“I guess I am.”
She raised her chin, her eyes hard. “No Heath, I don’t want you to call me a cab. I don’t want you to call me period.” She snatched her purse off the table behind me.
I shrugged. “You do what you gotta do, babe.”
With a flick of her long hair she stormed off, disappearing into the dark club. Another happy Heath Dillinger customer. I shook my head and smiled. Yeah I felt bad because she was angry at me. But hey, it wasn’t always my fault.
I searched the club for Harlow, which took some time because I was stopped by various people who wanted to chat, some who I knew and others I didn’t. They were fans of the band and I appreciated their loyalty and talking with fans was something I usually enjoyed. But I was anxious to find Harlow. I hadn’t seen her since coming off stage and then Kristen had monopolized me for way too long.
Jesse was making out with Piper at the bar when I interrupted them. “Have you guys seen Harlow?”
“Yeah, she left about five minutes ago,” Piper said. “She came back from the bathroom, said she was tired and left.”
“She’s gone?” I felt crushed. She had left and I felt the bitterness of disappointment fill me. Oh fuck! Tell me she hadn’t seen Kristen mauling me across the room. “Was she alright? Was she pissed off or …”
Piper’s brow wrinkled and then smoothed. “She was fine. Just tired, I guess. It is almost three o’clock in the morning, Heath. And she just got off a plane from Savannah this morning.”
“Do you have her cell number?”
“No. I only just met her.”
My disappointment turned to concern. What if that was it? What if I never saw this girl again?
Christ, why was I so worked up about some chick?
“What is up with you?” Piper asked, sensing my anxiety. Her lips turned into an amused smile. “It’s not like you’re never going to see her again.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’ll be working at Fat Tony’s over the summer, so you’re bound to run into her again. She starts Monday and she’ll be doing the lunch time shift with me.”
An odd relief ripped through me. Cool. So she was working at Fat Tony’s. I nodded and failed at hiding how pleased I was. Under the scrutiny of Piper’s wise eyes, I made my goodbyes and walked to my car.
If Harlow started work at Fat Tony’s on Monday, then I’d be waiting when she finished.
* * * * *
HARLOW
“It’s called a hangover,” Bridge said, handing me a glass of water and two aspirin. “Hanging out in a club all night drinking beer and bourbon will do that to you.”
She sat on the edge of the bed next to me. The movement on the mattress made my brain cartwheel inside my skull. I looked at her as blood drained from my face and then I bolted to the bathroom to throw up.
“You know, you’re going to have to toughen up if you plan on hanging out with a band at a club till all hours,” Bridge called out, with what sounded like a smile in her voice.
I squeezed my eyes shut, threw up again, and then fell against the bathroom wall, cursing the invention of alcohol.
Bridge ducked her head around the corner. “Are you okay?”
Keeping my eyes shut, I whispered, “If you love me, you will kill me.”
In fear of the jackhammer starting up again in my brain I didn’t want to move.
Bridge knelt down in front of me. “Did Heath Dillinger do this to you?”
“No.” I opened one eye. “Why would you assume he was involved?”
“Because where there is trouble, there is usually Heath Dillinger.”
“He was too busy to even notice me,” I murmured, shutting my eye. My fractured brain rolled back to the image of the stunning redhead and how he was too consumed sticking his tongue down her throat to notice me leave.
“Well that’s not what I heard.”
“Heard? It’s nine am and you’ve already heard something?”
“I have my spies.” I felt her stand up. “You didn’t think I’d let you stay out all night and not have someone out there keeping an eye on you did you? I’m your older cousin. I take the responsibility of keeping you alive very seriously, you know.”
She grabbed my hands to help me up. “Come on, a shower will make you feel better.”
The motion of standing up sent waves of nausea crashing over me and I threw up into the toilet again.
“I’m sorry,” I groaned, forcing myself upright. “It’s my first hangover.”
“I know. And lucky me gets to witness it.”
Chapter Three HARLOW
Fat Tony’s Pizza Palace was an Orange County icon. For more than three decades it had served the best tasting pizza this side of Tuscany.
It was also known for the bands that played on the small stage across the far side of the room. Unknown bands would play one night, followed by well-known bands the next. It was a lucky dip. You never knew what you were going to get. Fat Tony never advertised who would be playing. If the band wanted to advertise, it was up to them, but he never tried to attract customers with band names. He didn’t have to. His pizzeria was an icon, like the Rainbow Bar on Sunset, or The Roxy and the Troubadour.
Over the years some of the larger, more famous bands that sold out stadiums began to use it as a venue for side gigs, or surprise gigs. Fat Tony figured they liked to relive the early days, when a small crowd gave them more intimacy with their fans. After a few big names had done it, others followed and soon he had a wall full of signed plates from some of the biggest names in the music industry.
Fat Tony’s Pizza Palace, or The Palace, as it was called, was in desperate need of renovation. Dimly lit, with carpet that had seen better days, the interior was stuck in the seventies and the once shiny red vinyl in the booths that lined the walls had worn down to a dull sheen. But it was easy to forgive the weathered interior because of the atmosphere. If there wasn’t a band playing, the awesome jukebox across the room was always belting out something worth singing along to.
Five minutes into my shift I was positive I was going to love working there. Both Bridget and Piper were rostered on and they were guaranteed to make my time working there a lot of fun.
When Leo arrived, I knew without a doubt that I belonged there.
The uniform was simple; we either wore jeans or denim shorts and a top. Because I had never owned a pair of jeans (my mama didn’t allow denim in the house) Bridget had loaned me a pair of her denim shorts until I could go shopping for my own. They were short and showed off more leg than my daddy would like. But they were comfortable and cool.
Leo nudged me on the ass with his hip as he strutted by.
“Hot patootie! Wait ’til the animals get a look at those pins … girlfriend, you’ll retire to the Bahamas on those tips.” And then he smacked his lips together and made noises like he was enjoying a delicious rack of ribs.
As far as jobs went, it was pretty easy. I took orders for pizza and drinks, sent them to the kitchen or the bar, and then served the customers with their orders when they were ready. It looked pretty straightforward.
Not that I’d ever done it before. My high-society affected parents were filthy rich and frowned upon the idea of their children working until after college when we would get proper jobs. It didn’t matter how much their unaffected children begged them. So when my friends were serving fries and pizzas, I was somewhere being taught how to be a proper Southern lady or raising funds for one of my Mama’s charities.
But this didn’t look difficult. In fact, it looked like a bit of fun.
Thankfully we started off slow so I could learn and work out a system. And by the time I was rushed off my feet taking orders and serving, I had pretty much found my groove. It was fun and I managed to score plenty in tips, which I think had more to do with the amount of leg I was showing, than my waitressing skills.