Jealous Rock-star (Jealous & Possessive #7)

Chapter 1

BARISTA BLUES

RUBY

The great thing about being a barista is that people forget you’re human the second they’re done snapping their beverage order at you. Hell, sometimes your humanity doesn’t register at all.

I don’t mind.

I’m not really a people person. And the mechanics of managing an industrial-size coffee machine for six hours straight gives me time to weave stories in my head.

Stories featuring the very same people who snap at me.

Take Green Satchel Guy, for instance. I’m convinced he’s one caffeine-deprived episode from murdering his girlfriend.

Or the pink-haired professor who, at sixty-odd, should really know better than to keep eye-fucking the student young enough to be her grandson.

And yet here we are with me watching her desperate attempts to buy his affection with a macchiato for the fourth time this week, and him… well, sponging the fuck off her because student poverty is real, am I right?

“Yo, how long’s this gonna take? I’ve been standing here for like… five minutes.”

I curb my eye roll only because my boss is standing right next to me, but I let him handle the smiling apology that’s required regardless of how shitty we’re treated.

I catch the finger-drumming-on-counter from the corner of my eye but don’t turn around.

“Yeah, we’ve auditioned almost five hundred girls. Every single one of them is lacking in some way. I’m just about ready to pluck out my eyeballs and send them to Mars just to see if we can find some alien chick who fits the—”

I freeze. Then I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting for him to say more. Because that sounded a hair above average on the juicy scale.

When nothing comes, I sigh, cap the Cuban caramel tower I’ve just prepared, and turn.

Dark brown eyes are fixed on me. Not in a polite or casual way.

It’s the kind of stare that says you interest me / you’re the answer to my immediate problem / I’m going to exploit the fuck out of you, I’m just judging how best to trick you into giving me what I want.

This is LA.

I know how shit works.

So I curb a huff because I need this job and don’t want to be fired in my third week, and glance down at the concoction I’ve just made. “Caramel tower for Tom?”

I know it’s not Staring Guy because he doesn’t look like a Tom. And he wouldn’t know what to do with a fancy drink like this if it swam upstream and fondled his—

I’m grateful when a preppy type steps forward and I hand over the cup.

Toby, my boss moves toward me just as Staring Guy angles his head. “Can I talk to you for a minute, miss?”

Hey, at least he called me miss.

“Sorry, sir, customers aren’t allowed to personally interact with our servers,” Toby jumps in.

I’d be grateful for the assist if I thought he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart. But no. Toby-Married-With-Four-Kids-But-Is-Very-Open-Minded-About-Cheating is very vigilant about shutting down advances toward me. On account of wanting to swan dive into my panties himself.

And there’s my other problem.

From unfortunate habit, I know it’s only a matter of time before he stops taking no for an answer and does something that’ll earn him a knee in the balls. Or worse.

Sadly, the same something would also leave me jobless.

And possibly in handcuffs.

Staring Guy glares at Toby, then tries to catch my eye regardless of the warning.

I turn my back on them both and move on to my next order.

But I keep him in my peripheral vision and watch Toby fix his drink—flat white, just like his personality—and hand it over, hovering and doing that smile-glare thing until Staring Guy gets the message and leaves.

Toby tries to catch my eye after that, no doubt wanting praise for his chivalry.

Barf.

I go about my day, listening to snippets of stories to spice up my boring plotline.

By the mid-morning lull, I accept that Staring Guy and his Mars-bound eyeballs will probably be the highlight of today.

I’m on break when Greg, one of my two colleagues, walks in and makes a beeline for me.

“Hey, Ruby.”

I stifle a groan because I really don’t feel like peopling today. “Hey, Greg.”

Chagrin deepens when he pulls out a chair and plonks himself down. I was hoping to spend my fifteen minutes of peace alone, but apparently not.

I suck in a breath and reach for the bright side. At least he’s not Toby.

But then Greg looks around dramatically, like he’s an extra in Law & Order and he’s just heard gunshots.

“What’s up?” I hurry him along.

He leans in with a too-wide smirk that makes me wonder if he’s high. That worry escalates when he reaches into his apron.

“Was waiting to catch you alone…” Oh please, hell no. “There was a customer this morning. He asked me to give you something. Paid me… get this… five hundred bucks for it.”

Wait. “What?”

Greg’s head bobs way too long. Yep, he’s high.

His hand emerges holding several hundred-dollar bills.

But tucked between the once-crisp fold is— “A business card?” I frown.

“He was adamant I give it to you. Said you should call him today. Like today. This morning, even.”

I purse my lips. “Yeah, no, that’s not happening.”

