Last March…jeez, that long ago?…I posted something I was working on (rather than the novel I should be working on). Since then, I’ve added scenes and since I haven’t posted since December, I thought "“why not?”
So, here is a healthy dose of that piece. Enjoy.
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CH. ONE
Josh Jones felt heavy.
It wasn’t that he was a large man. Outside of some well-defined limbs, he was quite thin, in fact. It wasn’t the dark brown wool overcoat he wore over his slightly rumpled white dress shirt, or the denim in his faded jeans. It wasn’t even the oversized nylon duffle bag slung over his shoulder or the beaten up guitar case in his hand.
Every fiber in his being just felt burdensome.
His head hurt a bit, and he felt sluggish. Not sick exactly, just run down and worn out.
Ten years on the road and in the studio would do that to you.
It broke many an artist who couldn’t keep up with the rigorous and sometimes vicious circle of write, record, perform, repeat. It damn near broke him.
When he’d left the studios in Bakersfield three days ago, he’d simply left a note on the sound board in his uneasy scrawl.
Need to clear my head and find my voice. It may not be what you want, but it’s what I need.
Danny Quinn, his manager, probably lost his shit when he found it, but he couldn’t make one more album with all the pressures they put on him. Not to mention the creative well had run dry.
Josh needed a reboot. And he needed a place to hide out for a while.
Twenty-five hundred miles oughta help.
He’d paid cash to stay off the radar and busied himself the entire trip with a book he’d picked up at the small store in the train station—“The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck” by Mark Manson—had seemed appropriate.
His brain needed a rest. He’d been struggling to produce anything worthy of recording and had pleaded with Quinn to give him time and space, but his manager responded with his usual clichéd motivational speeches.
“You got this, buddy. You’re a genius, you just don’t see it.”
“Don’t overthink it, you’re the master.”
“Just relax, it’s good enough.”
Good enough—shit. When was anything ever good enough?
He didn’t build a solid career by just being good enough, he’d created songs that spoke not only to him, but to the masses of Indie fans across the country who packed into concert halls to see him, singing along to every word and carrying every note.
That still took him by surprise some nights. Looking out into the audience where they seemed to hang on every word, yet knew them all by heart.
Plus, his music meant something personal. He’d battled demons through it, gotten through a breakup or two with it, and had turned to it when his dad died. He’d used it to celebrate life and love, and even sold the rights to two of his songs for a commercial. He knew how powerful his music was, but he knew it could also make him a small fortune if he didn’t get too self-righteous about it. He’d never consider himself a sellout if the money went to something worthwhile.
Still, it wasn’t something he could just do on demand. He struggled like any artist. The looming deadline of a fifth album with his record company didn’t help his stress level. He couldn’t just record something unless it was meant, in his heart, to be out there in the world. And nothing he had written or recorded so far was to his standards.
He wouldn’t accept good enough.
No, when he was ready, he’d feel it in his bones. He knew his muse would show itself. If it came back from wherever the hell it went.
The sun was just beginning it’s descent in the June summer sky as the train pulled into the station just outside Charlotte, North Carolina. Just beyond the doors people whizzed by on the platform even as the train slowed.
The hint of diesel filled his nose as he stood in the vestibule of the train car and adjusted the strap of the duffle on his shoulder. In the pocket of his coat he had a piece of paper with the name of a bar and its owner—Rolling Start Tavern and Mel. His sister Sophie, the only woman on earth who he even trusted anymore, had given him the info. He’d told her his plan to disappear for a while and swore her to secrecy. He knew Sophie would never turn him in to Quinn. She was his tough older sister, and was resourceful when it came to finding places to spend a little down time. No one would break her. Hell, sometimes even he was afraid of her.
Josh hoped this Mel guy was cool. He realized right now he probably looked like shit—his hair was stupid long and he’d let his beard grow out in an attempt not to be recognized. He looked like a deadbeat, so he wouldn’t be surprised if Mel had his hesitations. He just needed to rent out the apartment over the bar, and he wasn’t sure for how long.
If it didn’t work out, or Mel was a dick, he’d move along.
As the doors opened, a burst of humidity slapped him in the face. He stepped off the train and walked over to a bench to shake off his coat.
People passed by, all in some sort of rush to get to their next destination. All in their own world, going about their business. It felt liberating to be on his own. To not be in any particular hurry, to be able to take a breath, and not have anyone to answer to for a change. Sure, he had things to do, but his time was his own.
He picked up his things and headed toward the street. A cab driver who waited in front of the line of transportation vehicles flagged him down.
Josh laid his stuff across the back seat as he got it and gave the driver the address to the Rolling Start.
“Long trip, boss?” The cab driver’s middle eastern accent was as thick as his head of black hair.
“Yeah, too long.”
“Maybe you get a vacation here? Good tourist location. Race coming up.”
“Maybe, but I’ve got some work to do.”
“Yeah? What is it that you do?”
Josh glanced at the guitar case on the seat next to him then into the rearview mirror. The driver’s eyes bounced between him and the road.
