“It doesn’t hurt when your subject is scrumdiddly-fucking-umptious,” I pointed out, mostly to tease Courteney.
“Ugh. Quit ogling my brother.” Courteney glanced at the image; she was fourteen years younger than Cary and loved him to death, but with her thick blonde hair and hazel eyes she looked more like him than she cared to admit. She headed over to another image; Dylan Cope backstage, dressed in his typical performing attire—kilt, boots and no shirt—twirling a set of drumsticks. He was standing at the side of the stage, looking out into the crowd—a blur of faces and glowing cell phones—while the stage lights shone through his jaw-length, wavy hair.
I stood with her, staring at the image for a long moment. Marveling over how only a guy like Dylan Cope—so easygoing, charming, likable—could have a hot picture of himself up on the wall of his own bar and not come across as a self-important douche. Guaranteed, Dylan wasn’t the one who put that image on the wall, though. His wife, as the photographer, and Summer, as a woman who knew how to give the public what it wanted, were for sure at work here.
“These are amazing,” I gushed. From where I stood, turning in a slow circle, I could see equally stunning portraits of the Players’ lead singer, Ashley Player, and another local singer, Dean Slater, along with a portrait of my sister, and many others. It was such a beautiful tribute to the city’s most accomplished musicians, and many of my sister’s friends.
And those were just the ones I could see; there were many hidden nooks and crannies where the curving walls disappeared out of view.
Then I saw the portrait of Johnny O’Reilly and stopped in my tracks.
In the giant photo, he was onstage with his guitar, all sweaty and sensual and looking every inch his ridiculously beautiful self. Toned, tattooed. Thick blonde hair that was naturally dark at the roots. His sex appeal oozed through that image, almost choking me where I stood.
I cleared my throat as my sister suddenly appeared, manifesting out of God-knew-where, as VIPs tended to do. A concerned look marred her face as she beelined for me across the empty club, and I realized belatedly that the concerned look was forme. “Angie.” She reached for me, crushing me into a hug.
“Elle.” I hugged her and released. Jeez, I wasn’t broken. Felt like she was trying to hold me together or something, like she was worried I’d shatter if she let go too fast. “Uh, hi. Nice club.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Elle looked around distractedly like she’d just remembered where we were. Then she looked me over with that concerned face, her steely gray eyes skimming over my sheath dress, a pale blue-gray knit that matched my eyes, which I’d worn for my meeting with Danielle today. I’d made it my own by adding a brooch, a glittering faux-diamond bunny. Just ’cause.
Elle, as always, looked beautiful, her platinum blonde hair in a high, sleek ponytail, her slim figure poured into jet black skinny jeans and an offensively overpriced designer hoodie. Even lowkey, my big sister looked like a rock star, with her glittery manicure, many silver earrings and the lavishly studded wedge sneakers that added inches to her height. I was five-five, she wasn’t much taller, but right now she towered over me in my ballet flats. I didn’t like it.
“Everything ready for the big night?” I tried to keep it light, because the last thing I needed was to dissolve into waterworks in front of her, right here. She could probably tell just looking at me that I’d already cried a river today.
“Getting there.” She studied my face, like she was searching for the tracks of my tears. “I tried calling you. You didn’t pick up.”
“I was at Shayla’s audition.”
“How did it go?”
“Much better than my meeting with Danielle Duke.”
She gently squeezed my arms. “Oh, babe.”
“Did you know?”
“No. I didn’t know. Of course not. Angie, I would’ve told you. She called me right after you left her office to tell me.”
I glanced at my friends, who were still ogling the rock stars on the walls. “I’m gonna get a drink with the girls, if that’s okay. Is the bar open?” Elle had invited me to come down for some free drinks tonight if I wanted to; I had no idea I’d want to take her up on that so badly until today happened.
“Of course.” She turned to a dark-haired woman behind the bar. “Whatever the girls want,” she called over, indicating me and my friends. “It’s on the house. But put their taste buds to work.”
The female bartender had turned and I recognized Merritt. Dark hair with blunt bangs, visible tattoos and a black band T-shirt; she had a memorable look. Merritt worked at Cary Clarke’s recording studio, Little Black Hole, where the Players had recorded both their albums.
I waved at her. “Hey, Merritt. How the hell did they rope you into this?”
She laughed. “Night job. I was bartending at a club up the street, and Summer recruited me. I’ll just roll out a bunch of stuff for you ladies to taste test? We’re trying out a bunch of drinks for the cocktail menu tonight.”
“Yes, please,” I gushed, a little too enthusiastically.
Merritt winked at me. “Have a seat. I’ll bring out a round.”
I waved my girls over to a high top table in the middle of the room, from where we had a great view of, well, everything. When I told the girls we were taste testing cocktails for the rest of the night, they cheered—and started waving tip money in Merritt’s direction. She laughed again.
Elle gave a big-sisterly sigh, and reconvened with her posse, a group of people I loosely recognized; her assistant, a couple of members of Dirty’s management team and some others, who were gathering around a table near the back of the club.
At least her bodyguard was nowhere to be seen. Last thing I needed was to run into Flynn right now.
I was way too sober for that.
