Her Reckless Rockstar by Gena Snow

Chapter 4

 

Avery

 

 

 

I’m still in a daze when Tristan leaves me to open the door for the guests. What has just happened? Did I just let the loud one kiss me? Why did I kiss him back and want more?

This is insane. I don’t even like the guy. He’s so conceited. Cocky. He must think every woman he lays his eyes on wants him, and he can just kiss them without their permission. Damn. I can’t believe I’m so spineless.

True, I had a little crush on him, but I hated him for ruining Jamie’s life. He might’ve done it unintentionally, but it was still his fault. As a rock star, he has the responsibility to set an example for his fans.

There. I need to stop sounding like a crazy woman.

What I need to remember now is that I’m here to tend the bar for this rock star because he’ll pay me big money for it. I absolutely shouldn’t get involved with him physically. For years, I’ve kept a cool head when it comes to men. I know what men want. They want sex. I learned it when I was only fifteen, and I hated the fact. I want to throw up when men leer at me and make me feel naked. It’s why I haven’t had a boyfriend. I dated a guy in college but never went beyond first base. As soon as the guy touched me, I pushed him away. Working at the bar every day is a challenge because I’m practically doing a strip show, but I have no choice. It won’t be permanent. Harper is in her junior year of college. As soon as she gets a full-time job, I’ll work less at the bar and work on my teaching credential. It’ll take me about a year, and then I’ll quit the bar and get a teaching job.

The party turns out not to be as small as Tristan made me believe. The guys have a lot of friends, and the friends bring their friends. It’s wise of me to have come early to prepare. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Tristan is on my side most of the time to help out, and I take it as his way to apologize for not hiring an extra helping hand.

As much as I appreciate his consideration, I would rather him not being close to me because his presence is a distraction. I spill drinks way too often, even though being busy is also a reason. His eyes alone mess up my heartbeat, not to mention his voice. He has so many questions. It feels like he’s interviewing me for a newspaper article. He wants to know my favorite food, drink, music, and where I would like to travel. I keep talking to him only because I kind of like his voice. He has a deep baritone when he speaks to me, and it sounds so much more than when he shouts on stage.

“Who’s your favorite singer?” he asks me when he’s helping me to fill the glasses.

I answer without thinking, “Frank Sinatra.”

“No kidding?” He grins. “He’s my favorite, too.”

I frown. That’s unexpected because he sings in a completely different genre. Is he saying it to please me? “Really?”

“Yes! Actually, my mom likes him. And I grew up listening to his songs.” He pauses for a moment and starts to hum. “You saw me standing alone / without a dream in my heart / Without a love of my own…”

“Oh my God!” I say, pressing a hand on my heart. “That’s my favorite favorite!”

He smiles, suddenly disappears into the hallway, and comes back with a guitar.

Before I can speak, he strums the melody of Blue Moon. His voice is so deep and strong, and it rumbles through my core. I forget what I’m doing. Just stand there to watch him and listen. A moment later, I sing along with him and start crying.

I remember my dad used to sing the song. He had a guitar. He wasn’t a great player, but to his children, he was a rock star. I think Jamie got his musical talent from Dad.

“Are you okay?” Tristan asks me after he finishes the song.

“Yes.” I wipe my tears. “I love it. Sing it again, please!”

He does what I say and sings the same song again and again. The music attracts the other guests into the house, and before we know it, Dylan is playing the keyboard. Tristan goes on to sing different songs, too.

I’m so thrilled. I cry and laugh at the same time.

“You’ve got a fan,” Max says to me when the band pauses from singing.

“I have? Who?” I ask, blinking.

“Me,” he says. “I love everything you mix.”

“Me, too,” Brian echoes. “Hey, Tristan, may I suggest we hire Avery as our band barmaid, so we can take her with us when we tour?”

“That’s the best suggestion you’ve ever made,” Tristan says with a grin before turning to me. “What do you say, Avery?”

I giggle. “Thanks, but I have my job here.” And I don’t plan to be a barmaid forever.

“I’ll pay you more than the bar,” Tristan doesn’t give up.

“Err, I’ll consider it,” I say, only because I don’t know how to refuse him.

 

Time flies when you’re busy. When I glance at my watch again, it’s seven. The guests have left, and I start to clean up the bar. As I wipe down the counter and the kitchen island, I wonder how nice it would be to live in a mansion like this. How does it feel to be rich? It must be nice. You hire people to do the work, and you enjoy your life.

I’ve imagined how rich people live, and I’ve seen it on TV, but it’s my first time being inside a rich man’s house. I haven’t given it much thought since the moment I entered it, but now, being alone, I pay close attention to the surrounding luxury. The kitchen is larger than the one in the bar, and the bar is the size of those in the restaurants I’ve worked at. Tristan lives here alone. Just imagine it!

And then I can’t help being a bit envious and even resentful. Why are some people so lucky and born with a silver spoon, while others have to work so hard just to make ends meet? Why do I have to lose my dad? Again, tears threaten to well my eyes, and I chide myself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and be proud. I’m doing fine. One day, I’ll have a house with a nice kitchen and a cozy bar. It doesn’t have to be large. It’s probably better to be small because it takes time to clean up. I tell myself.

“Avery!” I hear Tristan’s voice from outside. “Avery!”

“Yes?” I talk to him through the kitchen window that opens to the yard.

“Come join us in the pool!”

“I don’t have my bikini with me,” I say regretfully.

“Piece of cake,” he says, turning to Max. “Go get her a bikini.”

I stop them. “It isn’t necessary! I’m going home.”

But Max has already climbed out of the pool. Disregarding my protest, he towels off and rushes to his car on the driveway.