The Mixtape by Brittainy C. Cherry

3

EMERY

After spending all day looking for a job, I picked up Reese from summer camp, had dinner with her, and then dropped her off by Abigail’s so I could head to Seven for my shift. The bar was pretty much a hole-in-the-wall. You could walk right past the building without even knowing it was open. Still, people somehow seemed to always notice it.

I told the owner, Joey, that he should’ve invested in more signs and lighting fixtures outside the building, but he always just huffed and puffed about how business was fine—which it was. But it could’ve been so much better.

The bar didn’t have many people crawling in it that night. There was one guy sitting in the back-corner booth with a baseball cap on and a leather jacket. His hands were wrapped around a glass, and his shoulders were hunched forward. At the bar sat a younger couple who couldn’t have been over twenty-two, and it was obvious that this was their first or second date. The awkward exchanges and almost touches made me wonder if another date was a possibility.

Then there was another guy who sat down at the end of the bar—good ol’ Rob, the regular.

I swore, Rob had been sitting on that same barstool since Seven opened. He always had his coffee, which he brought in himself, with a few shots of whiskey that we added in for him. He’d do the crossword puzzles in the paper, or read about current events, but he never really spoke much.

I liked that about Rob—how he kept to himself and never minded anyone else’s business.

“A lively crowd tonight,” Joey said to me as I walked behind the bar to join him. He was just finishing up on his shift, and he nodded my way. “You think you can handle the wildness of this all on your own?”

I snickered. “I’ll do my best.” Tuesdays were the slowest days at the bar, and even though I would hardly make any tips, I figured it was better than nothing. On average about twenty to thirty people would wander in that night, which meant at least fifty dollars in tips if I was having a good Tuesday.

“Just a heads-up, there’s a big concert happening at the arena. So you might get a more lively crowd after the show.”

“A concert? Who’s performing?” I asked. Normally I tried to keep note of when big shows were happening, because I knew it meant busier nights in the bar, but I hadn’t seen anything over the previous days about a concert.

Joey shrugged. “I don’t know, some Oliver and Adam, or Adam and Oliver, or something?”

“Alex and Oliver?” I breathed out, stunned by his words.

“Yeah, that’s it. Sans one of the brothers, I guess. I heard it on the radio. One of the brothers was killed earlier this year. Sad.”

No way. Alex & Oliver were our favorite musicians. Their music defined my childhood. Not to sound like one of those fans—but my younger sister, Sammie, and I loved Alex & Oliver before they found fame. Even Reese knew every lyric to every single song. After Alex passed away, I cried for a good solid three days as I played their records on a loop.

After the third day of tears, it felt a bit silly to feel so much for someone I’d never truly known, but a part of me felt as if I had known him, through his music.

How was there a concert happening that night? How was Oliver going to perform without his brother by his side?

Joey seemed less interested in the fact that tonight was such a major night for Oliver Smith. “All right, then, I’m on my way out. Have a good one.”

“You too, Joey.”

After he left, I wiped down the bar and imagined the magical sounds that were gracing thousands of people’s eardrums as I listened to the same CD that Joey had played over and over again for the past forever years. The only way to get better music would be if someone put a dollar in the jukebox, and it seemed that the only ones to ever do that were drunken college students who loved to flash dollar bills like they were hundreds.

I wondered what song Oliver was opening with that night.

I wondered what song he’d end with.

I wondered how scary it was for him to get back onstage after the incident that had happened months ago. If it were me, I’d be so traumatized and heartbroken that I’d probably never perform again.

But Oliver’s voice . . . it needed to be heard. In every duo, a fan had a favorite. Sammie loved Alex, but me? I was an Oliver girl. Most of the world thought he was the less interesting twin, but I didn’t think that was true at all. Yeah, Alex was the heart of the duo, but Oliver was the soul. His voice dripped with emotion in a way that most performers only dreamed of discovering. His talent was almost surreal.

I should’ve been there to hear him, to see him wear his heart on his sleeve. I should’ve been singing his lyrics alongside him and all the others.

“Another one,” the man in the hat in the back corner muttered, holding his finger up in the air and waving it around for a while before he put it back down. He didn’t even glance toward me, and I wasn’t even certain what it was that he was requesting. I must have taken too long to walk over to him, because he held his hand up once more and shouted, “Another one!”

