Chapter 5
Cassie
Nine Months Earlier.
T he full tray of glasses that I was carrying in my hands until approximately two seconds ago crashes to the floor, and both Eden and Hazel stare down at the enormous mess I’ve just made behind the bar.
“Christ on a cracker, honey, are you alright?” asks Eden, looking concerned. “You haven’t dropped so much as a bottle since you started working here. Everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” I reply hurriedly, brushing a strand of damp hair off my face with the back of my hand. Grabbing the towel that’s tucked into my back pocket, I wring it tightly between my fingers as I bend over and start picking up some of the broken glass.
“Hey, don’t look now,” Eden whispers into my ear. “But one tall, dark, and very handsome rock star is headed this way. And he’s bringing his beer with him, which means he’s not going anywhere in a hurry.”
I freeze, bent over at the waist, my ass currently pointing straight up in the air. Is she talking about Quinn? Is Quinn coming over? Why is Quinn coming over?
Every inch of me vibrates.
But before I lose myself in the moment, Leon slams his fist down hard on the bar right beside my head, making me startle straight up.
“Look what you’ve done!” he shouts, and the little lines around his beady eyes intensify. He shakes his head, and then throws a wadded-up napkin at me. It hits my forehead, before falling to the floor. “This is coming out of your paycheck, you can count on that.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off.
“And don’t start with your cute shit, Cassie. I’m not in the fucking mood for your sassy remarks, and enough with the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth guise. You’re not fooling anyone, you did that on purpose.”
“You can’t be serious,” I protest.
“It was an accident, Leon.” Eden backs me up. “You can’t make her pay for something she didn’t mean to do.”
“Leon, I’m sorry…” I begin to say, but I’m cut off again, this time by a deep male voice speaking from the other side of the bar directly behind me.
“Don’t think you’ve got anything to apologize for.”
We all look up as Quinn swings his long legs over a barstool, taking a seat. He leans in, his heavily inked forearms pressed against the stained wood, an old black The Kinks T-shirt hugging his broad chest.
“Accidents happen,” he continues. “It’s what makes us human. People who don’t do anything don’t make mistakes. Ain’t that how the saying goes, Alabama?”
“Alabama?”
His chin jerks in my direction. “Your accent gave it away. I’m right, yeah?”
I can only stare at him. My pulse, over and done with. It no longer exists. Heat sears my flesh, leaving me breathless, and I swear my cheeks must be a darker and much deeper shade of crimson than they were just a few moments ago.
Quinn’s eyes twinkle with humor as he links his fingers together in front of him, and in the overhead lights, I catch sight of a silver hoop pierced through his left eyebrow.
He has a brow ring? Huh. How have I never noticed this before? It shouldn’t be so sexy, and yet…it is. My insides tighten when he lifts his brow roguishly as if to say, I know you see it, and I know you like what you see .
A pimply-faced college kid suddenly leans over the bar, waving a credit card in my face. “Tequila, straight. And a Bud Light.”
“Wait a goddamn minute,” Eden yells back at him, watching me with a smirk. “Can’t you see she’s busy?”
Leon’s face darkens, stepping in front of Eden. “Serve the guy his drinks, or I swear you’ll both be out on your sweet asses. And clean this place up. You’ve got five minutes, no longer!”
I close my eyes for a split second, trying to gather myself together. How embarrassing. I can’t believe Leon just said that. Sweet asses? Who in their right mind actually speaks like that to their employees?
Leon skulks away with a chip on his shoulder bigger than the state of Texas, and I glance up again to find Quinn watching me closely, running his fingers through his short beard.
I swear I feel things stir. Downstairs.
Yes, the man reduces me to a star-struck teenager who no longer has control over her girly parts. Sad, really. Sympathy, that’s all this is. I feel sorry for my vagina. She’s been good to me over the years, not selfish, never asked for much, and all she wants now is a little attention. She’s not being unreasonable, she’s really not. I can vouch for her, she’s good people.
My blood runs hot and cold at the same time, and I struggle to come up with anything to say.
My mind goes blank.
I am so not prepared for this. In fact, I’m tempted to secretly text Becca with an emergency SOS and plead with her for advice because it’s been a long time since I’ve had to do any of this, and to say I’m a little out of practice is the understatement of the century.
