Second Sets Omnibus

One - River

When the first note fills the tension-filled room, every woman's panties in a five-hundred-foot radius disintegrate into thin air, and the crowd goes wild.

Poof! Panties be gone! Mine included.

A sigh of admiration rocks through every patron present when the six-foot God towering over the crowd on stage opens his fucking mouth, belting out the first note of the night. Heaven shines down. God himself shows up and blesses us individually. Miracles happen simultaneously. The lead singer's smooth, gravelly voice echoes through the bar, and we all die a happy collective death.

What an excellent way to go.

My mouth falls open. Watching the stage from my chair at the front door, I sit on the edge of my seat in anticipation, letting their sound envelop me entirely like a hug. With my arm resting against the small podium raised in front of me, my admission stamp hovers mid-air over the back of some poor patron's hand, waiting for their approval into the bar.

Four of the hottest guys I've ever seen demand attention on stage, drawing every eye to their performance. Proving to me they aren’t the same four guys I knew in high school. And hell, it's not even their performance that draws everyone's attention to them. It's the way they command the stage, like kings ruling over their subjects.

Kieran, the lead singer's mismatched eyes squeeze shut, and his body bows back when a particular high note slips out of his mouth, drawing us in more. His beefy body bulges and veins protrude as his fingers wrap tighter around the microphone. His jet-black hair plasters to his head from the sweat glistening across his tanned skin. He kicks a leg out and then works the stage like a pro, making love to everyone in the room. My ears rejoice in his melodies, and when I shut my eyes, I see the ghost of my past peeking through.

Kieran waltzes toward Asher, the grumpy, dirty-blond guitarist, and leans in. Asher's bushy brows raise into his forehead until a smirk pulls at his lips. His hazel eyes watch Kieran's every move until they sing a line together, leaning into the same microphone. Asher bobs his head, belting out every note on key and in perfect harmony. Eventually, Kieran's growl echoes through the speakers, curling my damn toes.

Moisture pools in my panties when he struts to the nearly naked drummer, Rad, and ruffles his mullet as he pounds his sticks into the drums. Yeah, his curly, 1980s-era mullet, drenched in sweat. His lean body constantly moves with every pound of the drum, and his dark eyes sparkle with life, something mischievous hiding in their depths when he looks out at the crowd. A dark tattoo crawls up his chest and neck, displaying a design I can't distinguish from here. But I've studied it before on the worst day of my life.

"It'll be okay, I promise. I'll get help," Rad’s dark, faint voice echoes in my memories. I can still feel him pulling a coat over my body.

My body shudders, blinking up at the music notes and splotches of black ink dotting his neck and chest. How the fuck? Panic crawls up my throat, and bile burns on its way up.

"I'll take care of you, okay? Do you need a hospital?" he croaks, holding my hair back as I puke on the lawn of someone's home in the middle of the night as music blares in the background.

I shake myself from the awful reminder before it plays back in vivid detail, running my fingers over the knife nestled deep in my pocket. I’ve shoved that memory into a solid black box in the back of my brain since the night it happened when I was fifteen—four years ago. No reason to think of it now. Except him—Ashton “Rad” Radcliffe. I must have been nutty to think emailing them and inviting them to perform at the bar I currently manage was a clever idea. They're nothing more than a stark reminder of two different points in my life. Taking a deep breath, I focus on the men on stage.

A grin splits Rad's lips, and he doubles over laughing, managing to keep his rhythm when Kieran makes his way to Callum, the last person in the four-member band, strumming his bass with such concentration his tongue pokes out.

Kieran whacks Callum on the ass, jolting him from his concentration pose. His shaggy blond hair flies with his movement, falling into his pure gray eyes. Like the badass he is, he doesn't miss a note and scowls as the song ends, and the crowd formed in front of the small stage at the front of the bar erupts in whistles and cheers.

I smile at their carefree escapades and clap when they go into another song without addressing the drooling crowd. The atmosphere tonight flares when everyone jumps on their toes, throwing their hands in the air, and rocks out to the beautiful sounds of Whispered Words—my newest discovery—and possibly my worst nightmare.

My heart rate picks up, and sweat prickles at the base of my neck. I can't take my eyes off their cocky grins and swaggering steps. Girls swoon. Guys swoon. Everyone in the fucking bar swoons over them.