“Wait, let me guess,” the driver said. “You look like you might be a preacher.”
“Close enough, my friend,” Josh chuckled. “I do try to spread the good word.”
“I knew it.” The driver hit the top of the steering wheel with his hand and looked pretty pleased with himself. “So, you save a lot of souls?”
Josh shrugged and gazed out the window at the city skyline. “Sometimes.”
Maybe this time he’d save himself.
The cab pulled up to the front of the Rolling Start and Josh got out.
By the looks of it, the neighborhood had gone through some huge renovations. Trendy retail shops that lined the block included a coffee shop, an art gallery with colorful banners, a yoga studio and a specialty candy store. Rentable scooters parked in small groups peppered the sidewalk and across the street a bookstore deposited a group of young hipsters outside.
The guitar in his hand felt suddenly like a flashing neon sign—but he figured this was racing country, so most of the locals here probably didn’t listen to Indie music.
From his early days of flipping houses with his friends, Josh understood strategic gentrification and the difference between making things look old school, and just plain old. The two-story building before him, nestled in between a yogurt shop and clothing boutique, looked untouched and out of place. Its sign was faded, paint peeled off the siding and several of the bulbs that lined the front eaves were either out or broken off. The hazy windows reflected the sun, but he imagined the inside was just as outdated.
The door to the tavern opened and two middle-aged men dressed in coveralls exited. Josh grabbed the door before it shut and walked inside.
“Night Moves” by Bob Seger played overheard to a nearly empty room. Slim chance the two older men who drank at the bar, or the small group of construction workers huddled in a corner booth, would recognize him.
Still, second thoughts crept into his head. Maybe he should go find some cheap motel. He had the cash. He could find a secluded place with a pool, or maybe an in-room jacuzzi. He almost turned around to leave, but in the far corner, a mahogany baby grand piano on a small platform stage caught his eye.
Intrigued, he walked toward it.
The wood was damn near perfect, except for a thin layer of dust. Even in the dimly lit corner, he could see it had been well taken care of. He set his guitar and duffle bag at the first step to the stage and admired it.
“You play?”
A voice from behind called out and when he turned, another curiosity drew him further in.
The young woman behind the bar was all big green eyes and short brown hair. Her hoop earrings almost touched the straps of her tank top and Josh tried desperately to keep his eyes from wandering down to her ample cleavage. He focused on her mouth instead. It was painted in a coral lipstick and one corner was turned up.
“I play,” he said, and headed over to the bar.
She gave him the once over and turned to the register to deposit a twenty. “You drink?”
“Maker’s. Neat.”
She walked to the opposite end of the bar and he took the time to check her out. Amazing ass, athletic build, and biker boots. He really hoped she wasn’t Mel’s wife or daughter. She might be fun to play with—
No, you’re here to decompress not get into some drama you don’t need.
She returned with a rocks glass and the bottle, and poured it in front of him.
“I heard Mel has a room to rent.” He placed a twenty on the bar and picked up the glass.
She cocked her head and capped the bottle. “Are you some kind of weirdo, cuz Mel doesn’t rent out to just anyone.”
The old men at the end of the bar emitted some muffled laughter and she shot them a look. He started to think Mel must like having her around to keep the peace, because the two men shut up right away.
“Aren’t we all a little weird, Sweetness?”
She didn’t seem bothered by the nickname—hell, he didn’t even know where it came from but he imagined it suited her.
She sized him up again. “You don’t seem to have a lot with you. Are you on the run or something?”
“I’m just taking a break. I need a place. I’m not sure how long. Maybe a few months. I have money.” He pulled out his wallet and fanned through a couple hundred bucks. “I can pull up my bank records if Mel needs me to.”
She chewed her lip before shrugging.
Josh watched her walk away and sighed. He took a pull on the whiskey and got comfortable on the stool.
An hour later, the bar was busy, though not exactly full for a dinner crowd. The cute bartender was now joined by a young guy that looked like he was in a fraternity. He waited on the few tables and refilled Josh’s glass.
Josh leaned in as the guy poured. “Hey man, any idea when Mel’s gonna get here? I really need a place to stay.”
“Be patient, buddy.” Frat boy smiled and offered his hand. “I’m Brent.”
“Josh.” The grip of a football player enclosed his fingers and Josh prayed the kid didn’t crush his livelihood.
He felt someone brush against his arm.
“Hope you’re not a vegetarian, sailor,” the bartender said as she set a plate in front of him and walked away.
A huge cheeseburger and thick cut fries—that he didn’t order—sat on a white plate with bar lingo in a swirly script painted around the edge. The one that held his meal said Salty Dog and included the ingredients for the drink—vodka and grapefruit juice.
He stared at the food and felt the slight breeze of the bartender as she passed him and took her place behind the bar again.
“Ketchup?” She produced a bottle from under the bar and set it in front of him.
Okay, she was frickin’ adorable but honestly, he was tired of waiting.
