She takes one glance at the cropped tank top beneath my leather jacket and rolls her eyes. “You keep forgetting you’re not in Vegas anymore. One of these days you’re going to freeze to death.”
Ignoring her comment, I open the refrigerator door and stare at the pathetically sparse options on the wire racks. Oh yeah. It’s my turn to buy groceries.
“Aren’t you going to be late for class?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Um…it’s Saturday, Is. Exactly how much did you drink last night?”
“Not nearly enough,” I grumble, slamming the door. My head pangs with the sound. Ranger liked his whiskey just as much as he liked his sex wild. It feels as if I downed an entire gallon.
Melanie sets her fork down, frowning. “Sorry I didn’t make it in time to catch the show. I had to work late and Midtown was a total zoo. Did you guys have a good turnout?” Her tight expression fills with so many unsaid questions and blatant concern that I know exactly what she’s thinking. She worries because she’s the only one who knows why I’m so broken.
“The place was packed,” I lie. “The guys and I closed the bar down with a bunch of new fans.”
“Awesome.” Her shoulders relax as a subtle smile tugs at her lips. “Your big break is coming, girl. I just know it.”
Nodding, because I don’t know what else to say, I start for the stairway. She would never judge me if I told her that I picked up some random guy, but that’s not what she wants to hear. She wants to know that someone was there to hold my hand in her absence. She wants to pretend that I’m on the road to recovery and hear that I’ve somehow healed like one of those lizards that grows a new tail when the old one’s been cut off.
But time has proven that a heart is incapable of mending itself, and the pain of losing someone who once held it in their hands will never fade.
Several hours later, I report for my shift at Vinnie’s. The place is busting at the seams with patrons, some already sloppy drunk. I sip just enough tequila from a coffee mug behind the bar to stay pleasant and stop myself from strangling customers. As I’m shooting the shit with a group of college kids that I served even though I knew their IDs were bogus, Vinnie approaches with the look he gets when he’s about to ask a favor.
“I need you to help cover the VIP room,” he says, throwing a knowing frown at the underage kids. “Cary and Brittany have their hands full with the crowd back there, so you better throw on your sexiest smile and pretend you actually like people.”
“On it, sir.” I smartly salute him, but when he turns around I hold up both middle fingers to his backside, making the college kids beside me giggle.
Marching toward the back, I grumble under my breath as I push my boobs up higher inside the lacy red camisole borrowed from Mel’s closet. Vinnie doesn’t enforce any certain dress codes other than asking that we look appealing. A skimpy top with a pair of black leather pants are my usual go-to. And although waiting on rich assholes in the VIP room is never my idea of a good time, at least tips are always better when I’m showing a little skin.
Occasionally the bar’s reputation will draw curious celebrities or obnoxious reality stars who are desperate for attention. On those nights, I’m usually ready to claw my eyes out long before closing time. Since I haven’t seen anyone enter the VIP room at any point in the night, it can only mean one thing: someone relatively famous has graced us with their presence and entered through the back door where they wouldn’t be spotted. Fucking great.
I brace myself as I push on the double doors, hoping for a miracle. Maybe Jay and Bey decided to mix things up a little and slum it for a night.
Animated conversations and bright laughter drowning out hardcore rock music become amplified when I push my way into the room. The scene I walk into resembles an 80s rock video. Several bras hang from the chandeliers, couples make out on the couches, women in tight dresses and leopard print seem to be everywhere. It’s total chaos. Truth be told, if I weren’t working, I’d join in.
I instantly spot Cary and Brittany moving through the crowd, each of their faces tense with forced smiles. Soon Cary comes storming at me with a half-filled tray and a deep scowl. “Thank shit you’re here. These are, like, your people. Why do rockstars always have to behave like toddlers?”
“You’re just jealous because they know how to let loose and have a good time.” Snatching a shot glass from her tray that’s filled with dark liquid, I slam it down before she can half-heartedly protest like she sometimes does when we’re pulling a shift together. “Who’s here, anyway?”