I've known most of these guys since high school. Well, I didn’t know, know them. I knew of them—ego and all. Two years ago, we roamed the halls of Central City High School together, and then they graduated when I was a sophomore. Watching them command the stage for the second time, I can tell they haven’t changed much. They've always been the same demanding pricks, making their presence known. They're larger than life. And yet, they have no idea I exist. Hell, they probably don't even know my name—not anymore, at least.

I was just the poor Central City girl showing up to school with ripped, out-of-date jeans and messy hair, not caring what they thought about me. Or anyone, for that matter. They live the good life in Lakeview, on the good side of town, with two-hundred-dollar shoes and expensive clothes, living off their mommy and daddy’s money. At least, that was then. And now? I have no idea what their lives are like. But judging by the name-brand shirts and shoes, I’d say they’re still doing pretty well for themselves. Even Kieran…

Kieran and I grew up together in the trenches of Central City. Once neighbors, now—he stares at me like we weren't friends hiding under the stars, talking about our tiny lives. We had experienced so much in such a fleeting time and related to one another on many levels. Even when we were little, I thought Kieran was my knight in shining armor—the hero who saved me over and over again from danger.

My heart aches at our shared memories, and I shake my head. I always wondered what had happened to my best friend, who vanished and was nowhere to be found. Every day I looked for him. In the halls of our elementary school. On the streets, we walked. Or on the shared bus we took home. But he was gone, disappeared into thin air.

It wasn't until I got to our only high school, where every student in town attended, that I learned the cold hard truth—he moved on to bigger and better things on the other side of the city, seemingly forgetting I existed. His new reality was the rich side of town, lined with mansions and money, leaving me in the poverty-stricken apartment complex with nothing but his memory.

"Ahem, bitch!" A whiny voice breaks me out of my little pity party, bringing me back to the present.

Right. I'm at work—time to return to reality.

I jerk back, narrowing my eyes on the pearl-wearing, plaid skirt-toting woman standing with an unattractive sneer on her lips. Great. It's her. Tessa. My snobby bully from high school who has never decided to grow up. Ugh. Gross. She taps her fancy-ass heels on the sticky floor and scoffs at me like I'm an idiot.

"You stupid Central girl, stamp my damn hand so I can watch my man perform." A warm smile glides across her face when her crystal-blue eyes land on the boys on stage with hearts floating above her head.

More specifically, she stares at the delicious morsel singing like someone punched his puppy, and he’s been crying for hours. Deep anguish lives in the depths of his voice, and I want to fucking hold it in the palm of my hands and bathe in it and keep it for myself. There's something so right about Kieran's deep voice that calls to me. Or maybe it's the nostalgia of a former friend who is now the ghost of who he was. The only thing that never changed was his love of music.

"Let me play this for you, River Blue. Mom's new boyfriend got me this," Kieran’s small raspy voice utters, sitting beside me in the grass, overlooking the parking lot of our dismal existence. Setting a small, janky-looking guitar on his lap, he strums the strings, tuning them by ear, and he hums, playing me our favorite country song by Garth Brooks, as my head rests on his shoulder. Laying his head on top of mine, he plays into the night, drowning out the sounds from his apartment that I was way too young to understand.

"Right, that'll be a ten-dollar cover charge," I say, returning to reality and extending my hand while wiggling my fingers expectantly.

Glaring in my direction, her face heats. Did she expect to get into this bar for free when a popular local band was playing? Probably. She's entitled like that. But not today, Tessy-boo. Pay up or leave before I sic my bouncers on you.

"The audacity," she murmurs through clenched teeth, acting like I'm putting her out by asking for money.

Hello, it says cover charge right behind my head, bitch. Can't you read? But I remain as professional as I can when she continues her tirade on the ethics of our bar. The audacity is correct. Fuck.

I want to bang my head against the wall and crack my skull open when she murmurs more angry words under her breath, digging into her tiny purse. Her nose crinkles when she takes out a few hundred dollar bills, looks through them, and finally finds a ten in the stack. And she was complaining? Jesus. She has enough money in her purse to feed Ma and me for six months and pay all our bills. She thrusts it in my hands with a sneer and holds out her hand for me to stamp.

