Chapter One
PRESLEY
JUNE—TWO MONTHS EARLIER…
He’s late. Again.
It’s fifteen after. His shift started at seven sharp, and this is the second time this week he’s been late.
I can practically hear my older brother judging me, saying something like, “This is why you shouldn’t date coworkers, Presley.”
Unfortunately, Cash might be right on this one. To make matters worse, Jace isn’t even my coworker.
He’s my employee.
I’ve been working at Creeds, my family’s bar, ever since I turned eighteen. About a year ago, after trying to prove myself for over a decade, my dad finally decided to hand over the reins.
One of my first decisions as boss was hiring my new boyfriend, Jace.
Yeah, I know. It was a bad idea, but he needed a job. At first, he was the model employee. He was eager to learn, always willing to help, and the customers loved him.
But that was then.
I don’t know why I check my watch again. It’s still fifteen minutes past seven, and normally I wouldn’t be this annoyed. It’s a Wednesday, and Creeds isn’t usually too busy this time of the week. But without him here, I’m the only one here to man the bar, so naturally, we’re slammed.
I swear, every Manic Fanatic in the state walked through our doors in the last hour, and we’re now packed with people, all wanting to catch a glimpse of the place where Zander Tate, lead guitarist for Manic at Midnight, started out.
“Is it true Zander used to play here?” the redhead in front of me asks as I mix her Malibu and Coke. She’s barely a day over twenty-one—believe me, I checked—and her hopeful gaze roams the crowd like Zander himself will manifest any second and whisk her away.
It takes every ounce of willpower not to roll my eyes. Zander never comes here anymore. He can’t—not when celebrity-themed tour buses like the one that’s parked outside stop by on the regular.
“Oh, I wouldn’t really know,” I lie. I’m not in the mood to chit-chat, especially when there is a line behind her that nearly reaches the door.
“You do know he worked here, right?” she says in a condescending tone. “He’s friends with the owner—the new guy who’s covering for Evans. Hendrix? Do you know him?”
I almost laugh.
It’s not the first time a fan of Manic at Midnight has come into the bar asking if I know the newest member of Manic at Midnight, Hendrix Creed—my brother.
When Hendrix got the gig to temporarily replace Evans, their bass guitarist on tour, I knew he might gain some notoriety.
I just didn’t realize it would happen so fast. The band’s tour has barely started.
“A little,” I reply as politely as I can. I may have agreed to these tour buses coming into the bar—purely for the financial opportunity they provide—but that does not mean I have to share personal information about the band members.
Especially the ones who happen to be my family members.
“Well, enjoy the rest of your night,” I say, handing her the drink with the biggest fake smile I can muster. As much as I try not to judge what others are into, I just cannot get on board with this level of celebrity worship.
Love their movies, geek out over their music, but leave their personal lives alone.
Zander hasn’t been able to visit the bar in years.
The attention is so intense, he can barely go to the pharmacy to buy cold medicine for his daughter without getting mobbed.
Will that be my brother’s life now that his name is plastered all over the internet?
“Be sure to check out the pictures on the wall. I think there’s a photo or two of him there. ”
“A photo of who?”
I turn to see my boyfriend sauntering up to me as if he has all the time in the world. He gives the redhead a wolfish grin before bending down to kiss the corner of my mouth. His hand slides around my waist as he brushes his lips over mine.
It’s completely inappropriate for work, but I can’t help but be momentarily distracted until I see the girl’s cheeks flush. Her eyes quickly dart away just before he lifts his head and smiles. Was he looking at her while kissing me?
“Zander,” the redhead answers. “From Manic at Midnight. I’m here with a tour group that visits all the MAM hot spots around LA.”
“Well, there’s no better place than Creeds.
” Jace gives her a flirty wink as he runs his hand through his unruly blond hair to push it away from his face.
I really wish he were less hot. It would make being mad at him a lot easier.
With his edgy style, ink, and piercings, he fits in perfectly with the rocker style the Creeds exude.
The customers love it. Sometimes a little too much.
“I take it you’re a big fan?”
The redhead bobs her head with enthusiasm. He strikes up a conversation with her about the band while I move around him, serving pints and mixing drinks. He doesn’t seem to notice, leaning over the bar, like he’s hanging on to her every word.
“Jace, I need some help here,” I whisper into his ear about ten minutes later.
He hasn’t moved an inch. Sweat is dripping down the back of my neck, and my feet are numb. It’s barely eight, and I feel like I’ve already worked an entire shift.
“Yeah, I got you, babe.” He gives me a lazy smile and grabs a bar towel, and slings it over his shoulder. “No worries.”
I sag in relief as he begins to mix a drink until I see him reach for the Malibu rum and realize the drink he’s making is for her.