“Listen, I appreciate the meal but is Mel even here?” he asked.
She produced a glass and filled it with water as her green eyes studied him. “Where are you from? I’ve never seen you here before.”
He took a deep breath and stopped himself from forcing it out. If she was the gateway to Mel, he better not blow it.
“West Coast. Originally from Maryland.”
“Wow, you get around.”
Josh picked up a fry and bit into it. The saltiness was subtle and he could taste a hint of some herb.
“Good, huh?” She put her hands on her hips and Josh struggled to keep eye contact. “Rosemary and truffle. Our chef, Rico, is playing with a few new recipes. We need to get some more customers in here, and he thinks food is the key.”
“If you wanna bring in the cool vinyl-buying bookstore hipsters along with the racing fanatics, than yeah, you gotta go gastro or go home.”
“That’s what Rico keeps saying.” She shrugged and wiped down the counter next to him. “So what do you do for a living?”
Preacher.
“Musician.”
“Really?” She stopped wiping the counter. “Are you any good?”
“Let me finish my dinner that you assumed I’d like, Sweetness, and maybe I’ll show you what these fingers can do.” He spread his fingers purposely, then picked-up the burger. He meant play the piano but he couldn't help the innuendo.
Was that a flash of a smile he saw? He’d dished it out a little and she liked it.
Good to know.
After eating most of the burger, and all of the fries, Josh wished he hadn’t offered to prove himself. First of all, by some slim chance people here did recognize him, he’d have to head to another location. And second, he was damn full from the meal.
Sweetness stood in front of him now and cleared the dish. “Don’t even think about playing ‘Miss American Pie’ or “Piano Man.’ Mel hates that crap.”
Josh straightened. “So he’s here?”
“The switch to the stage lights are to the right once you’re up there. The mic just needs to be flipped on. I’ll turn down the music after you settle in.” She turned and walked away.
He mumbled to himself and took his glass over to the stage.
The light switch she’d mentioned controlled a couple overhead spotlights that gave the area a blue hue. He knocked back some of his whiskey and set his glass on the floor next to the piano’s leg. Sitting on the bench, he found the mic switch and tested it by tapping the windscreen. The noise came through the speakers and he glanced over at the bar. She signaled him with a nod and turned down the music.
Since he didn’t want to out himself with one of his own tunes, he played the opening notes to Elton John’s “Rocketman.” He saw the bar’s few customers stare over at him.
By the chorus, he heard a few customers singing along. Someone had propped the door to the tavern open and as the music flowed out to the sidewalk, more people came in. He rolled into a mashup of Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind” and Alicia Keys “Empire State of Mind,” knowing it would be a crowd pleaser.
The bar’s patrons went wild and sang along. And for the first time in months, he felt energized. The intimacy of a small crowd beat any festival audience, even on a good day. He finished the song, and thanked the audience.
He flipped the mic off and the overhead music came back up.
The cute bartender crossed the room and met him at the piano.
“We haven't seen a crowd like this in a long time. If you’re willing to do something like that a couple nights a week, you can eat for free.” She set a key on top of the piano’s lid. It had a number two written in sharpie on plastic disc attached to the keyring. “The room comes furnished but it isn’t fancy. You’re responsible for your own laundry and that includes the sheets and towels that are provided. And when the bar closes, there’s no noise upstairs. I value my quiet time, I need it for studying. You want to get with someone, you go to their place.”
He stared at her, not quite knowing how to respond. Had Mel been in the room all along?
She turned to leave the stage, seemed to think twice about it and turned back.
“By the way, I’m Mel.” She winked and walked away.
Well, shit.
CH. TWO
Melodie Scott’s fingers hovered over her keyboard as she struggled to think of a way to finish her paper.
Writing a fourth-year Masters thesis should’ve been easier than this, but here she sat, behind the desk in the small windowless makeshift office behind the bar.
She wished the writer’s block was due to the thrill of knowing that soon she’d be living along the Gulf, working at the Dolphin Research Center. It was more likely from the unbearable guilt that her uncle’s tavern would belong to someone else in a matter of months.
There were still reminders of Uncle Joe everywhere in the office because she didn’t have the heart to remove them. His bowling trophy sat on a small bookcase that included pictures taken with family, friends and the random Nascar celebrity. His fishing cap still graced the last hook on the wall near the door, and four boxes marked “business files” sat in a corner.
She’d looked through the boxes once, right after he’d died from his heart attack, to try and sort out the mess of running the Rolling Start. Luckily Rico Reyes, the cook and Joe’s best friend, had been privy to the ins and outs of running the tavern. With Rico’s help, she’d managed to keep the place afloat while she wrapped up her degree taking online classes.
Rico kept insisting he’d be fine even if the new owner didn’t keep him on as head cook because he was ready to retire anyway, but she knew he was saying that just to keep her from feeling bad.
Stick to the plan, Melodie. Everyone will be okay, Chicka, and soon you’ll be living the dream as they say, Rico would tell her.
