2
LUKE
I tuck my phone between my shoulder and ear, squeezing tight so it doesn’t fall to the tile floor of the convenience store. The fluorescents are starting to nag at my eyes. “Okay, tell me again what they want?”
My assistant, Randy, replies with detailed intensity, “They specifically want 7-Eleven brand gummi bears. Not worms, no name brand. 7-Eleven gum—”
“Got it,” I say, snatching every bag of 7-Eleven brand gummi bears off the rack. “Anything else specific? ”
Randy chuckles. “I think we got everything else on the rider.”
“We better have,” I grumble before dropping all the bags onto the counter and adjusting the phone into my hand. My neck aches from being crooked. “This is the last time I work with the band from Brushy Creek.”
“You always say that.”
“And this time I mean it. They say they’re from Austin, but they’re all from—” I jab my card into the reader, not bothering to look at the price, “bougie suburbs and think they’re so fucking special.” I rip the card out.
Randy sighs. “If they’re bougie, why are they requesting 7-Eleven gummi bears?”
“Don’t argue with me, Randy.”
He chuckles. “Luke, take it easy, alright? It was an easy fix.”
A missing item from a rider is usually an easy fix. Mostly because they’re usually reasonable asks. Chips and salsa. Coconut water. Sugar-free Red Bull. Not specific 7-Eleven brand gummi bears.
I take a deep breath. I could have sent Randy and dealt with other things, but I wouldn’t have been able to focus. I jogged all the way here. Needed to get my energy out. I left him to deal with all the last-minute details before the venue opened to the audience.
“Yeah. You’re right,” I say with finality.
“Need a bag?” The older man asks from behind the counter.
I shake my head, giving him a pathetic and apologetic smile. I look like such an asshole right now. Blame up-and-coming cowpunk band Fried Polyester.
With my spoils in hand, I bolt out of the 7-Eleven and begin striding down 6th Street at a steady clip. “Alright, I’m on my way.”
“Great. I’ll let them know.”
I hang up the phone and shove it into the pocket of my suit jacket. I ought to make this band pay for my dry-cleaning bill. This suit is custom after all. Breathe, Luke . It’s all a part of the job. A job I love in a city I love. I can handle this.
Being a music promoter isn’t always easy work, but it’s rewarding. I get acts from across the country, across the fucking world, streaming into Austin’s best venues. It’s a hustle and grind every day, but that also means every day is different. I could never see myself doing anything that required me to sit at a desk, in a cubicle, or fill out spreadsheets. That’s what corporate America is, right? And don’t get me started on becoming a real estate agent. I’ve already got the wardrobe for it, but trying to sell homes to people who are hung up on the type of hardwood floors they want is not my cup of tea.
No, my home is on 6th Street, Austin’s nine-block strip of clubs and music venues. Beautiful vintage buildings line the streets, neon signs to boot, and crowds wander between the sidewalks and streets indiscriminately.
I’ve been pounding these streets since I was just a kid, being dragged along to jazz clubs and blues sets with my dad, eventually sneaking into the harder shows with my friends when I was underage.
Yep. 6th Street is where I belong.
Even if I’m having to track down a specific type of gummi bears for a smarmy band from Brushy Creek , Texas.
“Hey, Luke!” a familiar voice shouts.
I tick my head over my shoulder to get a better look. Everyone’s always yelling out “Hey, Luke” around here. I’m a fixture of the scene. Whether it’s musicians, venue owners, hell, even concertgoers, I’ve got my own little fan club.
Before I can find the face of whoever called out my name, I slam into someone. Something rigid jabs into my belly and I yelp in pain.
Bags of gummies fall to the ground at my feet. Fuck me .
“Oh my gosh, are you okay? Did I hurt you?” the woman asks, delicately touching my arm.
I’m about to swear and be more of an asshole than this person deserves considering I was the one who wasn’t looking, but I go mute when I lay eyes on her.
She’s not just a woman, but a beautiful woman. One with lots of dark, corkscrew curls, high cheekbones, and big brown eyes magnified behind the lenses of her glasses. I’ve always been a sucker for girls with glasses.
In her hands is a camera. A nice one. I must have been jabbed by the lens. I touch the aching spot on my ribs. “I . . . uh . . .” Of course, that’s the moment I spot who called out my name, an older club owner, one of the more old-fashioned types. He’s across the street, snickering at my pain with the bouncer. I ignore him.
She drops the camera, so it hangs around her neck. “Let me help you with . . .” She crouches down and picks up a bag of the gummies. “Your gummies.”
I drop to my knees. “No, I’ve got it, I’m the one who ran into you.” I scoop up as many as I can before she can get to them. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking.”
“No, it’s my fault,” she says. “I had my head down. I was looking at my . . .”
Our eyes meet; she doesn’t manage to finish her sentence. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or maybe she’s sizing me up the way I just did her.
“Anyway, here,” she says, dropping her gaze and shoving the couple bags of gummies she collected into my arm.
“Thanks,” I say.
We both stand up. It feels weird to move along and act like this encounter didn’t happen, despite the mortification.
“That’s a lot of gummies,” she says.
“I—um, yeah, they’re not all for me. I’m prone to cavities anyway,” I say.
She offers me a laugh and a shy smile. “I would never judge a sweet tooth.”
“No, seriously, they’re not for me, they’re for a band I’m working with.” A lock of my hair has fallen on my forehead, and I don’t have a spare hand to put it back in place. Apparently, I needed more gel before I left the house.
Her eyes skitter along 6th Street. “You’re in the music industry?”
“Everyone is around here,” I reply. I give her another up-down, not in a lustful or inappropriate way. Just . . . her attire really isn’t 6th Street on a Friday night. It’s more like cute librarian. Long airy skirt and a scrunchy type of top with embroidery. She’d fit into the San Francisco music scene of the ‘60s. By twenty-first century Austin, Texas? Not so much. “Except for you,” I say.