I raise my brow, stamping her hand. "And your ID?" I ask again, earning another huff.

"I'm twenty-one," she says, digging in her purse again. "You should know that," she hisses again, finally acknowledging we also knew each other from high school.

Sure, high school was big, but everyone knows who you are when you're a punching bag for half the school. And she's no different, seeing as she was the ringleader of it all.

"Yeah, well… this is a bar, and there's the sign to enter for the show," I say in a bored tone, pointing to the sign behind me. "You either show your ID or get an underage stamp, so they know not to serve you any booze." I shrug when she scoffs again, throwing her pretty blonde hair over her shoulder.

"Here," she grumbles again, flashing me her ID, and confirming the bitch is twenty-one.

"Thanks a bunch," I say sarcastically with a sugary, sweet grin.

Stay professional. Stay fucking professional.

This earns me a mean scowl when I throw her ID back at her, and it falls to the floor. Her blue eyes connect with mine with disdain; it would kill me if it could—cue eye roll.

Was it a classy move? Hell no. But I'm tired of these grown adults insulting me and giving me attitude because of where I live and work. Grow up, already. This isn't high school anymore.

Besides, it’s not my fault my father decided to kick us out and leave us destitute when he found a new woman to put his wandering schlong in. Gross—shudders—I shouldn't think about my father's dick. Like ever. Also, fuck him for leaving us poorer than shit, forcing us to return to my mom’s hometown without a penny to our name. What we've made here is all our own. We didn't need his help, and we never will.

I wave her along, getting the same reaction from her friends behind her. And the people behind them. And so on and so forth. Where’s the common decency these days, people? The compassion? The respect for humankind? Nowhere.

Why would there be any here in Central City, Illinois? We're the poor people, the people breaking their backs to earn our money. At the same time, they live in huge mansions and turn their pointy noses down at us from the outskirts of the same damn town just because of our financial differences.

My wandering gaze lands on Kieran again, singing his life away into the microphone. A dreamy sigh slips between my parted lips. Sometimes I miss the boy who told me everything would be okay.

I wonder if I ever crossed his mind. Probably not. Now he lives the good life with his new stepdad in a mansion overlooking the lake. What I wouldn't give to have a conversation with him, or you know, a good romp in the backseat of my car. That would suffice, too. Because he may have been my bestie as a kid, but I always harbored an insatiable crush on the tall, dark, and handsome singer.

Ma always said I shouldn't touch poisonous things, but I can't seem to stay away from the bad boys who will bring me nothing but ruin. Getting Kieran Knight in the backseat of my car for a quickie is nothing out of the ordinary for my toxic ass. In fact, it's right on schedule.

It's happened a few times with other bands that passed through. They gave me the best two hours of my life—or, let's be honest, the best night of my life—and then they were on their way out the door with a thank you, ma’am. That’s the beauty of it, though. I got mine. They got theirs—multiple times. Threesomes. Foursomes. Hell, even some fivesomes. It didn't fucking matter. Freedom liberated every inch of me. Oh, and the orgasms were nice, too. Nothing beats multiple partners at one time. Some call it being a whore, but I call it sexually freeing. Fuck the labels!

Then the sun would come up, stream through my car window, or hotel room that accommodated us for the night, and they'd move on to the next city. We didn't exchange names or numbers. It was just a simple roll in the hay. And the best part? No expectations of a relationship in the future. I have way too much going on to be in any sort of relationship. Besides, I’d never date a fucking musician. Fuck them? You bet your ass. Relationship? No. The last thing I'd want is a relationship with flighty rock stars who are unreliable. Good in the sack, sure. But on the boyfriend, girlfriend end? Nope. Thank God for birth control and condoms, or I'd be tied to them for life.

If there’s one thing my ma taught me, it was to stay away from rock stars. They bring you nothing but heartache.

Now, if only my heart would continue to listen to that sage advice instead of falling head over heels… Thankfully that shit has only happened once. Past best friends don’t count.

I smile when my best friend, Odette, comes bouncing into view, wrinkling her button nose at the crowd forming at the front of the small stage. Her beautiful curls bounce with every step she takes, giving her an angelic presence.