Her cellphone next to her on the desk rung. It was a welcome distraction but the name Ryan Ashworth of Miller & Ashworth Realty appeared on her screen and she was tempted to not answer it.
“Mr. Ashworth, how are you?” Mel answered sweetly in hope it would sway the purpose of his call in her favor.
“Melodie, please call me Ryan. You know I’m not that much older than you.” He laughed a little then cleared his throat. “Listen, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“The buyer backed out,” she said, because what else could it possibly be?
“Unfortunately.”
She sighed and shut her eyes as he continued.
“I know we’ve talked about how the tavern is in a desirable location but apparently they don’t think it’s worth what you’re asking. And it would cost them quite a bit to rehab it, even if they tore it down. That’s why I advised on giving it some curb appeal, Melodie. You know, it’s the first impression that can hook a buyer. It shows you’re hungry to sell.”
Was she hungry to sell? She sometimes wondered. The thought of someone potentially destroying her uncle’s legacy and tearing it down made her stomach turn.
Ashworth continued, “have you given any thought to the other upgrades we discussed?”
She had, and she couldn’t afford them, but she didn’t know how to tell him that. How could she take money out of the savings she’d been accumulating—savings she intended to share with Rico, especially if he was forced to retire, and leverage the rest to set herself up in the Keys—when that money might not guarantee a lucrative sale of the bar?
“I’ve been really busy with school, but I’ll be finished up in two weeks. Maybe we can revisit some of those idea then.” She knew it sounded like an excuse. It was.
“Melodie, time is ticking. I know you want to have a hard out by September first. Making some exterior enhancements as soon as possible will really help. Let me send you a list of easy fixes to start. The place is old, Melodie, and no one will buy it as is.”
She nodded as if he could see her. She barely had a few months, and knew she had to start making some decisions. “I can take a look at the list. If you have cheap labor connections too, send that along.”
“Okay, will do. And I’ll call you next week to set up an appointment for an inspector. We want to make sure there isn’t anything lurking.”
Great, she thought. She ended the call with him and dropped her head into her hands.
If she didn’t feel so sentimental about the place, she could’ve been talked into burning it down after Joe died; simply taken the insurance money and ran. But there was too much history here for her to be so indifferent about it. She’d spent a lifetime of summers here when Aunt Betty was still alive, had moved into one of the apartments when she was in college, and waited tables to make extra money. She saw how much Joe loved his business and the people that came every day for a drink and a laugh. And she’d taken on the burden of running it because not doing so would’ve put Rico on the streets and really solidified that Joe was gone.
Her gaze went to the photo on the wall of her in her cap and gown, with Joe on one side and her parents on the other. If they only knew how much stress she was under.
Marco and Madeline Scott were back in Chicago where they struggled to run their small grocery store on the North side. She couldn’t ask them for help. Not when they were working just as hard to save for retirement.
Brent stuck his head through the small opening. “Hey boss, I know you’re probably really busy, but—”
Mel looked at her watch. Shit, it’s noon?
One of the ways she’d been able to save on business expenses was to keep the waitstaff to only Brent during the week, and she worked as many hours as she could. Luckily—if having an empty bar most of the time was considered lucky—and for someone who needed the dough it really wasn’t—she had enough downtime between lunch and dinner shifts to focus on school.
“Here I come.” She shut her laptop and pushed away from the desk.
She walked out into the main room, and wrinkled her nose. Justin Bieber had come on the jukebox again. She kept meaning to have Brent show her how to reprogram it, but kept forgetting. It wasn’t that she disliked Bieber’s music, it just wasn’t a favorite of the clientele.
She stepped behind the bar and pushed a button on a panel against the wall forwarding to the next song. A small round of applause broke out.
“You’re welcome,” she shouted as the guitar riffs of a Lenny Kravitz song played.
Her gaze floated over to a table where Josh, her new tenant, sat with a beer watching the local news on the screen attached to the wall. They hadn’t spoken much since he’d moved into the apartment upstairs a week ago, but he’d paid her in advance for the next two weeks rent, and according to Brent, he was also paying for his meals.
Mel took a few drink orders at the bar before she caught sight of the “specials” menu one of her regulars was reading.
Thing was, the Rolling Start tavern didn’t have a “specials” menu.
“Billy, what’s that you got there?” she asked, putting a beer in front of him.
“Don’t you know what’s going on in your own bar, little one?” The old man who’d been on Uncle Joe’s bowling team back in the day fanned the paper at her. He’d been calling her “little one” since she was actually little. It was endearing he still used the nickname even though she was a grown woman.
She snatched the paper out of his hand. Both sides were filled with four to five items she’d never seen before. Food on one side, drink specials on the other. The prices were marked up two to five dollars more than the normal menu and had ingredients she was sure had to be special ordered, which meant they were more expensive and if they went unused, she’d be losing money.
Brent approached the bar and set a tray of emptied glasses in front of her.
“What’s this?” She held up the paper to show him.
Brent’s expression turned sheepish. “Looks like specials?” He shrugged and was gone before she could interrogate him.
