She turned back to him, her eyes now hard. He’d hit a nerve.
“You don’t think I do?”
He was on the fence about that. From managing Crazy Pete’s, he knew enough that a well-managed band could be successful and no longer be considered “starving artists.” The way her band was eating, they were more than starving. They were desperate.
“That was smart.”
Her eyebrows rose and her dark eyes held his. “What was?”
“What you sung up there. ‘Specially after you said my song choices sucked.”
“I didn’t quite say it like that.”
“Close enough.”
“I guess it was you who filled the jukebox.”
“You think?” He didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm.
She lifted her shoulders slightly.
“The songs I heard showed me that you’re versatile.”
“But you didn’t stick around to hear them all.”
Well, fuck. She noticed he’d disappeared. “Didn’t need to. What I did hear proved it.”
“Okay?”
“It’s good that you can play different crowds.”
She made it a point to glance around. “You get different crowds in here?”
He scratched at his eyebrow, deciding it was best to ignore the insult. “Yeah, sometimes. Mansfield U ain’t far from here, so sometimes we pull in a younger crowd. The nights we have pool or dart tournaments, we get a mix.”
“I need to know this why?”
Jesus. Normally that attitude would be an instant turn-off. But, surprisingly, it wasn’t with her. Instead, it made him crave a little spice. “You don’t.”
She nodded, but quickly hid the disappointment in her eyes. However, he caught it. He had lured her away from her bandmates on the promise of talking business. He needed to get to that before she simply walked away. Then the boss-y lady would be ripping him a new one for not filling Friday night’s slot.
“If you want, you can leave your equipment on stage.”
Her dark eyebrows pinned together. “Why would we do that? We need it for gigs.”
“When’s your next one?”
Her lips thinned and she glanced down at the water bottle, where her dark-painted short fingernails had been picking apart the label.
Exactly what he thought. They didn’t have a gig scheduled. Just like when she came into Crazy Pete’s, they’d probably find some other bar, wander in and speak to the manager. They didn’t have a steady schedule.
Maybe she needed someone to manage her band other than her. Someone who had connections.
But that wasn’t his problem, his was filling Friday night’s spot. The bar always made bank when they had a band. Karaoke night was a profitable night, too. Most people needed to be tipsy to sing on stage. However, most of the singers ended up making his ears bleed. He’d gone as far as putting in ear plugs to survive some wannabe singers.
“A spot opened up on Friday. Wanna fill it?”
“We were good enough,” she murmured. Not a question but her tone still held surprise.
“You were.”
“Can’t sing without a band.”
“Don’t expect you to. You do what you gotta do to get by. Nobody understands that better than me.”
She lifted her dark eyes to his. For fuck’s sake, he felt she could suddenly see shit she shouldn’t be seeing. Out of instinct, he pressed a hand to his chest using it as a shield. Like he needed to protect himself.
From her. From whatever she kept pulling from him.
He didn’t like that. Not at fucking all.
“You want it?” When she didn’t answer right away, he continued, “Unless you have a gig tomorrow night somewhere, then like I said, you can leave your shit on stage. It’ll be safe. No one will fuck with it.”
Possum kicked open the swinging door to the left of the bar. His hands and forearms were balancing plates piled high with fried shit.
“Only made twenty in tips,” she murmured as her eyes followed the prospect and the food.
“Eatin’ and drinkin’ a shitload more than that.”
Her narrowed gaze swung back to him. “You said our tab would be on the house.”
“I remember what I said and it is. It’ll be on the house Friday night, too. Boss Lady also said to throw you some scratch if you wanna stick around.” He made sure to leave off the Y when he used his nickname for Stella.
Her brow furrowed. “Scratch? How much?”
“What do you normally get for your payin’ gigs?”
Her eyes narrowed again. “What do you normally pay bands?”
Damn. “A hundred bucks a head.”
“For how many sets?”
“No less than two. You wanna play more that’s up to you but you still get paid the same.”
“Can we set out our tip jar?”
He hesitated since that wasn’t normal practice for the bands they booked. “Yeah. But warnin’ you, this town’s full of cheap motherfuckers.”
“Every town is full of cheap motherfuckers.”
“That ain’t a lie,” he murmured. “So, you in? Or do you need to ask them?” He jerked his chin to the table behind her where her three band members were digging into the freshly-delivered hot food.