to be there,
to feel,
then, she’s gone
Link
It’s after eleven-thirty and the place is jammed—thank fuck. I need it to be. I spent a mint getting it up and running. It took a couple months but I finally have a following. This might be my home but I’ve never worked the bar scene here. What works in Vegas does not work in Nashville. I had to change things up, partner with a local microbrewery, and, even though I know the saying when in Rome, I’ve never listened to as much country music as I have in the last two months.
In fact, I never listened to country music until I opened my own bar in Nashville.
But … when in Rome.
Nashville is the music capital, and, even though it’s not all country, twang outweighs everything. Singers and songwriters are a dime a dozen, and if someone wants to get into the biz, this is where they need to be.
My place, The Knot, is no Ryman. Hell, I’m not even close to competing with the Blue Bird. But every day I’m in the black is a good day and the black is getting deeper and darker lately, which is even better.
“We’re at capacity, boss, and the line is forming down the side of the building.”
I look over at my general manager, Gage, and nod before gazing back to the crowd from where we’re standing in the old loft of the tire manufacturing plant. I swear, this place will forever smell like rubber, despite my efforts to install the best ventilation system on the market. My office is raised, giving me an overview of the activity. I’ve added cool as shit floor-to-ceiling sliding glass walls and, outside my office, there’s a balcony. I can open the walls if I want to hear the chaos or close it off for an almost soundproof space.
The bar is in the round so we can sell drinks fast from all directions. I employ almost as many bartenders as I do bouncers. Instead of raising the stage, I decided to keep it informal. People like to be close to the action and the stage is where it’s at.
Live music—it’s the name of the game in Nashville. Doesn’t matter whether they’re locals or tourists, everyone thinks they’re cool if their ass is sitting in front of someone with a guitar and microphone.
“The rest of the guys finally show up?” I ask.
“Everyone’s here now. I gave them a warning but I still listed ads to hire more bouncers. We need the flexibility to let people go.”
I had to work the door for over an hour because two of my bouncers didn’t show. Whether it’s the door, the bar, the books, or hiring local talent—I do it all. It’s hard to find reliable help. I had to recruit my friends more times than I care to count when I first opened. The Mayson boys are so far past the bar scene, it’s not funny. They’ve got wives and kids—their scenes these days are more like morning story time and afternoons at the park.
I’m about to agree with Gage when the strobes flash across the expanse below as the last band of the night kicks it into gear and, like a magnet, my eyes land on her in a sea of nobodies.
She tried hard while I was working the door and it would’ve amused me had she not been putting my investment on the line. I don’t let kids in and I sure as fuck don’t serve them. It damn-well pisses me off when they try to serve up a fake ID to get in.
And she sure as fuck did. Then, she found a way in.
“Lock up the office when you leave,” I mutter to Gage as I push through the door, the music and hum of the nobodies hitting me. I jog down the stairs without ever taking my eyes off her. She’s fucking crazy, trying to make her way in after I sent her on her way. As if I wouldn’t be able to pick her out of a crowd any day of the week. She might be small but that thick, wavy, dark hair and olive skin—the smoothest I’ve ever seen—would shine like a beacon in the deep, dark of night.
And her skin, she’s showing enough of it. Those jeans might be painted on, but fuck, that scrap of material she’s wearing that covers her tits but shows every other inch above and below, is hardly what I would call a shirt. I could barely keep my eyes off the barbell pierced through her navel just begging any man to touch it, lick it, or suck on it.
I shake that thought off. She said she was old enough to vote, but who the fuck knows if that’s true. What I do know is she’s too fucking young to be in my bar.
As I make my way through the crush to where she’s standing against the wall by herself, I notice she doesn’t have a drink in her hand. That’s something to be thankful for. I never know when the ABC is gonna pay me a visit or set up a sting.
But as I’m about to kick her the fuck out of my club and put her on the black-ball list for life, a man steps in front of her. I barely hear him over the tunes pounding through my old warehouse, but the second he rests his hand on the wall over her head, he goes in for the lame-ass hit when he yells over the music, “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing alone? Let me buy you a drink.”
The little one doesn’t get a chance to answer because I put my hand to the asshole’s bicep and turn him away from her. He scowls at me instantly, which I’m fine with. Anything, as long as he doesn’t have his eyes on my young patron.
“Dude? What the fuck?” he snarls.
