4
LUKE
The band is flying, the crowd is eating them up. I’ve paid Fried Polyester’s manager and stole a bag of the gummies as retribution. For the most part, my work is done. Now I just need to be on high alert for any funny business. The last thing a music promoter needs is drama at their event. Well, second to last thing. The last thing they need is the band walking out. But we’ve already made it this far. I think we’ll be fine unless someone throws a beer bottle.
I sneak out of the backstage area and check on the bar. No one’s been overserved, everyone’s in good spirits. Then, I take a look at the balcony, narrowing my eyes.
At first, I’m not able to spot Eleanor, but then there’s a glint of something in the corner and I realize it’s the light bouncing off her glasses. She’s hidden in shadow, but she’s leaned over her table, watching the band with all the attention she can muster.
I’d say she’s enjoying it.
I make my way up the stairs to the balcony, giving the security friendly nods and pats on the back. It’s much quieter up here than the floor and for that, I’m grateful. You can actually hear yourself think up here, maybe have a conversation if you’re lucky.
The VIP crowd at my events is always a mixed bag. Some people show up dressed to the nines, others are just fans who didn’t want to deal with the annoyance of general admission. It’s very Texas, a mishmash of everything our fine state has to offer. Beauty queens and blue-collar workers.
I head to the bar, knocking my knuckles against it to get Cressida’s attention. “How’s business, Cress?”
Cressida turns to me, a sprig of her violet hair sticking out of her bun. “Tips are shit.”
“Aren’t they always?”
She smiles and leans on the bar, showing off her cleavage. “What can I get you, Luke?”
It’s an old routine at this point. She’s been on the scene a bit longer than me and bounces from venue to venue depending on who is offering better pay. Old friends, nothing more, even if she does like to shimmy her chest up to the bar and tease me with it. “What’s my friend drinking over there?”
Cressida peers around me, her eyebrow raising. “That’s your ‘friend?’”
“New friend,” I say. “And I know that sounds like a euphemism, but—”
Cressida snorts and grabs a glass to start on a fresh cocktail. “I know, Luke. New month, different girl.”
My insides twist. “That’s not totally true.”
She looks at me from under her long, dark lashes. I can hear her without her speaking. You’re joking, right?
I straighten out my jacket. “For your information, it’s been a while since I’ve dated anyone.”
“I never said dated .”
I bite my lower lip. Been a while since that, too. Just because I don’t have time for a relationship, doesn’t mean I don’t have time for other extracurriculars. But in the past couple of years, the whole “new month, different girl” mentality that Cressida has pinned me with has lost its luster. I’m 35, and I’m not getting any younger. I want it all. Want the job, want the family.
I just haven’t figured out how to balance that quite yet.
Cressida slides a Yellow Rose of Texas onto the bar followed by a Shiner Bock. She snaps the metal cap off with her bottle opener. “Enjoy, pretty boy.”
I give her a smile. “Put it on my tab.”
“Bah,” she replies in annoyance, tossing a manicured hand my way before moving on to her next customer.
I turn to head over to Eleanor’s table and find myself pinned by her stare. She smiles and wriggles her fingers at me.
I smile back and stride over to the table, placing her drink next to her empty glass. “I heard you were drinking a Yellow Ro—”
“What kind of beer is that?” she asks, jabbing a finger toward my bottle of beer.
I glance down at the yellow label. “Uh . . . Shiner Bock?”
“Shiner Bock ?” she repeats, leaning closer, her voice rising in volume.
I chuckle. “Yes, Shiner Bock. It’s a Texas beer.”
Her eyes shimmer as she looks at the beer. “Oh, like how Pabst is a Chicago beer. Well, it’s from Wisconsin, but. Yeah.”
“You want to trade?” I ask. I’m not one for overly sweet cocktails, but her piqued interest is too cute to withhold from her.
Her eyes widen, brows jumping over the frames of her glasses. “You sure?”
“Here, take it.” I switch my beer with the cocktail and settle into the chair beside her.
Eleanor’s cheeks flush. “That’s nice of you.”
I swig her cocktail. Not too bad actually, though the cinnamon of Southern Comfort reminds me of too many mistakes in my 20s. “I want you to get the full Texas experience. If you’re only here for three months, ya know.”
“Sure,” she says, then swigs the beer. I love a woman who drinks beer. The glasses and beer-drinking combination is too much for my heart to handle. She purses her lips, tilting her head to the side. “Huh. It’s sweet.”
“It’s Shiner Bock.”
She laughs, then tips the mouth of the beer toward the stage. “They’re good.”
I rest my arm on the back of my chair and gaze down at the band. Yeah, they might have been a pain in the ass before the show, but that’s the whole punk attitude. “I saw them at a little club a few months ago and I thought they could handle a bigger venue. They’ve got a cult following, as you can see.”
“Cowpunk, right?” she asks.
My mouth falls open. “You know a lot about music?”
“Oh, no, no, ” she says adamantly. “I mean, not the way you probably do. The bartender told me about them. Gotta be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d like it.”
“I sense a but coming on?”
