Beat

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Lucky

“Wanna f**k?”

Lovely approach. “Does that line ever actually work for you?”

The tactless drunk at least has the decency to look a little embarrassed. “Not really.”

“Perhaps you should try opening with a compliment instead. We like that much better. Go ahead, give it another try.”

“All right.” He gulps back the rest of what will now be the last vodka tonic he’s served tonight and slurs, “You got a nice rack.”

I shake my head and move to the next table. So much for trying to help the clueless ass. After taking drink refill orders from a half dozen tables, I pause, my attention drifting to the small stage. A gyrating woman is pouring her heart out, butchering “Hey Jude.” The sound is akin to nails scraping down a blackboard.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Beatles. Obviously. But this poor song is way too long. It needs to be retired permanently from the karaoke catalog. The drunkards in the front row sway their arms back and forth in the air—joining in on the off-key, off-pitch, off-beat marathon sing-along. Somehow, tonight it still makes me smile. I walk to the bar singing along quietly to myself, “Na na na nananana, nananana, hey Jude.”

“We’re getting drunk as soon as this place empties out tonight,” Avery yells over the deafening crescendo of the chorus. Suddenly, the singer on stage goes for the last na na na nananana and her voice breaks into a horrific earsplitting screech.

“I may not be able to wait that long.” I tip my chin in the general direction of the small stage at the other end of the bar and shake my head.

“She’s not that bad actually.”

I make a face that conveys what I don’t say out loud, and Avery rolls her eyes as she finishes making my drink order.

“You know, you could always show her how it’s done.”

I load my tray with the four drinks she’s made and stick my middle finger up at my best friend before heading back to the table of four middle-aged women searching for liquid courage.

Stopping at the wall lined with framed photos, I straighten a crooked picture of my dad and Bruce Springsteen with their arms slung over each other’s shoulders. They’re both sweaty messes from an impromptu hour-long jam session. It was taken at the bar’s one-year anniversary party. Seeing Dad’s smile brings out mine. I close my eyes briefly. Step two, Dad. I’m making progress.

“You ladies going to get up there and sing tonight?” I ask, trying to be friendly as I hand off three mojitos and a tequila sunrise. It’s the third tequila sunrise for the redhead with the thick bun wrapped at the nape of her neck. She’s already feeling no pain.

“I would love to,” slurs the redhead, “but I need to have a few more drinks before I’ll have the nerve.”

I nod, never one to push people past their limit. Redhead’s wearing a cream silk button-down blouse—buttons fastened all the way to the top—with a navy pencil skirt and matching blazer, a string of pearls completing her conservative ensemble. The outfit pairs perfectly with the demure bun. But as I start to walk away, something under the table catches my eye—and it’s not her impeccably crossed ankles. It’s the shoes. They definitely don’t go with the rest of the package. Five-inch Mary Jane stilettos, the red soles a dead giveaway that there is more to the woman than meets the eye.

Spending six nights a week for the last seven years here at Lucky’s has taught me a lot about people. I can usually spot a closet Beyoncé wanna-be a mile away. I smirk to myself, picturing Redhead standing in front of her bedroom mirror—letting her hair down and singing into her hairbrush wearing nothing but those nine-hundred-dollar Louboutins.

The crowd has doubled in the last half hour. It’s Saturday night and the late movie across the street just let out. I jump behind the bar to help Avery for a little while and tell the DJ to throw on some house music so he can pitch in waiting tables until things slow down. Twenty minutes later, I notice the drink order Avery is making.

“Those for the same group that ordered them a little while ago?” She’s finishing off mixing another round of mojitos, and the colors settling in the tall tequila sunrise glass are already at full peak.

“I think so. Redhead with a bun?”

“Yep. That’s her. I got twenty she’s our flasher.” Flasher is a term we use for the patron who takes us by surprise. Without fail, there’s one every weekend. They come in looking conservative, wearing their sleek taupe Burberry raincoats cinched tightly at the waist. But a few drinks and a microphone later, they’re up on stage whipping open their coats, flashing us their flesh as they grind their hips like a pro stripper. “Bet she’s covering a red G-string under that knee-length skirt too.”

“Her? Are you joking? She’s wearing f*****g pearls.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”

Avery reaches into her pocket and digs out a twenty. She shoves it into an empty glass and sets it on a shelf holding liquor bottles behind her. “Put your money up and cover the bar. I need to get a close look at Pearls and make a stop at the bathroom.”