Did she even ask for a refill?
I glance over and see that her drink is barely half empty.
“You know Zander used to work here, right?” he asks her, sliding the drink over the counter.
He knows we’re not in a financial position to be giving away free drinks, and yet, he doesn’t even touch the register.
Instead, he just leans in and watches as she nods eagerly in reply.
“And I’m sure Presley told you about her brother? ”
“Presley?” She says my name in confusion.
He jerks his head in my direction as I hand a pint of beer to the customer next to her. “My girlfriend, Presley Creed. She didn’t tell you she’s related to Hendrix?”
No, because I was trying to make her go away so I could work. Something you seem to be allergic to at the moment.
“Really?” Her voice jumps about five octaves, not caring in the least that I lied to her earlier.
“Yup.” I politely smile, wiping the sweat off my brow, while she sits on the barstool across from me, looking fresh as a daisy, and sexy as hell to boot.
“And I’d love to shoot the shit with you, I really would…
” Total lie. I would rather clean the men’s bathroom at closing time on a Saturday night.
“But we’ve got beers to sling and drinks to mix, so if you’ll excuse—”
“Since Pres is busy, why don’t I walk you to the front of the bar?” Jace interrupts, giving her one of his megawatt smiles. “I’ll take your picture in front of Zander’s signed photo, and on the way, I can tell you some funny stories Pres has told me about him. He’s practically her brother.”
“Really?” she says in a daze, looking up at Jace like he’s God himself.
Sorry, sweetheart. Pretty sure he’s the devil.
He drops the towel he’s been carrying around like a prop for the last ten minutes on top of the bar and plants another kiss on my cheek before he whispers, “Gotta keep these Maniacs happy. I’ll be right back.”
I don’t see him for the rest of the night.
The next morning, I wake up around eleven, bleary-eyed and sore. Forcing myself out of bed, I throw on a pair of sweats and an old Creeds T-shirt and shuffle into the kitchen in search of caffeine.
If I have one vice, it’s coffee. I’m that person who doesn’t believe coffee should be relegated to certain times of the day, and I definitely think decaf is a sin.
Even though I work odd hours, I usually don’t allow myself to sleep in this late.
But last night, when I got home, I was so tired I barely had the energy to strip off my clothes before my head hit the pillow.
I’ve worked some tough shifts in my life, but that one was a doozie.
It also didn’t help that I was frustrated and angry with Jace and myself the whole time.
He had the good sense not to ask to sleep over. We barely exchanged five words after I locked up. When we finished closing out the register and cleaning, he walked me to my car, gave a quick kiss on my cheek, and scurried away.
Am I being too harsh?
He’s not always late, and he did try to make it up to me by texting an apology this morning and offering to help with inventory.
I let out a heavy sigh as I make a large pot of coffee and grab a leftover blueberry muffin I bought from a local bakery yesterday.
My kitchen is small but modern, with updated appliances and cabinets.
Hendrix calls it millennial white—white cabinets, white countertops, and a white-tiled backsplash to finish it off.
Although it does lack a bit of charm, there is at least an island with a small breakfast nook.
Once my coffee is ready and the muffin is warmed, I head to the equally small living room and settle onto the sofa with a blanket.
Creeds is located in Malibu, close to where I grew up, but my apartment is about forty minutes inland. It’s a bitch to drive at night, but there’s no way I can afford to live in Malibu on a bartender’s salary.
Not unless I live off my parents, and that’s not fucking happening.
The Creed family is legendary, not just for our bar—or my brother’s new rock star status—but also for the work my father does in the music industry.
Lance Creed, my dad, grew up with a deep love for music and traveled all across the country, chasing bands and doing all sorts of things I probably don’t want to think about.
But during those wild years of his youth, he also built relationships and made connections, which eventually led to the creation of the Creed Agency.
Today, my dad is the most sought-after music manager in the industry and represents some of the biggest names around.
A couple of years ago, he also added a recording studio in the mix, and shortly after, he officially handed the family bar over to me.
I’ve been trying to make him proud ever since.
I’m about halfway through my muffin and scrolling through Creed’s social media when my phone pings, alerting me to a new text.
I pull it up, but stop short when I see it’s from an unknown number.
Unknown number
Is this still Presley Creed’s number?
Don’t fall for it, Pres. It’s probably a scam.
I know that as soon as I reply, someone will be blowing up my phone asking for money to get out of a foreign prison, my Social Security number to pay back taxes, or worse—sending me random dick pics because they think that’s what women want.
Hey, maybe you’ll luck out and get all three!
My finger hovers over it, ready to delete, but then, something stops me.
But what if it’s not a scam?
They do know my full name…
Before I have a chance to change my mind, I type out a reply.
Me
Yes. Who the hell is this?