Key Change (Hotel Bellwether #2)

Chapter 1

Joelle Baker never let a man’s disapproval stop her from doing anything, and she wasn’t about to start.

She was unaccustomed to that disapproval extending to dancing on the bar, however.

Most of her customers liked the coyote ugly schtick, drunk on bottom shelf tequila and the high of being newly twenty-one in a college town.

But the silver fox at the end of the bar was unimpressed, which didn’t bode well for her tip.

“Jo, I swear, if you drop that tray, it’s coming out of your paycheck!” Steve, her manager, hollered from his place behind the bar.

She rolled her eyes and spun on the ball of her foot, raising the tray of shots above her head just to see Steve’s eyes flare with panic because fuck him. “Haven’t dropped a tray yet,” she said sweetly, raising her voice to be heard over the music.

Her manager harrumphed, swinging two fingers between his eyes and hers before taking his vodka soda and disappearing into the back office. Steve never stayed on the floor on nights when they had live music, but that didn’t stop him from finding ways to give her shit.

The Bay Breeze really was too small a venue for the likes of Midnight Storm, but Steve loved the way the boy band packed the bar—even on a weeknight—and Jo didn’t mind the walk down memory lane of listening to her favorite hits from her teenage years.

Though if you’d asked teenage Jo how she’d know the members of her favorite boy band, she would have guessed she was a model in one of their music videos, not the girl serving them drinks.

From her place on top of the bar’s shiny surface, she served a round of shots to the women in vintage Midnight Storm t-shirts.

The band’s over-the-top light show bounced off the wall of windows at the back of the bar and momentarily blinded her as she bent down to set the glasses in front of the women.

“If I can get Jackson to wink at me, next round’s on you,” one of the women declared before throwing back her drink.

“No way,” her friend answered. “You’ll flash him again and get us kicked out.”

“No one’s kicking us out,” the first woman said, glancing around. “We’re the youngest ones here.”

Jo swore under her breath, but the women didn’t seem to notice. They might only be five or six years younger than her, but she felt that difference in their age as the music blared around her. What she wouldn’t give to be curled up on her couch with a bottle of wine and a made-for-TV romcom…

With the bass pounding in her chest, Jo stomped down the polished bar.

She expertly navigated around the bottles of cheap beer and empty shot glasses in her path, despite her aching feet, the stiff stilettos cutting off circulation to her pinky toes.

Halfway down her makeshift catwalk, she dropped into a squat, balanced on the balls of her feet, and held a Corona out to the baby-faced frat bro in the Patriot’s hat.

The neck of the bottle swung between her fingers, a lime wedge sticking out of the top, and she arched an eyebrow at the kid as she waited for him to take his beer.

He leaned close, a folded dollar bill extended towards her, and shouted over the music. “You’re fucking hot!”

Jo’s stomach roiled from the beer on his breath, but she plastered on a smile and snatched the bill before he could attempt to shove it into her cleavage. “I know.”

She was up and gone before he could say anything else, continuing her strut down the bar in time to the music, her short blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders with each step.

Each pulse of the bass thundered through her as her heels struck the bar and she surveyed the crowd jostling for a position closer to the makeshift stage.

Almost all the audience members were women in their mid-thirties reliving a nostalgic obsession with the boy band that had once topped the charts.

Most of her usuals stayed away on nights Midnight Storm played the local dive.

As Brent, the dude-bro who favored Jack and Cokes with cherry syrup, had told her the night before, “old school boy bands” weren’t really their scene.

If the college bros didn’t understand the brilliance of early 2000s pop, that was their loss, but it meant fewer tips, even with her bar-top antics.

And rent was due next week.

Across the room, the members of Midnight Storm danced through the familiar chorus of “Hurricane.” Jo swung her hips in time with the music, her short skirt swishing around her thighs as she made her way towards the silver fox at the end of the bar.

He was her last chance at a decent tip before her shift ended and she didn’t intend to squander it.

As she walked, she caught the eye of Jackson Hayes, the tall, dark, and handsome party boy at the center of the band.

He lifted a hand and pointed at her, twirling his finger in the air.

With a laugh, she complied, slowly turning in a circle as she lifted her now empty tray high above her head.

Maybe Jackson would leave her a big enough tip to cover the last of this month’s rent.