“I think the grilled cheese looks good,” Billy said. “What’s the cheese on it again?”
Not exactly knowing what he was talking about, Mel reviewed the list again. The “Checkered Grilled Cheese” was a subtle reference to a checkered flag no doubt. “Brie.”
“Jeez, Melodie, when did y’all start carrying such fancy foods?” Billy raised his brows and picked up his beer.
Good question.
She folded the paper in half and walked to the end of the bar and through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Rico was in his usual spot behind the grill, multitasking between flipping sandwiches and dunking fries in hot oil. For a man in his late fifties, he had the vigor of a twenty-two year old. When it got busy, and it rarely did, Rico’s wife Amalia would pop in to help out in the kitchen. They’d been in the same house just a few blocks away for those three decades. Today, however, it was just Rico, and the smells coming from the grill were different. Even mouth-watering.
Without turning around, he spoke. “What you need, Chicka?”
This was why she was never able to sneak food from him. Somehow he always knew when she was there.
Damn eyes in the back of his head.
“What’s with the new menu?”
“Just being creative.” Rico shrugged and threw slices of bread on the grill. “We’ve been doing it for a few days. Seems to be a hit.”
She unfolded the paper in her hand and read it again.
“Really? I can’t see Jeanie and her knitting club ordering blackberry-barbeque wings. Are you sure we’re not over-extending ourselves for the sake of creativity?”
Mel hated questioning Rico, didn’t even feel she had the right given his thirty-five-year tenure, but they needed to be saving, not spending.
Rico put his tools down and turned to face her. Sympathy washed over his face. “Chicka, I know you’re worried about the finances. I’m only trying this out. Ordering the bare minimum and keeping an eye on what’s not moving.”
He leaned in a little closer and really stared.
“Chicka, what’s really wrong?”
Rico could always read her like a book.
“Sorry, I just found out the buyer fell through.”
Rico shrugged. “Wasn’t meant to be. We’ll figure it out.”
She wished she had his confidence. “Ashworth said we should start considering doing some upgrades. I just don’t think it’ll make much of a difference. There’s no guarantee we’ll get the money back.”
He took her hand in his. “Joe was the same way. Always worrying about the unknown, even when things were going well.”
“Maybe I’ll just put things off for a year. Give us time to do some things cheaply.”
“You cannot feel obligated to carry on your uncle’s dream. He followed his, you need to follow yours.” His dark eyes glimmered. “Plus, I think the new items will make us some money.”
His gaze softened and she couldn’t help but smile. “Okay. I’ll let you get back to it. By the way, Billy Sullivan ordered the grilled cheese. Promise me you’ll make it the best sandwich all day so he can tell his friends at the Elks Lodge.”
She squeezed his hand and turned to go.
“By the way, Jeanie and her friends orders two rounds of the wings last night and took orders home to their husbands,” Rico said.
Mel looked back at Rico; he was already at the grill. She relaxed a bit and stepped through the door into the bar.
It was as if all hell had broken loose.
The noise level had increased along with the volume of the music. Springsteen, this time.
And Josh, her tenant, stood behind the bar dispensing draft beer into pint glasses.
Brent shouted from the other side of the bar, “Two Stella’s, Josh. Thanks.”
Mel walked up to Josh, who had tied his long hair back and rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue chambray shirt.
“Can I help you?” she asked him.
He kept his gaze on the tap as he filled another glass. “Actually, I’m helping you. Can you take those over to Brent?” He nodded toward two tall glasses filled with dark beer.
She hesitated but Brent tapped on the bar where he stood. He jutted his chin toward the main floor, and she saw that in just the few moments she had gone to talk to Rico, the place had doubled in customers. More than she’d seen in months.
“Yo, Sweetness, can you take those, please?” Josh asked as he pulled another glass from under the bar. “We’re a little backed up here.”
Mel saw the multiple tickets lined up next to the tap and picked up the glasses.
She approached Brent and tipped her head slightly back in question.
Brent shrugged. “I improvised. You disappeared and he said he didn’t mind tending bar.”
The bell rung that signified an order was up and Mel turned to retrieve it. She pulled the plate down from the warming shelf and laughed at the impression of a checkered flag Rico had somehow made on the sourdough bread.
She placed the plate in front of Billy, who sniffed at it. She didn’t have time to watch him take his first bite because the bell from the kitchen rang again.
The assembly line of food and drink went on for about two and half hours. Josh ran the bar while Brent took orders and cleared plates. Mel delivered food and made small talk with the customers until the last of the lunch crowd filtered out.
She returned to the bar. Josh had taken a seat on the customer side at the end where he wiped his hands with a towel.
Mel unlocked a cabinet under the register and pulled out a bottle of Macellan scotch whiskey. She shouted over the warming shelf for Rico, selected four rocks glasses from under the bar, and brought everything to where Josh sat.
Brent hopped on the stool next to Josh and slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh shit, the boss is breaking out the good stuff.”
