problem.
“Is she always like that?” I mutter.
“Today’s one of her good days.”
With a final wave, I head back out to my car and waste no time dialing up Brit. I said I was desperate, didn’t I? The phone rings once. Twice. I bite my nail in anticipation, praying that she answers.
Pick up. Pick up. Pick-
“Yeah?”
“Hi! Is this Brit?”
A beat. “Yeah, who’s this?”
“Oh, great. My name’s Violet, and I just met your friend, Sienna. She gave me your number and told me you might know of a job opening at The Golden Palm.”
I hold my breath, waiting eagerly for her response.
“You’re not a psycho, are you?” she asks finally, her voice slow and monotone. “The last girl I worked with was a psycho.”