Quinn smiles at me, and butterflies instantly go berserk in my belly. “Do you need a hand cleaning up?”
His voice is low and smooth. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to drown out the delicious sound making its way through every nerve in my body, warming me in places I haven’t felt warmth in a very long time.
He’s so nice.
Eden waves him away. “No, I’ve got it. It’s still quiet. Cover both bars for me, Cassie? I’ll just go grab a dustpan and a broom. I’ll have it cleaned up in no time at all.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, reaching for the back of her top, but she skirts out of my reach, laughing as she disappears out the back .
I don’t know whether to kiss her, or kill her, because when I turn around again Quinn is still staring at me, and with the way he’s looking so intently into my eyes, another wave of guilt churns deep in my belly.
He pops a pretzel into his mouth, chewing slowly. “So, tell me, what part of Alabama are you from?” he asks and then promptly screws up his face. He spits the half-masticated pretzel out into a napkin, looking for somewhere to toss it. “Fuck, these are disgusting. How long have they been sitting here?”
I grab a trash can from beneath the counter, holding it in front of him, trying to cover my amusement. The pretzels have been there for as long as I can remember and are no doubt stale as shit because Leon’s a tight-ass and won’t let us replace them with fresh ones until the old ones are all gone.
“I’m from Ascot Ridge, originally. I moved to New York about four years ago.”
Quinn tosses the napkin into the trash, and I place the trash can back on the floor again.
“What was it like growing up in a small town?” he asks.
“Not much to tell. It was an awesome place to grow up, I had a great childhood. There was always someone around to keep an eye on us.”
“Us?”
“My brother and I. He lives in Nebraska with his wife and twin boys.”
“What about your parents?”
“My parents still live down south. They run a delicatessen on Main Street. They’re busy a lot of the time.”
“Fucking love deli meat. ”
Quinn says it so earnestly that it makes me laugh. “Me too.”
The cutest look of confusion crosses his face. “Of course you do, Alabama. What’s not to love about deli meat? I could live on smoked ham. Seriously, I could. And honey ham, too. Fucking love that shit.”
This time I opt to keep my mouth shut because the guy seems pretty damn serious about ham. Who am I to come between a man and his passion for processed pork?
He takes a sip of his beer, and I watch as the muscles in his throat work to swallow it down. As he continues to drink, my gaze darts toward him every couple of seconds to admire his chiselled profile. His nose is slightly bent, as if it’s been broken once or twice before, and the sexy curve of his lips is pure temptation.
Grabbing a bottle off the shelf behind me, I hold it up. “Vodka?”
I’ve been working here long enough to know Quinn moves onto spirits after a couple of beers.
He nods, looking at me with a soft expression. “Yeah, thanks.”
I flip the bottle in the air with my right hand, catching it with my left, and then pour a double shot of Grey Goose into a tumbler. Thank God I just pulled that off otherwise I would have looked like a total loser.
I place the bottle carefully back on the shelf. Grey Goose is expensive. And more recently, it seems I have a bit of a track record when it comes to these things.
“You’re fancy.” Quinn’s smile grows wider. “And black glossy fingernails, too? You’re a real bad-ass, aren’t you, Alabama? ”
“Margarita, please,” a girl calls from the other end of the bar, and the sound of her voice registers vaguely somewhere in the back of my mind, but I’m too preoccupied by the fact that Quinn just leaned in a fraction closer, and having that muscular body of his so close to mine shoots another thrill directly to my nether regions
Oh god.
I’m not usually one to fan-girl over musicians, but this particular one has turned me into a mindless puddle of mush.
“What’s wrong with black fingernails?” I smile at him coyly, which is weird because I’m never coy.
“Not a damn thing. I think they’re hot.”
“Margarita!” the girl calls out again, tapping her fingers impatiently on the bar.
Oh, right. I acknowledge her with a quick nod, and while I’m mixing her drink, I feel Quinn’s eyes lingering on me, watching my every move.
I’m ringing up the girl’s order on the cash register when a regular who’s been slipping tips into my jar for over six months now moves into my peripheral vision.
“Hey, Cassie.”
“Hi, Holden. The usual?”