Rico joined them and nodded in acknowledgment toward Josh.
Once each glass had an inch of whiskey in it, Mel handed one to Rico, then Brent and finally Josh.
“I can’t say we’ve ever had a day like this that hasn’t followed a race, and even then, it’s never hopped like that. I can’t thank you guys enough for making it happen.” She lifted her glass and the guys followed in unison. After they clinked glasses, Mel sipped and felt the sweet burn of the whiskey. “And Rico, bless you for the new menu.”
“I told you.” Rico winked and downed the contents of his glass. “Love you, Chicka, but I gotta clean up. Round two is in a few hours.”
He kissed her cheek and went back to the kitchen.
Brent set his empty glass on the bar. “Hey, boss, I’m gonna run home and shower. I’m pretty sure I’m covered in food and beer, and smell like a yak. I might see if my roommate wants to come back and work strictly for tips tonight if that okay. In case it’s busy.”
“Thanks, Brent. That sounds good. See you in a few hours.” Mel fist bumped him. He hopped off the stool and headed out the front door.
She set her sights on Josh. “And then there’s you.”
Josh had only sipped his whiskey. “Yes?” He crossed his arms on top of the bar and looked up at her.
For the first time, she noticed the ocean-blue hue of his eyes. His stare was so intense, she had to look down at her drink.
“Thank you for jumping in.” Her gaze returned to him. “I’m pretty sure everything is on the house for the remainder of the day.”
“I appreciate that.”
“No, really. I would’ve drowned without your help.”
Damn, he is really good looking under that crazy mane.
Mel’s hand went to her own short hair. She liked that it was so maintenance-free, but envied his long locks.
“I’m game to do it again if you need me.” He stretched and sat back in the high-back stool.
“Really?” She chuckled. “I mean, I know I mentioned playing a few tunes on the piano if you were up for it, but I don’t expect you to bus tables.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I have no intention of bussing tables.”
He said it so matter-of-factly Mel thought he was being snarky about it. As if it were beneath him.
“Well, I’m sure you have better things to do anyway.” Mel finished off the whiskey and set the glass in the sink.
“I just don’t think I can balance dishes like Brent does. You’d end up in the red by day’s end with all the plates I’d break.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “I liked chatting up the customers at the bar. Even if you do have the help you need tonight, I’d be happy to do it, Sweetness. It’s been a while since I’ve felt that useful.”
“That would be great.”
Josh finished his drink, pushed the empty glass in her direction, and turned on the stool. She watched him walk toward the front door, hold it open for the people who were also leaving, and stroll out the door behind them.
He was an odd one, that was for sure.
But she was looking forward to having him for round two that evening.
CH. THREE
Casey Trimble had a few non-negotiable demands—that he always flies first class, his personal masseuse, Trevor, travels with him, and that his bitches be gone by sun up
Lately, those demands were being ignored.
It started with the slip from his spot in the Nascar top ten.
Due to some bad decisions on the track, and an accident that kept him from finishing the race in Bristol, his financial support and popularity was waning.
Having his father as his manager didn’t help.
Jack Trimble always thought the way to get his son to work harder was to take his toys away. As a kid, Casey lost his privileges to his video games and access to his friends when he messed up. Now the elder Trimble had informed his son that until Casey straightened out whatever was causing him to drive like shit, he wouldn’t enjoy premium seating and Trevor wasn’t a necessity and therefore, wouldn’t be joining him in Charlotte for the next race.
At least there was a limo waiting to pick him up at CLT. Not a stretch, but it would suffice.
Casey sat in the back of the black Lincoln and clenched his glass of bourbon. He eyed the bottle he’d wedged into the pocket behind the passenger seat. He’d picked up the limited edition in Tennessee. It would probably piss off dear old dad when he got the bill.
Eight hundred for a bottle of booze, son? Was that really a wise choice?
He put the glass to his lips and inhaled the richly-aged liquid.
Yeah, Dad. Because it’s all I’ve got right now.
The stress from his lack of performance on the track was also causing some major let-downs in the bedroom with his usual gang of late-night partners. He’d cycled through his women regularly, sometimes twice in a night. But lately, it felt like they might all talking to one another, and word got out he was dysfunctional in more places than behind the wheel.
You gotta figure this out, Casey, his dad had said at dinner the night before, in front of the entire team no less.
Thanks, Dad, but right now all I want to do is get rip-roaring drunk.
Obviously, he’d kept his mouth shut like he always did. Mostly it was out of fear. He may be almost thirty, but that wouldn’t stop a slap across his face or Jack to treat him even more like a child.
As the limo passed the Nascar Hall of Fame, he sneered and flipped it the bird as he sat back in a huff. He pulled out his cell and punched in the number of his cousin who was local to Charlotte.
“Well, hot damn, if it isn’t Cousin Casey.” The southern twang of Jenny’s voice made his grim expression less so.
“How’s my favorite cousin?”
“Not bad. Just finishing up a few things before I go meet the girls for a couple beers.”