Darkness would have taken over my entire existence if I didn't have her in my life. She moved into Kieran's old apartment after he left, and we've been inseparable ever since. Her family is my second family, not by blood, but by our bond. Her mom, Korrine, helped raise me into the woman I am, constantly taking me in when my mom had to work nights. Ode's brother, Leon, is like my brother and treats me as such.

"Girl," she says, as her dark eyes scan the screaming crowd. "What is up with all the… the…" She scrunches her nose, looking back at me with her mouth gaping. "Damn suburban moms and dads in training. Is that girl wearing pearls?" She gapes, pointing to the mean girl from earlier. “By God, it's fucking Tessa, and she's wearing pearls,” she murmurs, looking at me with wide eyes.

"You think she clutches them when her boyfriend suggests booty sex?" I snort when she cackles, drawing the attention of the devil herself.

Once again, Tessa's face contorts into a sneer, twisting her gorgeous face into something ugly. Eventually, her eyes drift back to the man candy on stage with a heavy swoon, and dear God, she fucking clutches her pearls as she throws her head back and sings at the top of her lungs, knowing every lyric.

“How’s the first day as the head bitch in charge going?” Ode asks, leaning in to talk over the loud music. "HBIC in da house!" she hoots, shoving my shoulder playfully with a proud grin.

A laugh bursts from me, joy filling my being. I've worked long and hard since I was fifteen to get to this point. I've scrubbed toilets, removed trash, washed tables, and cleaned the floors. Slowly, I've worked toward the manager's position over the years, even at a young age. Some consider a nineteen-year-old manager impossible, but I've bled for this place. And Booker, the owner of Dead End, has always had my back like a father. Years before, he dated my mom, and I got to know him that way. Booker was the best boyfriend she ever had. They may have only lasted two years, but he forever cemented himself into my life. By age fifteen, I was begging on his doorstep for a job to start making my own money. Ma did her best, but it was never enough to keep the heat on. So, with reluctance, he started me out small, and here I am today—the manager. And my specialty? Bringing in bands from around the area to draw in more crowds and money for us.

I pull my loud best friend next to the podium, allowing the rest of the patrons to pile in. I give her a thumbs up, waving more people in line forward.

“Well, I’d say good. This is my doing.” I wave a proud hand at the band on stage as more of their fans pile through the door with eager eyes.

It might sound cocky to some, but I’ve worked my ass off to bring Kieran and his merry band of dickbags here and all the people who follow them from venue to venue. I’ve stalked them on their barely-there social media, begging them to come here and play. I knew if they performed, all these suburban snobs would turn up, too. Cha-ching, money in my damn pocket. Never mind who he is to me. If it's a chance to make extra cash for my future, I'll take it.

Ode whistles, leaning an arm on my shoulder. “How the hell did you get Whispered Words to come here? They're like the hottest little band in Central Illinois right now."

I snort, waving more people along, stamping their hands, and checking their IDs. “Incentive,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek when she throws her head back, laughing.

“Like pussy incentive? Because yeah, Riv, I’d say you’d give them a run for their money. Especially Kieran. I remember him from school," she murmurs through a whole-body shudder, eyeing his thick frame with lustful eyes. "He was so damn dark and mysterious. Who knew he'd end up… up there…” she says, waving a hand in his direction.

“Shut up,” I say, elbowing her in the gut, causing her to burst into manic laughter. “I’m not putting out. God, what do you take me for?” I grumble at the last part, earning a few stares from the stragglers handing me their money.

“A Central City whore?” Ode chortles, earning another glare from me.

I frown, pushing my wet stamp right onto her arm. “Way to keep the stereotype going, bitch,” I mumble. “Us Central girls have to stick together, especially against them.” I nod toward the jumping suburban girls bobbing their heads to the music without a care. They hold their hands in the air, hoping to catch the attention of the four men rocking out on stage.

The boys are too enthralled in their music to notice the bouncing blonde elbowing her way to the front of the stage. Their eyes remain closed and focused on the euphoric sounds spilling from their fingers and vocal cords. I could watch them all day.

“I’m joking, girl,” she says through a laugh, tossing her arm over my shoulders. “But in all seriousness, woman. They’re like the best band on this side of the Mississippi. How the fuck did you convince the preppy assholes from the burbs to play at a place called Dead End?” She raises a brow in my direction, inspecting my face, and then she smiles. “You bitch, you used your name, didn’t you?” My stomach drops at the accusation, and I quickly shake my head.