For a moment I considered whether it was DJ Khaled sitting in that corner booth of mine. Soon enough he’d be yelling, “We da best!” and telling everyone how he was the father of Asahd.

Normally, I would’ve ignored his request and had him walk over to the bar like every other normal customer to order another drink, but it was a slow night, and anything that would keep me busy so time didn’t feel like it was standing still was worth it to me.

I walked over to him, and he kept his head lowered.

“Hey there. Sorry about that. I just got in for my shift, and I’m not sure what you were drinking exactly.”

He didn’t tilt his head up so I could see him, but he nudged the emptied glass toward me. “Another one.”

Okay, Khaled, another what?

“I’m sorry—” I started, but he cut me off.

“Whiskey,” he hissed, his voice low and smoky. “Not the cheap shit, either.”

I picked up his glass, walked over to the bar, and poured him a glass of our best whiskey—which wasn’t really saying much. It was definitely not something DJ Khaled would shout, “Another one!” for, but it was the best I could do.

I went back to the table and set it down. “Here you go.”

He mumbled something, and I was 90 percent certain it wasn’t “Thank you.” Then he lifted the glass and took the whiskey as a straight shot. He held the glass out toward me, and my gut tightened at his rudeness. “Another one,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, sir. I get the feeling you might have had enough.”

“I’ll tell you when that happens. Just bring the fucking bottle over if you are too incompetent to do your job and pour it yourself.”

Wow.

Just what my day needed: a major drunk asshole.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you to—”

Just then groups of people came walking into the bar, loud and rowdy. They were young, probably all under thirty, and dressed as if they had just left Coachella. Within seconds, there were at least twenty-five people walking into the space.

The chatter grew and grew, and it was clear that they were all annoyed beyond understanding. I glanced outside the window, and it looked as if the streets were littered with people—something that only happened after a concert or a game ended, but it was only eight thirty. The late-night crowd shouldn’t have been out already.

“I can’t believe that. I paid over four hundred bucks for those tickets!” one hollered.

“What a piece of shit. I can’t believe he didn’t show,” another barked. “They better be giving refunds.”

“Oliver Smith is complete trash. I can’t believe you talked me into even thinking about going to that lame show.”

At the name “Oliver Smith,” the man’s head tilted up, and I caught his eyes. Those caramel-colored eyes that I’d been obsessed with in my past. His eyes widened and looked a bit panicked as he heard his name mentioned. Then he curved his shoulders more, tugged on his baseball cap, lowering it even more over his eyes, and wiped his finger against the bridge of his nose.

I was frozen in place.

More people entered the bar, and still, my feet were superglued to that very spot.

“Don’t stare,” he whisper-hissed, his voice becoming even more clear. That deep smoky sound was something I’d listened to over and over again on his albums. Oliver Smith was wasted in my bar, and a storm of upset concertgoers were surrounding him without any idea that it was him they surrounded.

“I’m, I’m sorry. I, it’s just . . .” I was stuttering like a lunatic. Holy freaking crap. I’d had dreams like this. Dreams where I’d run into my idol in a very low-key way and pour my heart and soul out to him while we shared a drink. Then, of course, we fell in love and he wrote a song about me, which I shared with our great-great-grandchildren years down the road.

Though this wasn’t exactly the perfect dream.

Reality never is.

That night Oliver was unwelcoming.

And maybe sad?

Most people who drank that much alone often had a little bit of sadness in them. I couldn’t blame him for that. I’d be sad all the time if I’d gone through what he had, especially in the public eye. After Alex passed away, I read some of the hateful comments people made about Oliver. If it were me, I would’ve wanted to die myself. I was sure he blamed himself enough—the last thing he needed was the whole world to blame him too.

“I’m sorry, I just . . . how can I help you?” I asked with my shaky voice.

His shoulders rounded forward even more as if weight was being placed against him every few seconds. He nudged his glass in my direction.

“Right, of course. Another one. I’ll be right back.”

I hurried over to the bar and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, then took it back to his table, set it right down, and poured a glass. “There you go.”

He didn’t reply, so I awkwardly stood there, gawking like a fool.

It wasn’t until he looked up toward me with a cocked eyebrow of confusion that I shook out of my stance.

“Right, of course. Okay.”