“Ah, to be young and carefree,” he joked.
“We’re the same age, Cuz. Don’t give me that older, wiser shit just because you’re birthday came before mine.”
“Hey, if it wasn’t for me, you would’ve had to wait six months longer to have your first drink.” Casey eyed the bottle and considered pouring another shot but it was too damn good not to savor over the next few days. “So, I hope you don’t mind if your older, wiser cousin tags along.”
“You’re in town? Oh my god, that would be great. Do you really have time to meet up?”
“I have all the time in the world right now. I’m about to get dropped off at the Westin. I just have to freshen up.” From sitting in fucking coach, he wanted to say.
“It’ll be so great to see you. But uh, hey Cuz, we’re planning on meeting at the Start. Is that okay with you?”
The Start, as his cousin called it, was the Rolling Start tavern. He knew it well, and he knew why Jenny asked if it was okay they go there.
Melodie.
“Yeah, sure. I mean, you two are still friends right?” he asked.
“Me and Mel? Yeah, we’re still friendly. I don’t see her as often because she’s always busy with running the bar and finishing up school. But she doesn’t hold it against me that you and I are related.” Jenny laughed a little.
“Maybe she’ll be happy to see me,” he mused.
“Or she might throw your ass out on the street.”
“We’ll see. I can still charm the best of them.”
As he hung up, the limo deposited him and his one carry-on bag at the front door to the hotel. Normally, Trevor would’ve carried his bags and checked him in. Casey felt like a real nobody having to do it himself.
The hotel room was a standard king, not a suite like we was used to, with discolored curtains and a desk chair that looked like it belonged in a garage sale. He dropped his bag on the bed and set the bottle of bourbon on the dresser next to the flatscreen that was barely the size of his iPad.
This was how it started. Forget all the lessons Jack tried to teach his kids, this was the old man’s way of shutting out a weak link. Casey had seen it happen with two other drivers on the team. Little by little, Jack would find ways to demean them, belittle them, until they either quit or—
Casey sat down on the edge of the bed and wiped a hand over his face.
The vision of fellow teammate Ray Tillman hanging by his own belt in the locker room was still fresh though it had been a year ago.
There was no way it was autoerotic asphyxiation like the papers had speculated. That rumor was based on some strategic comments made by management. Tillman hung himself—period. It was pure defeat in every aspect of the word. And it was all because Jack had brow-beaten him, and treated him like he was nothing because he wasn’t racing well enough.
Some men couldn't take it. They were all pussies.
Casey wasn’t Tillman. And he wasn’t going to let his father shame him into quitting.
He’d show them. He’d show them all he was not a weak link.
Casey crossed the room, snatched up the bottle of bourbon and took a healthy swig.
He just needed to get his confidence back.
With five days to kill before the race, maybe he’d find his mojo going toe to toe again with the little hellcat he’d almost married.
He might be the last person Melodie Scott wanted to see, but it had been a few years, so maybe she’d surprise him. Maybe she’d jump back into bed with him.
Or maybe she’d bust a beer bottle over his head.
But he’d be down for a little foreplay like that.
CH. FOUR
Josh had walked all the way to the Nascar Hall of Fame before he realized he wasn’t feeling quite as heavy as he had when he’d arrived in Charlotte a week ago.
In the few blocks walk, he’d thought about the sense of accomplishment he’d felt from the task of simply pouring beer for people. The repetitive rhythm of selecting the glass and pulling the handle coupled with the rush of liquid, over and over, was almost therapeutic.
Between pours, his gaze had roamed to Mel as she flew around the place. Her jeans had hugged her behind in a way that made him jealous of the denim material. There was a sparkle in her eye when she spoke with the customers, and her laugh was infectious.
It was clear by her interactions that she and Brent were nothing more than friends, the cook was old enough to be her father and Josh had spotted a ring on the man’s finger. Not that any of that should matter, but she was damn distracting.
He didn’t need distraction. He needed focus. That was why he’d rented an apartment on the other side of the States.
He unconsciously pulled his cell from his pocket and his finger hovered on the power button. He’d hadn’t turned on his cell phone once since he left Bakersfield so he could imagine the messages from his manager. Quinn would’ve had a stroke if he’d seen him up to his elbows in hops.
Joshy—god, he hated it when Quinn called him that—why are you playing bartender, when you should be writing lyrics?
Why don’t we try to work this out? We’ll do whatever you need to get in the zone.
I’ll do anything, even have the receptionist come in and suck your dick while you sing—that would be the last thing he would agree to, no matter how long it had been since any woman had done that.
JJ—he hated that nickname too—stop fucking around, you owe us.
Please, Josh, come on back, brother. You’ve had your fun.
Truthfully, the last few hours had been fun.
Because after the first three days in the upstairs apartment, he’d gotten so sick of staring at the walls, he’d moved downstairs to a table in the bar. Sitting in the bar gave him the advantage of watching her come and go, and he’d picked up on something about school and how she studied in the back office. He soon knew the ebbs and flows of the customers and had even noticed the uptick in numbers. He’d tried a few things on the new menu, had brief chats with Brent about the weather or the news of the day, but even that was starting to get a little monotonous.