A lie rests on the tip of my tongue, eager to tell her I didn't. Because if there's one thing I'd never want to admit, it's that I used my name to get me anything in life. I resent the asshole who loaned me my last name for the past nineteen years. If I could give it back and tell him to shove it, I would.

I wave a hand at her, continuing to do my job despite her incessant yapping. “Maybe,” I say, side-eyeing her when her mouth drops open in shock and flies swarm out.

Or they would if they were around. Ode is so damn shocked I pulled out the only famous piece of me—my last name. In East Point, California, my last name could get me a limo, a million dollars, and four hunky men willing to do anything for me. But here, in the middle of nowhere Illinois, it got me Whispered Words, and I call that a win in my book.

“River Blue West,” she shrieks, hitting my shoulder and nearly knocking me off my stool.

I cringe at the sound of my full name and shake my head, sneaking a peek at Kieran. “Bitch, not so loud.”

“I’m just surprised, is all,” she says, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “You hate your name. You hate your father and anything that involves him. Which includes your name, babe."

I scoff, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. “Hate is a strong word when talking about the West legacy. Besides, I'm not the only loser West daddy dumped. So, I use it when it's to my advantage, like getting bands like this in the door. Besides, they never saw my face. It was only my last name. They probably think I'm a dude, anyway. Plus, I worked it out to get a commission for a good turnout.” My grin grows when Ode’s eyes turn to the size of saucers. “So, for every person that walks through the door and pays me, I get twenty-five percent."

And the sooner I get the money, the sooner I can get out of town and start my life. Money. College. New life. It's on the horizon for me. Freedom is in my future, far from this shitty stereotype I've had stamped on my forehead since I stepped foot in this town when I was two.

I sigh, thinking about all the shit I’d love to do but can’t because I don’t have enough money. I’ve been working here and at Dead Records, the only vinyl record shop in town, since I was fifteen, and saving like my life depends on it. I still don’t have enough to escape this hell hole I call my hometown. There's nothing here for me in Central City except a shitty stereotype about where I come from and dirty looks. All I’m trying to do is survive and make it from day to day until I can plot my escape. Until then, I’ll put up with the Lakeview douchebags from the suburbs, who turn their noses down at us every chance they get.

“Oh my God, you finally got Booker to agree to that? You have that man wrapped around your pinky finger, I swear,” she says, shaking her head without judgment.

“What’re you doing here, anyway?” I ask, stamping another hand of the elite and watching as they walk to the bar, ordering a drink.

“Leon called. Apparently, the new manager filled the damn house up, so my brother said he needed an extra hand in the kitchen. The man is cooking his life away. But I’m always willing to give, especially since it is cash under the table.” She grins at that, rubbing her hands together.

“The best way to keep the government out of our damn pockets,” I say in agreement, sighing in relief at the pause from new people coming in.

“Well, tell your brother I said hi, and he’s doing good work. I’ll be up here until people stop coming in.”

“Aye, aye, Miss Manager!” she sings, slapping me on the shoulder, and disappears behind the kitchen door.

We may be a small band venue at night, but Booker runs a bar complete with delicious food and drinks during the day. Ode, my neighbor turned best friend, sometimes comes in to help her brother Leon prepare the food and serve it to our patrons. We’ve all worked here together for several years—Leon and I, mostly. Ode has been in and out, going to different opportunities, but she always finds her way back. Together, we’re a dysfunctional family making ends meet. Even if we still live with our parents on our journey to bigger and better things.

I glance around, taking in the unruly crowd as the music continues taking me out of this world. Building and building, it finally hits the chorus, and the crowd explodes with cheers. Phones light up and lift into the air, swaying back and forth until the chorus falls into the next verse. The beauty behind music never ceases to send goosebumps down my flesh and shivers up my spine. It takes me to another world, letting me leave the one I'm in. Music lives in the soul—hell, it lives in my DNA. Literally.

My pounding heart accelerates through my lungs when my gaze snaps to the one man I've been drooling over since he cockily walked in. His piercing, mismatched blue eyes stare at me from the top of his kingdom on stage, ripping the soul from my body with one devastating look.

But does he recognize me as the girl he used to run to when his mom drank too much and kicked his ass out so she could make a buck?