Greg shakes his head like a manic bobblehead. “I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong.”

This is LA. There are a million times as many sleazebags as decent human beings. But Greg’s insistence makes me hesitate.

“I didn’t even serve the guy. You don’t think I find any motive to get in touch with someone sketchy as fuck?”

He shakes his head harder. “I saw him trying to talk to you. You didn’t recognize him, did you?”

I roll my eyes, luxuriating in the freedom of being off the shop floor. “Clearly not.”

“Rubes. That was Carl Band Baby Sitter No. 3 Leebers.”

I tilt my head in mock sympathy. “You just spewed a whole bunch of words, Greg. Sadly none of them appealed. Especially the first one.”

He reddens. “Sorry. I know you don’t like being called Rubes.”

“And yet you do it. Repeatedly,” I mutter not-so-quietly.

Besides sounding way too much like pubes, it’s not sexy. At all. What I also don’t get? People granting themselves the liberty to hand out nicknames.

“Okay, I think we’re straying from the important part.”

I stare back.

He clears his throat. “Yeah, so Carl Leebers—also known as Clipboard Carl—is the assistant to the assistant to Freddie Nova.”

He sits back, waiting for… something. Then his eyes widen. “Freddie Nova. Manager to the biggest rock band in the world?”

“Coldplay?” I had a medium-sized crush on the lead singer a handful of years back.

He has the audacity to look affronted. “No, not Coldplay.”

I shrug.

“Christ, I can’t believe you… Riot Saints, Ruby. Freddie Nova is the manager of Riot Saints!”

“Oh. Sure. Great. And what did Clipboard Carl want me to call him for?”

“He didn’t say. But word on the band boards is they’re auditioning for the new music video.”

I start to snort, then snippets of Staring Guy’s conversation trickle in. Greg latches onto my hesitation and slides the card across the table. “Call him, Rube—Ruby.”

I’m not going to, of course. Because it’s stupid. “Don’t see the point. I have zero music video experience and I can’t sing to save myself from a firing squad.”

“Well, he saw something he liked. Enough to promise me another five hundred just for giving you the card.”

“What? Seriously?” Welcome to LA. Where assholes toss out money like it’s water. Sadly, never my way without a sleazy proposition attached.

His head bobs again. “Seriously. Think about how much you could get if you land the gig.”

There are so many red flags planted in this plotline it could be a United Nations summit.

But…

I’m broke and in serious danger of falling behind on rent.

The reason I took an early break today is because Toby’s advances took a steep dive from how much longer before I knee him in the balls to how much longer before I’m featured on Dateline as the barista who finally snapped.

It’s fucking déjà vu all over again, as the stupid joke goes.

I don’t want history to repeat itself. I don’t want to be unemployed or come within a whisker of being charged for assault like the last time I clawed another boss’s face when he grabbed my ass.

I’ve got a day off tomorrow. And maybe…if Clipboard Carl’s legit, maybe it’ll be a laugh to see how far this goes.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Greg says, eerily echoing my thoughts.

“Don’t answer that,” I mutter to myself.

He pushes the card at me and to my eternal shame, I pick it up and pocket it.

All day I swing between nah, it’s too good to be true and but the money could solve a lot of problems.

The catalyst comes at midnight.

My phone rings.

Toby.

Ordering me to come in for inventory. On my day off. Alone.

I tell him I can’t because I’m on my period and bleeding everywhere.

He hangs up so fast I laugh until my stomach hurts.

But the laugh doesn’t erase the stark, pissy truth. That my time at the coffee shop is almost over.

The next morning, I wake up, see the business card on my nightstand.

I stare at the glossy print for a good ten minutes, half convinced it’ll disintegrate in my hand.

Carl Leebers.

Assistant to the assistant to Freddie Nova.

The wiser thing to do right now is rip up the business card, toss it in the bin and spend a productive morning job-hunting.

Jump the Sleazy Toby express before I catch something I shouldn’t. Or toss a steaming milk pitcher at him that’ll see me in jail. Or worse.

But…Christ, the thought of it is depressing as hell.

So I suck in a breath, pick up my phone.

And I call Clipboard Carl.

It rings twice before a slick voice answers, “Carl Leebers speaking.”

I bite my lip. “So… you pay all baristas five hundred bucks just for looking at them, or am I special?”

There’s a pause. Then laughter. It’s a little too I-won-the-jackpot for my liking but I hang in there. For now.

“You must be Ruby. Yes, you’re very special.”

Umm…eww. My finger hovers over the ‘end call’ button.

“Listen, I don’t waste time or money unless I know what I’m after.”