Who knew doing nothing would be so hard?
Behind the bar was an entirely different story. He’d gotten to talk to so many different people, he recognized the regulars and now knew their names.
Billy Sullivan was a hoot. He’d learned a few things from the old man about the feisty owner he was renting a room from, including how she’d inherited the bar from her uncle and she was studying dolphins.
He had to ask the guy twice to repeat the word dolphins. That was a new one. He knew people studied and took care of them, he’d just never met anyone that worked, or in this case, would work with them.
Mel is short for Melody, but with an i-e at the end, not a y. Sullivan had said. And you’re some sort of musician, huh? Well, ain’t that a funny coincidence.
Funny was Sophie hadn’t told him Mel was a woman. He had to wonder if she did that on purpose. And how did she know this Melodie with an i-e? She’d never mentioned it, but he was in such a goddamn hurry to get away from Quinn and the studio, he didn’t ask.
All he knew was the more he talked to Sullivan, the more interested he became, and he had no reason to want to know her other than she made his dick twitch a bit.
Goddamn it, Sophie.
He looked down at his phone.
“No. Nope, no way.”
Once he turned on that phone, there was no going back. He didn’t want to be sucked into the missed calls, texts and voicemails he knew were waiting for him so he tucked the phone back in his pocket and started walking with purpose. He needed to get a burner phone.
As he approached the next intersection, he noticed a woman in a business suit waiting for the light to change. “Excuse me, do you know if there’s an electronics store or a mall near here?”
“Sure, there’s a Best Buy just up the road we’re on. It’s about a twenty minute walk.” She pointed east.
“Thank you,” he said and started walking.
By the time he made it to the Best Buy he was sweating from the heat, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked like this, or worked up a sweat that wasn’t related to being under the hot lights of a stage.
His mind wandered a bit to sweating after sex with the cute bar owner, but shut those thoughts down almost instantly.
Focus, Jones.
It took a few minutes to find the phones but once he located the section, he picked out a simple one and found a rep who helped him find the plan he thought made sense. The kid even activated it for him. Josh paid in cash and was back outside in the heat.
He walked about halfway back to the tavern and stopped in the park he’d noticed when he was on his way to the store. He found a shady area with a bench and pulled out his new device.
Luckily, Sophie’s number was easy to remember, and probably the only one he’d actually known by heart.
His sister picked up on the second ring. “Sophie Lange.”
“Sis, it’s me. I have a new number—well, it’s a temporary number while I’m here.”
“Not turning on your phone is probably a good thing, dear brother.” Her tone insinuated what he already knew.
“Listen, I’m wondering what the story is with this bar you sent me to,” he said.
“The apartment okay? I know it’s probably pretty basic but you’ve never been fussy. Oh shit, is it a total rat-infested dive?”
“No,” he replied. “The place is fine. Just what I needed. How’d you know about it?”
“Ryan from our office out there—you know, the one I dated before I met Steve? He’s the local rep trying to sell the place.”
Josh barely remembered any of her escapades before the Great-and-Powerful Steve Lange came along. He was the only man who was able to tame his sister’s wild ways. “So, she’s selling it?”
“You’ve met Mel I take it?”
Josh grunted. “Yeah, Mel. Short for Melodie with an i-e.” He imitated Sullivan, then realized he’d done it out loud.
“Is there a problem, Josh? I mean, she rented you the room right? From what Ryan tells me, she’s a bit of a spitfire, but she’s trying to leverage all possible income opportunities before she’s out.”
“No, Mel’s—Mel’s fine. The place is fine.” He shifted on the bench and switched the phone to his other ear.
“Josh?” his sister said tentatively.
“Yeah?”
“Is everything okay? That’s twice you’ve said it’s fine.”
“It’s all good. I’m actually happy here. I mean, happy to be away, I guess.”
“Do whatever you need to do, and if you need an attorney, Steve’s got your back.”
Thank god for Soph. He just might need one if he breaks his contract because he can’t produce the album.
“I appreciate that, Sis. Look, I’ll call you in a few days. Say hi to the twins from me.”
“I will, but I think you should see them before they graduate college.”
“Soph, they’re only ten months old.”
“I know, but before you know it, they’ll be visiting you in the old folks home.” She hesitated. “Take care of yourself, Josh. Try not to fuck your landlord. I don’t want to have to call Ryan again asking to find a place for you, okay?”
John pursed his lips. His sister could read him like a book. “Got it. Talk soon.”
He hung up.
He had no intention of fucking the landlord.
Unless she wanted to.
Nope, no way. He was here to decompress, not stir up drama.
But man, she was damn cute. And those lips. The things he could do—
Nope!
He pushed off the bench and headed back to the tavern before he was picked up for indecent exposure.
****
Stay tuned for more from Josh and Mel…