Deep in the depths of my body, something shifts, leaving me a gasping mess, desperately pulling oxygen into my lungs. It feels like we're two magnetic pieces shifting into place and finding their match—once again. I only experience relief when Kieran’s eyes pass over me, running over the crowd of girls shouting his name. The moment he breaks our stare, oxygen floods my body again, and my trembling fingers halt.

Kieran sings the melody of fucking angels, high in the clouds and looming over us. God, he has the voice of a damn siren that makes me want to come in my damn booty shorts before I speak to him face to face. How the fuck can I face him again when the urge to lick him all over becomes overwhelming?

As the song ends and the music dies, he holds up his toned arm, thrusting his fist into the air. Sweat pours from his head, down his chiseled face, and drips off his carved marble jawline. The lights from above shine down, creating a halo around his unsaintly head.

"How's everyone feeling tonight?" His deep, panty-soaking voice breathes through the microphone, and my damn breath leaves my lungs.

"We love you, Kieran!" some girl shouts with desperation, lifting her shirt, and revealing her tits to the world.

Soon more girls join in on the titty show parade, jiggling them as they dance, giggling their lives away. Kieran smirks, holding up a finger as he leans toward the bass player, whispering secrets between them. Callum blushes deeply, staring at their nipples like a deer caught in the headlights. He can't move away until Kieran slaps him on the back with a grin. Callum shudders, averting his eyes to the stage, and avoids the tit show with all his might.

Ah, shit. We can't have titties on display in the bar. Nudity is very frowned upon. Since I'm the damn manager, I have to force the boobs back into hiding, or more will pop out to join the party, and I can't have that.

"Put your tits away!" I shout, cupping my hands around my lips, amplifying my voice through the crowd.

The girls squeal again, shoving their shirts down. Whispering to one another, they collectively throw me dirty looks. Yeah, barbie dolls, I’m the devil for telling you to put your boobs away. Get over it. Call me the boob police or whatever; keep your damn titties in your shirt, and we'll be peachy. Have to keep this a clean operation, after all.

"What a titkill," the drummer says, leaning into his microphone with a manic grin. He hits his cymbal, tapping out the badum-tss tune.

"Booooooo!" the crowd rings, aiming their displeasure at me with dirty looks and down-turned thumbs.

"You've heard the crowd, Door Girl," Kieran says in a low, warning tone, staring right into my eyes again.

But how much can he see from the brightly lit stage? Can he see who I am? Or am I just another nameless girl to him? My heart plummets into my churning gut with indecision. Do I want him to remember the poor girl from the apartments he left behind? I have no idea. I knew I'd face him eventually, but I'll deal with that when it comes.

"We want the titties!" someone chants, making the rest of the crowd chant right along with them.

I groan, throwing my head back. Jesus Christ. Why do the titties have to come out at a concert? Why's that a thing? Can't we leave the titties out of this and not display nudity? No one bends over and exposes their ass cheeks, so why this?

"No fucking titties!" I shout, standing on my chair, raising myself above the rowdy crowd, still chanting. "You get 'em out. Then you're out! No more show! Capiche?" I raise a brow, scanning the group, frowning at me with displeasure.

Frown all you want. I won't change my mind.

"You heard the titkill!" Rad says with a laugh. "Save your pretty titties for later! Now, K, let's fucking do this." The drummer counts them in with the pound of his sticks, and they begin.

Kieran keeps his eyes on me, burning right into my soul. As the music starts, he sways to the beat, watching my every move when I jump down from the chair and stroll into the kitchen. I feel his gaze everywhere, much like a predator eyeing his prey, scurrying back into the field. It's as if he recognized the girl staring back at him with hope in her eyes. The same hope I've held loosely for the past nine years.

“I’ll get the front, HBIC!” Ode says, saluting me, heading out of the kitchen with a grin and settling on a stool at the front.

Kieran’s heavenly voice blasts through the house speakers again, forming goosebumps across my flesh. Resting my head against the kitchen door, I regain my breath, begging the oxygen to return. Every time that man pierces me with his stare, I swear my knees wobble and weaken under his scrutiny. Kieran has always had that cocky, dark, and mysterious cloud hovering above him, luring me in.

And that's my fucking kryptonite.