Eleanor giggles and presses the mouth of the bottle to her mouth. I try not to stare at her pretty lips as she takes a sip, but it’s hard. They’re not particularly pink or red, but they’re full and contrast nicely against her skin tone. Lips like hers have secrets and I don’t mean the kind she could whisper in my ear.
She leaves me hanging a couple more moments, watching as the lead singer of Fried Polyester swings a cowboy-booted foot onto an amp and yells about walking miles for gas. “ But . . .” she finally puts me out of my misery. “I’m really enjoying their music. Actually.”
“Good, I’m glad,” I say in earnest. I place my foot on the rung of her chair. Just a little bit closer. See how she reacts. “Would have hated to have forced you to stick around for a show you didn’t even enjoy.”
Eleanor tucks a chunk of curls behind her ear, keeping her eyes downcast on the table. She’s shy. And curious. And ethereal.
Driving me crazy.
“So, um, anyway, the picture.” Eleanor grabs the picture and places it on the table.
I clear my throat and shift my foot back to my chair. “Oh, yeah. The picture.” I’d nearly forgotten about that.
She places it on the table in front of me. “So, The Lone Star isn’t The Lone Star anymore. That’s one thing . . . can you tell me anything else just by looking at this?”
I pull the picture closer to me and take it in. I’m not a sleuth. Not like Eleanor might be. But I’m going to do my damndest to come up with something else to give her, else I’ll look like a fool or a womanizer for keeping her around. I chew on my lower lip and look everywhere on the image except the woman’s face. My eyes land on the orange date emblazoned in the corner. “Okay, well ‘93 . . . that was in Kenny Zapeta’s time.”
“Kenny Zapeta?” she repeats.
I slide the picture away. Don’t want to linger for too long. “Kenny Zapeta, he owned and managed The Lone Star for a while. A couple decades if I’m correct. Sold it in the early aughts.”
“Do you think he’d have any information about this woman?” she asks eagerly. “I mean, I’m assuming she’s a musician. And from the looks of it, she looks so excited, I guess it’s a stretch, but maybe she performed here.”
I cock my head to the side and let my eyes linger on Eleanor for a long moment. Thankfully, the crowd has erupted in cheers for the latest song, which gives me a few moments before I can say anything. Eleanor is sat up straight in her chair, her whole body straining with desire to solve the mystery.
When the crowd settles down and Fried Polyester moves into their next song, a ballad, thank fuck, I say, “You really want to figure this out, huh?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Why?” I ask. “What do you get out of it?”
Eleanor’s face slackens. “I . . .”
“That’s not meant to be judgmental, I’m genuinely curious.”
“Me too! I’m a genuinely curious person. Some people can be curious and let things go. I . . .” Her hands tighten around the Shiner Bock. “I need answers. At least as many as I can get.”
I find myself smiling again. “I think we have that in common then,” I say. “Being genuinely curious.”
It’s not often that a woman’s gaze makes me feel bashful, but Eleanor’s warm brown eyes strike me to my core. I look away, thankful my stubble can hide any flush on my cheeks. “Anyway, Kenny runs a record shop here in Austin now. A collector’s paradise.”
Eleanor whips out her phone. “What’s it called? I’ll go check it out and see if I can talk to him.”
I rub my hand over my chin. “Naw, I’ll go with you.”
“Uh, what?”
“Yeah, Kenny’s, you know, he’s a curmudgeon. He probably won’t take kindly to an out-of-towner walking in and asking him random questions. No offense.”
Eleanor furrows her brow. “Well. I don’t want to ask you to give me any more help than you already have. This is more than enough for a lead.”
“Trust me, you’re not putting me out. I’d be happy to accompany you.”
Eleanor’s lips twist to the side. “Why is this starting to feel like I’m a woman in the ‘50s who needs to be chaperoned?”
“That’s not my intention, not at all, just . . .” Damn, I’m bungling this. “Listen, I know this town. I know the music and the history of music in this town. Sure, I might not have my own personal archive, but I know how to get answers. How to ask the right questions. I know the right people, and I know how to get the ins we—you might need to figure this out. I’m not going to say you need me, but . . .”
Eleanor lifts one of her shoulders and gives me a look that basically says, “Don’t step in it.”
“I think I could be a good resource for you,” I say, holding my hands out. “I’m not trying to take charge or anything. This is your project. Just take this as my official application to be your sidekick.”
Sidekick? Seriously, Wyatt? Sidekicks don’t get the girl, especially when the girl is the person you’re a sidekick to.
“That is a compelling argument . . .” Eleanor says, pooching her lips out and narrowing her eyes as she strokes her chin like she has a goatee. “Okay. Deal.”
She sticks her hand out toward me for a handshake. The second I accept it I have to tighten every muscle in my body for fear of turning to jelly under her touch.
Blessedly, by the grace of God, I make it through the handshake without totally losing it. I slide both my hands under my thighs to keep from trying to touch her again. Have to recover.
“So,” Eleanor says, grabbing her beer bottle and looking at me with a raised eyebrow. “When do we start?”