“You know, I’m still your boss for another….” I look at my watch. Nearly eleven o’clock. “Five hours.”

“I’ve known you since middle school. Who are you kidding? You’ll still be the boss even after I own half the place.” She kisses me on the cheek as she rushes by.

Ten minutes later I’m still alone behind the bar and Avery is nowhere to be found. I’m sure she’s in the back alley smoking, even though she swears every day that she’s quit. I check the IDs of three very young-looking pretty girls—they’re over twenty-one, but barely. I can’t miss their conversation.

“Seriously, he has to be gay.”

“Why, because he hasn’t noticed you yet?”

“No, because he’s too perfect to be straight.”

“Could we buy someone a drink?” one of the young blondes asks me.

“Of course. What do you want me to send over?”

They giggle for a few minutes, then decide on a Screaming Orgasm for their intended target. I mix the vodka, Bailey’s and Kahlua and pour it over a tumbler of ice.

“Okay. Who’s the lucky recipient?”

All three of them point to the other end of the bar and say in unison, “Him.”

***

Lord. That is one beautiful man.

The three blondes were clearly not the only ones to notice. The brunette next to him with her full boobage on display is giving him her rapt attention when I walk over. Yet I feel his eyes on me as I walk down the long bar. I’m used to being hit on. Men seem to find an attractive woman whose sole purpose is to deliver them alcohol an alluring combination. They tend to become even bolder after tossing back a few drinks.

Halfway down the bar, I stop to refill a beer for a patron. I don’t need to look up as I pour to know Beautiful Man is still watching me. The hair on the back of my neck is all the confirmation I need. He never takes his gaze off me, even when I turn, catch his eyes, and silently call him on his staring.

“I’m here to deliver you a Screaming Orgasm.” Damn, he’s even hotter up close. Sandy-brown, shoulder-length hair tousled just the right amount to make him look like he’s just gotten laid. Long, lean torso, tattoos on his forearms peeking out from his long-sleeve fitted shirt. Nice. Then he smiles. Dimples. Yep. He definitely just got laid.

“Thank you. But I have a ladies-first policy.” He winks.

I stare at him for a moment, then drop my eyes down to the drink, leading him to follow.

“Oh. You meant the drink.” He smirks—it’s sexy as hell, and he knows it.

I roll my eyes, but there’s a reluctant smile hidden just beneath the surface. “It’s from the three barely legal ladies down at the end.” I nod in their direction and all three smile broadly and wave.

“Well, that’s disappointing.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Those three women buying you a drink with a name that tells you what their plans are for you later is a disappointment?”

“I thought you were buying me the drink.”

Cheesy, I know, but there’s a flutter in my stomach nonetheless. “Sorry. But you get the Doublemint triplets as a consolation prize.” I shrug, trying to come off nonchalant, and turn to walk away. This close to him, the guy is making me fidget. It’s a big bar, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like we’re in a confined space.

“Wait,” he calls after me, and I turn back. “What’s your name?”

I smile and point at the sign over the bar. Lucky’s.

***

The bar is hectic, but it doesn’t stop me from keeping tabs on him. He nodded and held up his glass in thanks to the three women, but never walked down to meet them. Eventually, the trio of buxom blondes made their way to his end of the bar. They did their best at keeping his attention. He smiled politely, but it was clear he wasn’t interested. Which seriously shocked me, because I would have bet the bar that he could have taken all three of them home.

“Hey, Lucky,” Beautiful Man calls from the end of the bar when I finish waiting tables.

“Another Screaming Orgasm?”

“If you’re talking alcohol, I’ll pass and take a beer instead.”

I grab a pint glass and pour a tall Guinness without asking what kind of beer he wants. I slide it toward him on the smooth waxed bar and ask, with an impish grin, “What if I wasn’t talking about the alcohol?”

“We would already be out the door, sweetheart.” Another wink, only this time he adds a crooked smile to the dimples on his ridiculously sexy face. There’s a boyish quality to his smile, but a quick glance at the rest of him finds nothing but solid man. He sips his beer. “Guinness. My favorite. Nice choice.”

Avery saddles up to the bar, a few spots over from Beautiful Man, and tosses her round serving tray in my direction. “Pearls wants another drink. Looks like your twenty is coming home with me, because I’m pretty sure she’s going to pass out from the next one, not get up on stage.”