I hurried off back behind the bar, flustered and nervous as I tried to get all the new customers their drinks. Business was busy to the point that it was almost impossible to keep up, and I would’ve killed to have Joey there to assist me. But then again, I powered through as I thought about the tips I’d receive. Plus, Oliver freaking Smith was fifty feet away from me. Drunk, sad, and still, somehow perfect.

The fangirl in me wanted to ask him a million questions about what made him write certain songs, but I kept myself together. The last thing I needed was to make a scene.

As the night went on, people started putting their dollars into the jukebox machine. Even though it was refreshing to hear different music, I wished the crowd didn’t have such awful taste for bubblegum pop.

Each time I glanced over to Oliver’s booth, more of the whiskey in the bottle was missing.

What happened to him that night, and how did he end up at Seven?

The crowd kept talking complete crap about Alex & Oliver—mainly Oliver—and I couldn’t imagine what it must’ve felt like to sit there and listen to the putdowns. If it were me, I would’ve snapped—or, well, cried. The more and more Oliver drank, the more tense he became. Hours passed, and people still kept bringing up his name.

It was as if they had nothing better to talk about than the superstar who’d crashed and burned.

“Honestly, it pisses me off that Alex died and Oliver didn’t,” a big, broad-shouldered man commented as he took a shot. “He was the better brother. I always thought Oliver was odd. Besides, their music was trash.”

“As if you know shit about good music!” Oliver barked before he downed the remaining brown liquor in his glass.

The big man tilted his head toward Oliver. “What did you just say?”

“I said”—Oliver stood up, rolled his shoulders back, and stumbled a bit before removing his hat and wiping his hand across his lips—“that you don’t know shit about good music. You’ve been playing the same clichéd bar songs for the past two hours.”

Oh boy. This can’t be good.

The room instantly broke out into shouts as people realized the drunken man in the corner booth was indeed the very Oliver Smith they’d been shitting on for the past two hours.

“I mean, r-r-really,” Oliver slurred, picking up the whiskey bottle and taking a long swig. He walked in the direction of the guy, who was at least twice his size, and poked him in the chest. “I’m s-sick of listening to your bullshit.”

Oliver was smashed, and him approaching the guy talking to him made me nervous. The man was a freaking rock. He had muscles on muscles that were probably growing baby muscles. The guy was a beast, and if Oliver had been a tad bit sober, he never would’ve challenged such a man.

People stood around on their cell phones, recording the whole interaction, and I hurried from around the bar because I knew things were about to get worse before they got better.

“You’re sick of me? I’m sick of you, asshole!” Big Guy shoved Oliver, who went stumbling backward; the only reason he didn’t hit the ground was because the table caught him. “You must think you’re a big deal, huh? Because you’re rich and famous, you think you can fuck all of us out of our time and money, man?” he hissed at Oliver.

Oliver scrambled to his feet and shook his head as if he was trying to unblur his vision. Yet, based on the amount of liquor flowing through his body, I doubted any amount of head shaking would make things clear.

“I don’t”—he pushed Big Guy—“appreciate”—shove—“being pushed.” Both hands landed on Big Guy’s chest, and Oliver pushed with all his might and got nowhere. “Geez, what are you made of? Steel?”

“Muscle, you dick.”

“Oh. Well, fuck. You got me beat on the fighting avenue,” Oliver concluded, which made me happy. The last thing I needed was to tell Joey how a brawl broke out in his bar between a rock star and a rock.

I was glad Oliver was stepping down and that he realized the fight wasn’t worth having.

At least that’s what I thought.

Oliver nodded toward Big Guy’s lady, and a smirk hit his lips. “You might be stronger than me, but I bet I’d screw your girl better than you.”

My jaw hit the floor.

The woman should’ve been offended by the comment, but I swore I saw a small grin find her lips. I bet there were a million women who would effortlessly leave their boyfriends and husbands for a night in Oliver’s sheets. Even though he was the more closed-off and quiet twin, he was still Oliver Smith. “Handsome” wasn’t a strong enough word to describe him. He was remarkably attractive, and with his normal mellow demeanor, he appeared that much more beautiful.

When he was sloppy and drunk, though? Not so much.

