Michaela
Ihad one night. A few hours, really. Then I’d be back to the grind of dealing with demanding rock stars and catty, uncooperative stage crew during the day while cramming my tired body into a moving coffin at night.
I tapped the bar with my empty glass. “Why is this bar so damn quiet?”
Declan, the bartender I’d been flirting with for the last hour or so, gave me a crooked grin, then slid me a quarter. “This is a Choose-Your-Own kind of adventure. Go pick a song or two on the jukebox, liven up the place.”
Laughing, I glanced over my shoulder at the relic from the past sitting in a darker corner. “A jukebox? Does it work?”
“It does. And you get two songs for a quarter, so choose wisely.”
I lifted a brow. “T-Swift?”
He pulled a sour face. “Damn, Mickey, I thought we were having a mind-meld. You’re telling me you’re into girly pop music?”
“Iama girl, if you hadn’t noticed.”
His blue, blue eyes traveled over me…as much of me as he could see with the bar between us at least. “Oh, I noticed.”
I smirked, knowing I had him if I wanted him. I was about to go on the road for nearly three months, and I made it my policy not to sleep with anyone I worked with. And since I would be working pretty much nonstop, that left little opportunity to meet anyone else. Perhaps Declan the bartender would be a fun last hurrah.
Grabbing the quarter, I gave Declan a flirty little smile, and sauntered over to the jukebox, throwing an extra sway to my hips. Once I saw the list of songs to choose from, I got serious.
It only took me a minute to choose. The jukebox hadn’t been updated in a good twenty years or I might have chosen Taylor Swift just to fuck with Declan. Instead, I picked “Blackhole Sun” by Soundgarden and “November Rain” by Guns ‘N Roses, because who the hell doesn’t love Slash?
Smiling to myself, I turned, ready to go back to the bar, and stumbled over my own feet. Three tables separated me and Moses Aronson, lead singer of Unrequited, and he was looking directly at me, like I was prey and he had me in his sights.
I held my finger up. “No.”
He cocked his head, letting out a dry laugh. “No?”
“Don’t give me that look.” I wove around the chairs and tables between us to stand in front of him. Placing my hands on the back of a chair, I bent forward to meet his eyes. “It’s my night off from dealing with rock stars.”
He turned his palms up, all cool and calm. “What gives you the idea I want you to deal with me?”
Oh, this boy. With his ball cap on, he looked even younger than I knew he was. Younger, but hotter. As a thirty-four-year-old woman, I should not have had that kind of thought, but holy shit was he hot. The way he was sitting—a relaxed lean, one elbow slung over the back of his low chair, long legs spread wide—made him even sexier. There was nothing that appealed to me more than a confident, give-no-shits kind of man. And right now, Moses was giving off all kinds of confident, give-no-shits vibes.
“Because all of your kind needs dealt with. I think they teach you how to be as difficult as possible in rock star school,” I answered.
He laughed again, and his dimples contrasting with his chiseled jaw gave me heart palpitations.
“I must’ve been absent that day,” he drawled. “I like your song choice.”
“Blackhole Sun” played in the background, barely audible over the low din of conversation, clinking glasses, and whirring air conditioner. I twisted around, finding Declan watching me.
“Hey, mind turning it up?” I called.
He jerked his chin and threw a towel over his shoulder. “Sure thing, Mickey.” He didn’t sound quite as cheerful as his upbeat answer implied. In fact, he looked downright disgruntled I hadn’t yet returned to the bar.
Nobody liked a possessive potential one-night-stand.
The volume went up right as the chorus began, so of course I had to sing. And when I sang, my hips automatically swayed. Sometimes my arms even went above my head and my feet moved.
“Are you dancing?” Mo asked.
I looked up, and yes, my arms were indeed over my head. “I seem to be. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. I’m enjoying the performance.”