Shoot Down The Stars (The Stars Duet 1)

15

David

Iwake to Em's bellowing alarm and wipe my eyes with a yawn. She reaches over, turns it off, and kisses my cheek before clambering out of bed. The wooden floor creaks as she stands and stretches. I’m not ready to get out of bed yet. I lay here with my eyes closed and thoughts vacant. The shower turns on and the bathroom door closes. Emily sings in her terrible, adorable, tone-deaf kind of way.

I doze off again until I hear her footsteps along the old wooden floor. The hinges on her closet door squeak as she opens it, singing backup to her soft vocals as she ruffles through hangers of clothes. I squint my eyes so I can see what she’s up to. She has a towel wrapped around her, and her wet hair is situated in a messy bun. She stands on the tips of her toes to reach some of her clothing. When she leans forward, the towel exposes the curve of her ass just enough to excite me. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

Emily leans over and kisses my nose.

Shit, I dozed off again.

I wonder how much of her I could have seen had I not. I open my eyes and take her in for the day. Her glasses rest over eyes winged with black eyeliner. Her lips are glossed and dark, which makes them look even more kissable. She has her work shirt tucked loosely into her black pants. Her ass looks amazing in them. She adjusts her name tag in the mirror and does a final tweak to her hair, which is now in a loose ponytail.

“I'm hostessing until nine tonight, okay? Are you working today?”

I think for a moment, shaking myself out of my slumber and pushing away my inappropriate thoughts.

“No, I'm off today.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll see you when I get home then. I'll bring dinner from work. Be good!”

She smirks at me before she heads out for work. The door slams and locks behind her.

* * *

Emily

I walkto the hostess station at the sports themed restaurant where I work. I’m greeted by the employee I’m relieving.

“Good luck,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Today has been hell.” She turns the computer screen toward me to show how busy they’ve been. She sighs and gathers up her purse and jacket.

“Is it a game day?” I ask.

“How do you work here and never follow a single sport? Our basketball team is playing a home game in a few hours and people are tailgating already. The bar has been hopping all morning. People are drinking and becoming obnoxious, and it's barely even noon.”

A passing server nods in agreement before letting out her own groan of frustration.

We end up getting so busy I have to help serve. I don’t mind it, but when you’re on a hostessing shift, you don't get any of the tips unless the server is nice enough to split a little with you.

One of the servers darts to the hostess station. She’s new and hasn’t quite figured out her balance yet. After dropping three different trays of orders, she finally asks me for help amid her self-induced panic.

“Em, I seriously can't get ahead of all my orders right now. I keep dropping shit, and—”

“Do you need help?” I interrupt.

“Please?” She exhales loudly before turning on her heels and rushing back to the kitchen.

I place the Please Wait to Be Seated sign on the desk and follow her to the kitchen. She thrusts a tray into my hands and puts plates of food on top, repeating the order as she places each one.

“This is for table four. I think that's all of it.” She sounds unsure.

I walk to the table and ask who ordered what before placing down their plates. The father looks down at his burger and lifts the top of the bun.

“I ordered a cheeseburger, not a hamburger. We’ve already been waiting forty-five minutes for our food. This is getting a bit ridiculous.”

He tries to stay calm in front of his wife and young son. All I can do is apologize and offer to get it fixed. I smile sweetly at him and take his plate back with the tray under my arm. I rush back into the kitchen and nearly knock out our line cook with the two-way door. He stumbles backward, and I almost end up wearing the hamburger as a necktie.

He has rich black hair, an olive complexion, and deep brown eyes. His beard is thick but neatly trimmed. A gray t-shirt struggles to cover his broad, well-muscled frame. He towers over me, and I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes.

“Oh, my gosh. I'm so sorry!” I say.

He smiles and shrugs.

“But to add insult to injury, I came back here because I need cheese added to this burger. Like, now, please.”

“I'm more annoyed with that request than you almost busting my face with the door.” He rubs a hand through his thick black hair. “Do you see all these backed up orders?” He points to the row of hanging papers above the stove area. “I fucking hate game days!”

He grabs the plate out of my hand and removes the burger patty. He tosses a piece of cheese on the meat, places it back on the stove, and keeps it there until it melts just enough to appease the man of table four.

The plate slides along the metal table as he passes it towards me.

“Thank you,” I say.

I bring it to the man with a smile.

“One cheeseburger, fresh off the grill.”

He lifts the bun again and nods without so much as a thank you. Typical.

This shift is terrible, exhausting, and puts me in need of a bump. At the end of my shift, I clock out. I don't have the energy to walk home yet, so I have a seat at the bar. The bartender wipes a rag along the table until she gets to where I’m sitting.

“Today was crazy, wasn't it?” she asks.

“Yes. Please make me something strong.”

She smiles and nods, knowing that statement pretty much sums up how this day has been for all of us.

“Will do. I know just what will do the trick, but you really are off the clock, right? You know I have to make sure.”

I nod and pull out my phone. No messages. I hate that I don't hear from David at all some days, but I also hate being this needy.

The bartender slides a dark drink toward me and acknowledges the line cook as he sits down beside me.

“Can I get a whiskey on the rocks, please?” his deep voice says in a defeated tone.

The bar stool beside me squeaks as it swivels, and the sound draws my attention. It’s Kevin, the line cook I embarrassingly crashed into earlier. I turn my seat to face him.

“Sorry I got pissy toward you earlier in the kitchen”—he looks at my name badge—“Emily.”

It’s obvious that he’s never cared to learn my name in the year I’ve worked here.

“It's okay. No need to apologize. We were all struggling with the cluster fuckery today, so don't worry about it.”

I take a sip of my drink and shake my head as the strong liquor punches the back of my throat.

“I'm Kevin, by the way.” He reaches his hand out to me

“I know who you are.” I smile and shake his hand.

“Why have we never really talked before today?”

“I usually host. I was just helping the servers tonight.”

We smile at each other. The bartender lays his drink in front of him, breaking his attention. He thanks her and takes a long sip.

I check my phone. One message and it’s from David.