Deep, brown eyes look up at me and, even through the dim lights, her olive skin pales. I shake my head and try not to smirk—she knows she’s busted.
“I said, what the fuck? I was talking to her.” The guy tries to push between me and my current problem, but he doesn’t know what he’s up against. I worked the bar scene for years before I dragged my ass back to the Smokey Mountains to get away from Vegas—even if it meant having to deal with my parents on the regular.
I give him a push and square my body between the two of them, blocking his view of her olive skin and that damned barbell. “Go back to where you came from. She’s not interested.”
“Yeah?” He glares at me and takes a step, getting into my space. “Why don’t we let the lady decide who she’s interested in.”
I turn back to my illegal pain in the ass and raise a brow, daring her to speak against me. “Tell this guy you aren’t interested.”
She shifts her weight and turns her eyes to the shit-for-brains standing in front of us. “Hey, thanks for the offer. You’re sweet, but I’m good.”
He’s sweet? Who the fuck is this girl?
The guy growls as he shakes his head and finally leaves.
I didn’t think I’d ever get rid of him and finally turn to her. “How’d you get in?”
She has the decency to look sheepish.
I had no idea sheepish could be sexy as fuck, but, on her, it is.
She looks over at the band and bites her lip before saying, “Not everyone is as thorough as you.”
I scrape my hand down my face and sigh. Now I’m gonna have to fire someone. I need my bouncers thinking with their heads, not their dicks.
“Come on, little one. Time to go.” I shift and motion for her to move so I can walk her out and hopefully find who let her through with that shitty fake ID. I should’ve confiscated it, but it seems I was probably thinking with my dick at the time, too.
She doesn’t move from her spot on the wall and her eyes jump from the band and back to me. “Um, hang on.”
“Excuse me?” I cross my arms and stare down at her. No one tells me to hang on.
She looks toward the stage and I might as well not even be in the same room as this chick, she’s so distracted. Putting her hand out to wave me off again, she mumbles, “Just another five minutes.”
I glance at the band that I’ve hardly paid any attention to all night. A guy is sitting on a barstool strumming away at a guitar singing a cover by Bon Jovi. Since the talent I book are mostly no-names in the industry, they perform a lot of covers. Why the fuck is she so interested in them? I look back, wondering if it’s the lead singer she’s obsessed with.
Just when the crowd is completely invested in belting out Wanted Dead or Alive, I grab her by the bicep, wrapping my fingers completely around her arm. Right then, the music transitions to a slow, soulful harmony. The girl tenses under my hold and, when she looks up at me, she shakes her head quickly and begs, “Wait, please! Just one more song.”
“What the hell is wrong with—” I start, but at the same moment I try to pull her away from the wall, her hand fists my shirt at my abs where she holds tight.
Not like she’s trying to get away from me, she couldn’t.
And not like she’s trying to overpower me, she never would.
No, she holds on like she’s waiting for something—gripping at me as if her life depends on it.
I’m not sure if it’s the change of melody or her touch, but I let go of her bicep and wrap my arm around her. As if she doesn’t know what she’s doing because she’s so consumed by the damned stage, she melts into my chest.
This new song isn’t twangy. It isn’t fast, slow, or even an ode to prison or grandmas. It speaks of love, heartbreak, storms, and tears. I’ve never heard it before. It’s just the singer backed up only by the piano. The crowd quiets and is weirdly mesmerized by his voice, the lyrics, or who knows, maybe both. What I do know is, the girl settles into my soul just like the music.
I don’t remember the last time anything has felt so right—not once in my twenty-eight years.
What the hell?
When the song comes to an end—stirring something deep inside me—the place goes wild and the girl gives me the rest of her weight. I look down and her rich brown eyes are wide as she takes in the crowd from our place near the wall.
It’s my turn to be mesmerized as I stare into her beautiful face and don’t have a choice but to let go of her when she pushes away. Then, like a fucking dream, she gazes up to me with an expression so content and satisfied, I wonder if I could recreate it by making her come with only my tongue.
“Thank you for that.” She gives me a genuine smile and you’d think I just sent her to orgasmic heaven as opposed to holding her during a heartbreaking song. “I’ll go now.”
Like a fucking idiot, I stand surprised and perplexed as I watch the crowd swallow her up. Then, she’s gone.
What the hell just happened?