The woman takes half a step back, unsure. “How do you know that?”
“Just guessed,” I say. “I know all the faces around here. I can tell the locals from the suburbanites from the tourist . . . so which one are you?”
She chews on the inside of her cheek. “I guess I’m a wannabe local. I’m new in town.”
“Oh, well . . .” I smile my winningest smile. “Welcome to Austin.”
“Thanks,” she says brightly. “You’re a local, I take it?”
“Born and bred,” I reply.
Her eyes alight. “Then maybe you can help me with something.”
“Depends,” I say, but I’m close to committed to moving heaven and earth to help.
“I’m looking for The Lone Star. Or at least the location of it. I saw it’s closed on Google Maps, but I thought I’d be able to see where it used to be . . .” she trails off, once again looking around at the scenery.
I’m used to 6th Street on a Friday. Vibrant and alive, downtown Austin’s throbbing pulse. It’s where I’m in my element, where I’m most comfortable and at ease. That is unless I’m talking to a beautiful woman I ran smack into. That’s when the thrum courses through my veins, and the sounds of the street become less of a backing track and more about the rhythm of how I move.
Been a while since I’ve been on pins and needles like this.
But this woman’s managed to do that to me. And I don’t even know her name.
“I think I might have gone too far . . .” she says carefully, looking at the bar front beside us.
“Yeah, The Lone Star closed recently but it’s still in operation under a different name—The Yellow Rose. It’s a few blocks that way,” I say, gesturing with my gummi-filled arms.
She flips around and scratches her hand through her crown of curls. Adorable. “Damn, I knew I missed it.”
I step beside her, tilting my head down the street. “You’re in luck. I’m going there. I can walk you.”
“You’re going there? Really? You’re not just being nice,” she asks, a teasing smirk on her lips.
“No, seriously, I’m promoting an event there tonight. That’s why I have all these gummies.”
She frowns. “Is it some weird Willy Wonka thing?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I’m a music promoter, I just . . .” I let out a groan of frustration. “Let’s just say musicians are temperamental and when you forget one thing from the rider, that’s the one thing they notice.”
“Interesting,” she says, leaning her head back enough that the dying sunset casts a golden glow over all her features, illuminating her olive-toned skin. “I always expected, you know, sex, drugs, rock’n’roll.”
I nod. “Yeah, you’d be surprised by how banal and specific the requests are sometimes.”
She laughs through sealed lips, then glances down the street. “Well, I don’t usually go walking with a man whose name I don’t know.”
“Ah, where are my manners?” Good old southern hospitality is elusive when under pressure. “I’m Luke. Would offer you my hand, but—”
“You’ve got your hands full. I could help actually if you—”
I pull my bounty away from her. “No, no. Not necessary. What kind of gentleman has a woman carry his gummies for him?”
“Is this a weird Austin thing I don’t know about?” she asks.
I chuckle. “No, promise, gummies aren’t a requirement for understanding Austinite culture.”
The conversation stills for only a moment, a moment long enough for me to feel like I might never breathe again. Everything about her is arresting . I work too much to date and even while I’m working, I’m sometimes swamped with women on all sides. As much as I hate to admit it, I use my flirting prowess to get ahead from time to time.
Something about her.
“I’m Eleanor.”
Something about Eleanor.
“Well, Eleanor, let me take you to The Lone Star.”
We walk side by side, the conversation stilted with the newness of our connection. I’m not on my game, not my best self. “So, where are you from?” I ask.
“Chicago.”
“Chicago? And you haven’t melted?”
“We have hot summers in Chicago,” she says through a laugh.
“Great music town,” I say.
She nods. “Oh, obviously.”
“I mean, if I didn’t love Austin so much, I’d consider taking things there. Maybe Seattle, although that’s more of a dream of the nineties than anything.”
“Ah . . . Nirvana fan?” she asks.
I decide to spare her the ramblings of a music addict. “You know, that scene feels . . . mythological almost.”
As we walk, the seas of people seem to part for us without any effort.
“So, what brought you here?”
“Work,” she says.
When she doesn’t offer more in explanation, I bring it upon myself to pry. “Ah. What kind of work?”
Eleanor holds up her camera. “I’m a photo archivist at the Reeder Music Library.”
“No way.”
“Way,” she says. “At least temporarily. My contract is only for three months.”
“You didn’t like Chicago?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, I love Chicago. I went to school there . . . so it was time for a change.”
I’m kind of jealous of her. Though I’ve never had an impulse to leave my home turf, there’s a what-if about the world beyond. The past however many years have been all about my job, not about the adventure of experience.
“Who knows if Austin will be my landing pad? I’m trying it on for size,” she says.
And what a nice size that is.
“Actually, that’s why I’m interested in The Lone Star. Because I saw something at work, and I just wanted to check it out.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, lemme—here, I’ll show you.”
I feel bad for making her keep walking as she roots around in her bag, but I’m worried that Fried Polyester’s manager might rip my head off. Twenty-two-year-olds have no respect, and they also have no shame. They let it rip when they’re mad.
“Ah, here it is.” She pulls out a crisp piece of paper and holds it out in front of me since I can’t hold it. “I saw this and, I don’t know, my boss said I should toss it, but . . .”
Her words drift away as I focus in on the photo. That’s The Lone Star alright. And that’s . . .
“I couldn’t find any information on the person from the database, so I . . . I don’t know, I know it’s crazy, but I wanted to see if I could find out some information by talking to people. She just deserves to be immortalized.”
I rip my eyes from the photo and clear my throat. “We’re here.”