I look over at the redhead with the tight bun. She’s shimmying out of her navy blazer. Not only does she have incredible shoes, but with her blazer unbuttoned, her tiny waist and sinewy curves are on display—she’s got a great body hidden under her suit and pearls. I’d guess there’s a red lace demi-cup bra to match the G-string.

“You see that redhead over there?” I ask Beautiful Man.

“The one with her hair up?”

“That’s the one. I have twenty that says she gets up to sing and turns into a siren on stage before the night is out.”

Beautiful Man arches his eyebrows. “Doesn’t look like the type to me.”

“Don’t listen to her.” Avery dismisses me with her hand. “She also thinks she’s wearing a red G-string under there.”

“I’d like to hear this one.”

“You can tell a lot about a person by what they wear. A woman who spends on shoes but dresses conservatively likes nice things, even if no one is seeing them. Strip a woman down to her underwear, you’ll learn a lot about her.” I shrug. “I’ve been here practically every day for seven years. I’m good at picking the closet rockstars.”

He sips his beer and studies the redhead. “You ever get up there?” he asks me, only I don’t have the chance to answer before Avery chimes in.

“She could be up on a real stage if she wanted to. But she’s got arachnophobia.”

Beautiful Man looks to me with a furrowed brow. “Fear of spiders?”

“Ignore her.” I roll my eyes at Avery and make her drink order. “Tell Pearls this one is on the house.” It’s almost all orange juice. I started cutting back the alcohol in her drinks two rounds ago. Wouldn’t want Pearls to fall over before her debut performance here at Lucky’s.

It’s nearly two in the morning when the DJ announces last call for karaoke sign-ups. The crowd at the bar has thinned out, but the tables are still keeping Avery busy. It’s do-or-die time for the nervous hopefuls who came in with plans to get up on stage. Half usually make it, the other half stumble out inebriated from excess liquid courage.

Beautiful Man has spent hours fending off women, many drunk, gorgeous and easy. With an inexplicable gravitational pull, my eyes seem to track his whereabouts at all times. It’s impossible to disregard his presence. I’m surprised to find him at the sign-up desk chatting with the DJ after his second trip to the bathroom.

“You came in to sing tonight?” I ask, refilling his beer when he returns to the seat he’s spent all night at. “Wouldn’t have taken you for the kind who needs alcohol to boost your confidence to get up there.”

He sips his beer. “What would you take me as?”

I squint, pretending to assess him, and lean on the bar. He looks amused. “I would have said a player, but I’ve watched you fend off easy pickin’s all night, so now I’m not really sure what to make of you actually.” I shrug. “Are you here to sing?”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Was supposed to meet someone here, but he called a few hours ago and said he got stuck and couldn’t make it. Didn’t even know it was a karaoke bar until I walked in.”

“Interesting. But your friend canceled hours ago, yet you’re still here. So you’re on the prowl after all? You know, I don’t think you’re very good at it. You’re supposed to show interest in the ones you want to take home at the end of the night.”

Beautiful Man smiles; he’s completely irresistible. “I have been.”

I chuckle and shake my head before walking away to close out a patron’s tab. Beautiful Man doesn’t waste any time when I return to his end of the bar. “So…can I buy you a drink?”

I take an exaggerated look around. “Don’t think that’s necessary. I own a bar.”

He isn’t even slightly deterred. “Dinner then?”

I look at my watch. “It’s two a.m.”

“Breakfast?”

“I need to sleep before I eat breakfast.”

“No problem. I’ll cook for you when we wake up?”

I chuckle and shake my head, turning to stock the rest of the shelf with wine glasses. “Thank you for the generous offer. But I have to decline.”

“You have got to be f*****g kidding me!” Avery’s outburst saves me from having to explain, although Beautiful Man’s stare doesn’t waver. He eyes me over the brim as he drinks from his tall pint glass. The sight of his Adam’s apple working as he swallows does all kinds of things to my insides. And some things to parts of my outsides too.

“What’s the matter?” I’m thankful for the distraction.

“Pearls. Look.” Avery nods in the direction of the redhead, who is talking to the DJ. I gloat a smile as I watch her hand reach up to her tight bun and slip some hidden pins from the knot. Her hair cascades midway down her back.

“Told ya,” I crow victoriously.