He nods with a grin. “Yeah, thanks.”
I slide a Corona with a wedge of lime across the bar and take payment, and then I make my way back to where Quinn is still staring at me.
“You’re really good at what you do,” he says slowly, his eyes not leaving mine. “I’m Quinn, by the way. Quinn Tanner. I don’t know if we’ve ever officially met.” He holds out his hand in introduction, and I reach across to shake it, my small hand instantly lost inside his massive one. His fingers are slightly calloused, the skin of his palm rough against mine as he slides his hand away again.
I like that he introduces himself as if there might be someone in the entire country who doesn’t actually know his name. His modesty is refreshing.
“I hear you’re not too bad at what you do either,” I reply, trying desperately not to blush when he grins at me.
My heart rate skyrockets when he leans a little closer, and he smells so good I feel light-headed when I inhale the faint scent of his shirt. It smells like soap, and Brut deodorant. It’s clean and masculine, and it takes a serious amount of willpower not to lean across the bar and inhale him.
Oh shit. I think he just asked me a question. I wasn’t listening though. I was too distracted by the way he smells.
“Sorry, pardon?”
“You ever seen us play live?” he repeats himself.
“No. But I’d love to, someday. If you sound half as good playing live as you do on the radio, then I wouldn’t be asking for my money back.”
He lets out a deep laugh. “If you’ve got nothing else going on, you should come to the warm-up gig we’re playing at The Clovelly in a couple of months. It’s kind of like a full dress rehearsal for the real thing.”
“What’s the real thing?”
“We’re leaving in December for a three-month tour of the US. The record label has just tripled our tour budget to include a dozen more shows across four more states.”
“Nice.”
“The Goodbye NY concert is a way of ironing out any kinks. It’s gonna be a kick-ass show. I could get you tickets if you want. I bet you’d have fun.”
My mouth falls open. Wow . Okay, he’s inviting me to one of his concerts.
Don’t overthink things, Cassie. He’s just being polite.
“I’d love to go. I can’t even tell you how long it’s been since I’ve been to a concert.” Looking over my shoulder, I find Hazel and Eden huddled together in the east corner of the bar, stealing glances our way. Against my better judgment, I ask, “Do you think you could get three tickets? No. I mean four. Can’t forget Raya.”
Quinn takes another quick sip of his drink, wiping a drop of clear liquid from his bottom lip with his thumb. “Consider it done. Maybe you could…I, uh…maybe I should grab your phone number so I can let you know when the tickets are available.”
“Okay, sure, that makes sense.”
Let’s pretend I don’t rattle my digits off so fast I sound like that guy in the movie Rain Man .
One corner of Quinn’s mouth turns up as he taps my number into his phone, and when he lifts his backside off the stool to shove his phone back in his pocket again, I notice that just like the rest of him, his knuckles are covered in tattoos, as are the backs of his hands, and he’s got intricate tribal designs around both wrists.
“You’ve got a lot of tattoos. What do they mean?”
“This one here…” He holds one hand out in front of me. “It’s Latin for ‘all things created equal,’ and the symbol beneath it is a Gaelic word I don’t even know the meaning of. I just really liked the way the script looked.” He turns his hand over to reveal the inside of his thumb. “And this here, se e the fob watch? I got that one because it reminded me of my grandfather. He used to own one just like it. He was a really cool guy, and I miss him.”
“What about the rose?” I ask, pressing my forearms on the bar, leaning in closer to get a better look.
“Ah, well that one’s real special to me. It’s from a photograph of a rosebush my mom grew in our garden when I was a kid. She got the photograph framed, and it’s hanging in her house. It’s the first tattoo I ever did myself, and I drew it completely from memory.”
I feel my expression go from shocked to incredulous to intrigued in the space of three whole seconds. “You did that yourself ?” My eyes grow painfully wide. “It’s incredible, but…but you can’t just go around tattooing things on your skin. What if you got an infection or something?”
He smiles at me, and I want to catch his smile with my lips because Quinn Tanner’s smile is the epitome of everything that’s right in this world.
“I’m a tattoo artist, Cassie. I have been for about fifteen years. I own a tattoo shop a few blocks south of here called Bluebirds.”