“I mean, honestly,” Oliver said, sounding cocky as ever as he nodded and winked toward the woman, “I bet she’s a great—”

Before Oliver could say another word, Big Guy slammed his fist straight into Oliver’s face, knocking the rock star off his feet and straight to the ground.

People shouted and crowded around the fallen star with their cameras in hand as Oliver tried his best to get to his feet but couldn’t accomplish standing up at all.

“All right, all right! That’s enough! Bar is closed! Everyone get up and out!” I shouted, but no one listened. I had to physically start shoving the customers toward the front entrance, and when they were all gone, I glanced over to Oliver. The Oliver Smith. The man of my made-up dreams. My biggest celebrity crush lying there drunk, dazed, and confused like a broken puppy.

It didn’t take long for the paparazzi to get word that Oliver Smith was at Seven that night, and they were swarming the outside of the bar, banging on the door.

It looked like they weren’t ready to leave anytime soon.

Great.

“Here, let me help you up,” I said, combing my hair behind my ears as I walked toward Oliver, who was still struggling to stand on his own. His left eye was already turning deep shades of black, with purplish tones beneath his eye. With one hit, Big Guy had messed him up terribly. He looked as if he’d been beaten over and over again, pounded until he was nothing. Yet it was one tamed, controlled hit that had sent Oliver flying.

“No,” Oliver muttered, waving me away but still allowing me to help him. I got him into the booth, and he slumped over as the paparazzi pressed their bodies against the window and flashed their cameras nonstop like freaking crazed maniacs.

I hadn’t a clue how celebrities dealt with it all. Fame seemed more like a curse than a blessing to me.

“Another one,” Oliver muttered, putting his finger up in the air.

“Yeah, okay,” I mumbled, walking over to the bar and grabbing him a big glass of water. I returned to the booth and sat on the edge of it. “Here you go.”

He didn’t sit up because, let’s be honest, he couldn’t. But he allowed me to place the glass in his hand, and he lowered it to his lips. The moment he tasted the water, he huffed and tossed the water out of the glass—straight onto me.

“Jeez!” I hissed, shooting up from the booth, drenched. “What the hell?”

“I wanted w-whiskey,” he stuttered.

A big part of me wanted to push him out to the hyenas standing outside the building. I wanted to get rid of him and start cleaning up the bar, pretending that the whole night hadn’t taken the most dramatic turn in the history of turns.

But I knew better. I’d worked in the bar scene long enough to know that sadness mixed with liquor was a dynamic duo. When the two were combined together, people acted out in ways they never would when they were sober. And I knew that if I gave Oliver to those monsters outside, they would destroy him more than ever. They would rip apart the small part of his soul that still remained intact and feed their families with his struggles.

I walked around to the windows and shut all the blinds so the animals outside couldn’t get any more shots of Oliver’s meltdown. I knew what it was like to go through dark days. I couldn’t imagine doing it with cameras flashing in front of my eyes.

“All right, come on now,” I said, moving over to Oliver and lifting his body up. He grumbled but didn’t argue too much as I got him to his feet. He leaned against me, feeling like pounds of exhaustion, and I managed to get him to the back employees-only entrance of the bar. I unlocked my car door and slid him into the passenger seat, where he slumped into a ball. And passed out.

I hurried back to the bar, locked it up, and then headed to my driver’s seat, hopped in, and turned on the engine. Before I drove off, I reached over Oliver to put on his seat belt, because I swore to God, I wasn’t going to kill a rock star in my 2007 Honda Civic.

“Don’t touch unless you suck,” Oliver muttered as I brought the seat belt across his crotch area to buckle.

Good lord.

There was a point in my life when that statement from Oliver would’ve made me giddy. Currently it made me want to sober him up, because clearly he wasn’t himself that night.

“Don’t worry. No one’s touching you tonight,” I said, but he didn’t even stay conscious enough to hear me.

As I put the car into drive, Oliver tilted his head toward me.

His eyes were narrowed, and I was certain he was seeing three versions of me swaying with his whiskey goggles on.

Then, he paused. His lips parted, and a rough word rolled off his tongue. “Whiskey?” he murmured.

I froze.

My foot sat against the brakes as he stared my way, a level of disconnect from reality floating around his pupils.

Was he asking me for whiskey? In his current state?

His lips parted again, but before he could speak, he lurched forward and decided right then and there that violently vomiting all over my dashboard was the right thing to do.