Pearls turns out to be even better than I could have imagined. Apparently, her hair wasn’t the only thing the alcohol helped loosen. By the time she gets on the stage, her unbuttoned shirt reveals a healthy amount of cleavage and her skirt is hiked above her knees so she can move. And can the woman move. The slow rock of her hips as she sings the old Faith Hill song “Breathe” turns the temperature in the bar up at least ten degrees. Pearls can sing too. Not just carry a tune…really sing. A breathy, sultry, perfectly-in-key flowing melody that, with a little training, could sound great on an album. My attention is riveted on the woman as the closed flower who came in begins to blossom, right before our eyes. More than the song she sings, the sight itself is beautiful to watch.

I envy her. I’d give anything to get up there again. But, for me, it’s going to take more than a little liquid courage. Years of therapy produced little results, and for a long time I learned to accept who I was. Although, every once in a while, my soul overpowers my logical brain and yearns for salvation. Which leads me to make illogical decisions. Like tomorrow, for example.

For some reason, I keep away from Beautiful Man after that. There’s plenty to do as closing time draws near, so it isn’t difficult. I make Avery switch with me, taking a second turn behind the bar, so I can work the floor instead. She probably thinks I’m trying to give her a break on my last night; the floor is never easy around closing time. Too many drunks, and cutting them off almost always results in boisterous rants.

As he does every night at the same time, the DJ comes over the loudspeaker to announce last call for drinks at the bar, but then he adds, “Tonight Lucky’s is excited to have a celebrity in the house. For those of you not yet familiar with Flynn Beckham, you will be soon. Rumor has it he’ll be joining a big sold-out tour. Let’s give it up for a rocker who’s going to show us his softer side tonight up on our stage.”

The whole place erupts in applause, except me. I’m rooted in place watching Beautiful Man stride to the stage. He takes the microphone from the stand and scans the room with an easy smile. Eyes falling on me, his voice rasps over the speakers, the words sliding over me. “This isn’t usually my style. But it’s almost closing time, so I thought maybe I could help inspire those of you who are hoping to get lucky tonight. Like me.” He winks at me and nods to the DJ to start the song. I recognize the song in the first four notes. It’s one of my all-time favorites. A true classic, although people my age usually don’t appreciate the gritty, heartfelt sound of Rod Stewart anymore. The music of “Tonight’s the Night” plays quietly in the background until Beautiful Man’s sinful voice joins in.

I was glued to the stage watching Pearls belt out her song, but for a totally different reason than I am now. His voice is seduction in the form of sound, and it flows from him with the ease of a pro. The entire bar sways back and forth. Every woman moves closer to the stage. Even Pearls.

For a long moment I watch the way his foot taps in perfect time to the beat. A man with good rhythm has always been my weakness. Musicians have always been my kryptonite. Then my eyes slowly travel up, taking in the parts of the man I’d only glimpsed from the other side of the bar. Jeans hang low on his narrow hips, a simple dark thermal hugs his broad shoulders. Ink peeks out from the pushed-up sleeves on both forearms. When my eyes finally reach his face, I find he’s been watching me watch him. He arches an eyebrow and sings the next verse into my eyes.

You'd be a fool to stop this tide

Spread your wings, and let me come inside

I blink myself out of my daze. Flynn Beckham has a way of gliding his eyes over every woman in the room, yet making you feel like you’re the only one he’s actually looking at. As though he just found the one in a crowd of women, and not just the one he’s going to take home tonight…the one he’s been looking for since the first day he got on stage.

“Jesus. He sings another song and I’m straddling the speaker,” Avery says, leaning her forearms on the bar. “Bet I can orgasm just from the vibration of his voice between my legs.” She’s speaking to me, yet she never tears her eyes away from Beautiful Man. Together we gaze at the stage with the adulation of teenyboppers watching Justin Bieber. “That man wants you. Pretty sure you wouldn’t have to straddle the speaker. He’d bury his head and sing right into your vajayjay if you wanted. I totally vote you upgrade in the rockstar boyfriend category. Where is Sleazy Ryder tonight anyway?”

My best friend doesn’t care for my boyfriend. Dylan Ryder is the lead singer of Easy Ryder, but she has a dozen alternative names for him and his band. “He got stuck in Philadelphia…missed his connection back. Called to say he wouldn’t make it here tonight.”

“That’s too bad.” She smiles slyly. “One man’s loss is another man’s luck.”

“It’s ‘One man’s loss is another man’s gain.’”

“That too.”