“You…you’re a tattoo artist?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re the lead guitarist for a famous rock band?” Talk about a classic overachiever. “How do you find time to run the place?”
“I’ve got a guy who manages the shop for me when I’m not around. His name’s Jude, and he’s kind of a big deal. You ever catch that reality TV show they made a few years back called Ink Warriors ?”
I could lie, and pretend I know what the hell he’s talking about, but that’s a dangerous move. Because what if he asks me a question, and then I’d look silly because I don’t know anywhere near enough about tattoos, or tattoo artists, or tattoo-related reality television programmes to carry on a whole conversation about it.
“No,” I confess with a sigh.
Quinn laughs, and he’s got a really great laugh. Low and husky. I feel it in my core and all the way down to my toes.
He presses the glass to his lips once again, and then he throws his head back to finish his drink, and the sight of his proud Adam’s apple sliding up and down his throat when he swallows awakens a part of me that’s lain dormant for way too long.
As it stands, the electricity I feel surging throughout my body could shut down an entire grid.
“Doesn’t matter, the show kinda sucked to be honest, but Jude’s a brilliant tattoo artist. I’ve got some of the best guys, and girls, in the entire city working for me. People book months in advance.”
“And you’re…you’re actually good at it?”
“I can show you the Bluebird’s website if you like. My portfolio is on there. Jude’s portfolio is on there too, and Vaughn’s as well, but Vaughn’s stuff is way too dark for mainstream clients. He’s into some weird shit that people either love, or they hate. He’s got a huge following on social media though.”
“And you don’t?” I say sarcastically.
“I do alright,” he chuckles. “You got any tattoos, Alabama?”
A small smile touches my lips. Alabama. Strange how he’s so comfortable giving me a nickname when he doesn’t really even know me. But it’s not the worst nickname I’ve ever heard. It’s actually kind of adorable.
“None,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I always wanted one though, but Jeremy would never let me.”
He frowns. “He wouldn’t let you?”
“No, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” I wave away the thought, regretting bringing up Jeremy’s name in the first place. Why did I just bring up Jeremy’s name ? “What I meant to say was…Jeremy wasn’t really into tattoos. He didn’t really like them, and he didn’t want me to get one, that’s all.”
Quinn opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then he closes it again, as if he just changed his mind. A moment passes, and then he says, “So, if you were to get a tattoo, what would you get?”
Now this is a subject I’m comfortable talking about because believe it or not, I have actually given it some serious thought over the years.
“I’d get a lotus flower right here.” I turn my hand over and point to my wrist. “Lotuses symbolize resilience, rebirthing, and beauty in the face of adversity.” My skin feels hot under Quinn’s close scrutiny, so I drop my hand back to my side and shrug. “I’ve been through some stuff, so I get it. You know what I mean?”
He watches me intently for a while with an indecipherable expression, like there are a thousand different thoughts shifting behind those dark eyes of his. After a few moments, he stands slowly on the footrest of the barstool, pressing the heel of his hands into the edge of the bar as he leans across toward me.
“A lotus flower would look fucking amazing on you, but not on your wrist.” His voice takes on a hushed, seductive tone. He leans across a fraction more and his gaze darkens slightly as he slides the tip of his finger beneath the neckline of my blouse. “You should do it here, just below your collarbone.” He drags the fabric a little lower, and there’s a hazy, faraway look in his eyes, a hot, lingering perusal of my skin that crackles through my body like an electric current. “Your skin is so pale, so perfect for that kind of color. It would look beautiful on you.”
His eyes flicker briefly to mine. But he doesn’t move back. And for a moment, I don’t want him to move back because he’s eliminating all the distance between us, and his touch is like a slow burning fire building inside me.
The front door suddenly slams, and we both jump a mile.
Reed Devlin, the lead singer of Cold Neptune, who turned up here about twenty minutes ago, leaves the bar again, looking really torn up about something.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, trying to catch my breath. Once again, my need for oxygen seems to have escaped me.
“He’s just got some stuff to sort out. He’ll be alright. We’ll know more tomorrow once he’s had a meeting with our lawyer.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“Things will work out. They always do.
“Are you leaving, too?”
Quinn shakes his head and smiles slowly as he sits back down again. “If it’s alright with you, I think I’ll stay.”