She had been slipping him straight Jack Daniels all night after all.

She’d almost made a complete circle when a large hand closed around her ankle, holding her still with a firm grip.

Her eyes traveled over the hand, down the muscled forearm with the rolled-up shirt sleeves, up the bicep straining the seams of a crisp white button-down shirt, and straight to the scowling face of Mr. Silver Fox himself.

And what a face it was. A square jaw beneath his close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard, full lips pressed into a stern line, blue eyes beneath dark lashes, a high forehead topped with a thick head of dark brown hair streaked with gray.

She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him as she crouched back down, the hem of her skirt brushing his wrist. His hold on her didn’t falter as her lips curled into a grin that had sent lesser men tripping over themselves for a chance to gain her attention.

“If you wanted me to come say hello, all you had to do was ask.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re going to break an ankle.”

Her grin widened. “I haven’t seen you here before. Are you new to town, or do you only come out of hiding for bands who haven’t had a hit in a decade?”

His lips twitched, the tiny crack in his grumpy demeanor sending a rush of adrenaline through Jo’s veins. “Something like that.”

“Hmm let me guess.” She drummed her index finger against her lips. Goosebumps rose on the back of her neck when his eyes latched onto the movement. “You’re a Logan fan.”

He huffed an exhale through his nose. “You’re a Storm Chaser?”

Jo laughed, delighted by his exasperation. “I never do the chasing.”

His hand flexed around her ankle, the weight of his fingers against her skin making her think about all the other places she’d welcome his touch.

Jo didn’t typically pick up guys while she was working—then again, the guys who frequented The Bay Breeze didn’t typically look like him.

If there was one thing Jo never shied away from, it was a good distraction.

Given how frequently reality had been knocking her on her ass lately, a silver fox-shaped distraction might be exactly what she needed.

“You should get down from there,” he said.

In one fluid motion, she lowered herself to sitting, her feet dangling off the bar beside him. Her quick repositioning jostled his grip, sliding his hand up the curve of her calf. He pulled away, clenching his jaw so tightly it looked like his teeth might crack.

“Better?” she asked.

He grunted in response and took a long sip of his beer, a local stout from the craft brewery on the edge of town. Handsome and good taste? Mr. Silver Fox kept getting better and better.

A burst of cheering rose from the crowd as Midnight Storm finished their set.

On the low platform serving as a stage, Jackson Hayes reached between his shoulder blades, pulled off his sweaty t-shirt, and tossed it into the crowd.

Beside her, Mr. Silver Fox sighed heavily and shook his head, muttering to himself as he took another sip of his beer.

“Not a Jackson fan?” she asked.

He glared at the pop star in question as Jackson posed for photos with the women at the front of the crowd. “I’d prefer if he kept his clothing on.”

“Please, that boy is practically feral,” Jo laughed.

“That boy isn’t a boy anymore. It’s time for him to grow the fuck up.”

“Jo! Hey, JoJo!” She turned her attention away from Mr. Silver Fox as Jackson wove his way through his adoring fans towards the bar, his arm around a leggy redhead at his side. “You looked great up there.” He gestured with his free hand to the bar she still sat on.

“Right back at ya. You wouldn’t be saying that to butter me up so I get you another free drink, now would you?” Jo asked, propping her chin on her knuckles.

Jackson ran his hand through his hair and side-eyed Mr. Silver Fox as though he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “It’s not for me. My friend here wants a Long Island Iced Tea.”

“Then your friend can order for herself,” Mr. Silver Fox said, his voice low and menacing. “You’re cut off, Jackson.”

Jo’s attention snapped to the man beside her, thrown by his sharp response. He drained his beer and set the bottle down with an aggressive clink against the bar top. Jackson dropped his arm from around the woman’s waist and took a step towards Mr. Silver Fox, the redhead all but forgotten.

“What are you even doing here, bossman?” Jackson asked, a shadow crossing his features. “I thought we wouldn’t see you until tomorrow.”

“Change of plans. I’m here to make sure you get to California on time.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Jackson spat.

“Could have fooled me.”

Jackson pouted, but whatever retort he had readied was cut off when his twin brother Beckett arrived at his side, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ve got this, Derek. We’ll be there.”