Her Reckless Rockstar by Gena Snow
Chapter 2
Avery
My stomach clenches the moment I recognize the man swallowing ice. He’s chopped his long wavy hair, but his blue eyes are no less intense than when I first met him. Tristan, the lead vocalist of Triple Shot.
It’s been five years since our brief encounter, but I haven’t forgotten those blue eyes. His deep, raspy voice still has a way to resonate across my skin. The man stole my heart with just one hand shake and one mesmerizing glance, and maybe one kind gesture toward my little brother.
After that night, I not only consulted Jamie on everything about the band, but also listened to all their songs— songs Tristan wrote with whatever inspiration. I’ve followed them on social media too. The crush lasted for about a year, and I moved on with my life.
My opinions for heavy metal haven’t changed much, I still hate the noise, but I discover the merits of the genre. Listening to it actually reduces stress and makes me less angry and calmer. And Tristan’s songs aren’t just meaningless screams. Some of them are deep.
My fascination for Tristan and his band vanished when I discovered Jamie’s drug addiction a year ago. I blame Tristan for that because Jamie copied his behavior. Jamie started his own garage band soon after he met his rock star and named it Panther Triplets. He wrote songs and played the guitar, just like Tristan. He kept his hair long and wore sunglasses even indoors and a leather jacket in summer. His band would play in bars over the weekends and get pretty popular locally.
And then, one day, I found track marks on his arms. He told me it was one way he got his inspirations for songs, saying many songwriters do that, including Tristan. I confirmed his claim by googling the rock star who started treatments at about the same time. I knew I shouldn’t be so irrational because it wasn’t remotely Tristan’s fault, but seeing my little brother ruin his life just because some rock star was ruining his, I couldn’t help my anger.
Thankfully, Jamie went to see a counselor in school and put a stop to his addiction. Triple Shot’s temporary recession also gave him some warning. Jamie’s band has dissolved, but he’s doing fine and is getting ready for college.
“Tab, please,” Tristan says after having his last Desert Nectar, aka Agave Margarita.
I pass him the check, and he takes it, but not without brushing his fingers against the back of my hand.
An electric wave zips through me instantly, reminiscence of the contact we had years ago at the backstage of the town theatre.
I blush and pull my hand back, glancing at him for signs of intentions.
“Keep the change, sugar,” he says while putting a hundred-dollar bill into my hand.
I’m no stranger to large tips, but anything over fifty is still rare. “Thank you so much.”
“Are you free this Saturday? I’m having a party in my house.”
My heart flutters, and it takes me a full second to get in the flirting mode. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“No, sweetheart,” he says in his annoyingly sexy voice. “I need a barmaid.”
I struggle with embarrassment for a moment and nod. “I could be free. But I’m not cheap.”
“I didn’t expect cheap. How much?”
I think quickly. The truth is I’ve never been hired as a bartender at a private party before. “A hundred bucks per hour,” I say. That’s the most I’ve made at Tropic.
“Are you sure?” he says with a teasing smile that makes me regret not throwing a higher price.
“I wouldn’t mind if you paid more,” I say with a shrug.
“It depends on what you would do for me, honey,” he says in his low voice.
I’m all flushed with desire. Well, anything you want, rock star. Just name it. Damn. I want to say. But I’m aware of the eyes around me. “I only serve and mix drinks, no more than that.”
“In that case, I’ll pay you two hundred per hour. The party will be about five hours.”
I do the math. A grand for half a day. Not bad at all.
“What time will it be?” I ask. “I’ll have to work here at six.”
He thinks for a moment. “It’ll start at around two just because no one gets up before noon on a Saturday. I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay you another grand, and you ask for a day off.”
It sounds too good to be true. My mouth opens but only for half a second. “Sure. I’ll do that!”
“What’s your number?” he asks. “I’ll text you the address.”
I wonder whether it’s a ruse he uses to get my number, but I’d be a fool if I let this concern get in my way of making two grand. I get hold of his phone and input my number into it.
“Wonderful,” he says with a nod as he stands up to take leave. “Wear something decent, please. I don’t want too much distraction.”
I roll my eyes. Throughout the evening, he hardly kept his eyes off me, then why the dress code? I thrust my chest an inch closer to him and whisper into his ear, “You don’t like the view?”
His eyes fall onto my cleavage and stay there for a second, and then he swallows. “I like it a lot, honey. That’s why you need to cover it up so no one else can see it.”
I chuckle while blushing. Shit. I’m not supposed to blush because it’s just flirting. It’s business, not personal. “Are you sure I’ll be getting tips?”
“I’ll take care of the tips,” he says while giving me another thorough glance.
This man is so possessive. I think as I watch him going out of the bar, feeling annoyed and flattered at the same time.
