“You too, Joey.”
After he left, I wiped down the bar and imagined the magical sounds that were gracing thousands of people’s eardrums as I listened to the same CD that Joey had played over and over again for the past forever years. The only way to get better music would be if someone put a dollar in the jukebox, and it seemed that the only ones to ever do that were drunken college students who loved to flash dollar bills like they were hundreds.
I wondered what song Oliver was opening with that night.
I wondered what song he’d end with.
I wondered how scary it was for him to get back onstage after the incident that had happened months ago. If it were me, I’d be so traumatized and heartbroken that I’d probably never perform again.
But Oliver’s voice . . . it needed to be heard. In every duo, a fan had a favorite. Sammie loved Alex, but me? I was an Oliver girl. Most of the world thought he was the less interesting twin, but I didn’t think that was true at all. Yeah, Alex was the heart of the duo, but Oliver was the soul. His voice dripped with emotion in a way that most performers only dreamed of discovering. His talent was almost surreal.
I should’ve been there to hear him, to see him wear his heart on his sleeve. I should’ve been singing his lyrics alongside him and all the others.
“Another one,” the man in the hat in the back corner muttered, holding his finger up in the air and waving it around for a while before he put it back down. He didn’t even glance toward me, and I wasn’t even certain what it was that he was requesting. I must have taken too long to walk over to him, because he held his hand up once more and shouted, “Another one!”
For a moment I considered whether it was DJ Khaled sitting in that corner booth of mine. Soon enough he’d be yelling, “We da best!” and telling everyone how he was the father of Asahd.
Normally, I would’ve ignored his request and had him walk over to the bar like every other normal customer to order another drink, but it was a slow night, and anything that would keep me busy so time didn’t feel like it was standing still was worth it to me.
I walked over to him, and he kept his head lowered.
“Hey there. Sorry about that. I just got in for my shift, and I’m not sure what you were drinking exactly.”
He didn’t tilt his head up so I could see him, but he nudged the emptied glass toward me. “Another one.”
Okay, Khaled, another what?
“I’m sorry—” I started, but he cut me off.
“Whiskey,” he hissed, his voice low and smoky. “Not the cheap shit, either.”
I picked up his glass, walked over to the bar, and poured him a glass of our best whiskey—which wasn’t really saying much. It was definitely not something DJ Khaled would shout, “Another one!” for, but it was the best I could do.
I went back to the table and set it down. “Here you go.”
He mumbled something, and I was 90 percent certain it wasn’t “Thank you.” Then he lifted the glass and took the whiskey as a straight shot. He held the glass out toward me, and my gut tightened at his rudeness. “Another one,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry, sir. I get the feeling you might have had enough.”
“I’ll tell you when that happens. Just bring the fucking bottle over if you are too incompetent to do your job and pour it yourself.”
Wow.
Just what my day needed: a major drunk asshole.
“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you to—”
Just then groups of people came walking into the bar, loud and rowdy. They were young, probably all under thirty, and dressed as if they had just left Coachella. Within seconds, there were at least twenty-five people walking into the space.
The chatter grew and grew, and it was clear that they were all annoyed beyond understanding. I glanced outside the window, and it looked as if the streets were littered with people—something that only happened after a concert or a game ended, but it was only eight thirty. The late-night crowd shouldn’t have been out already.
“I can’t believe that. I paid over four hundred bucks for those tickets!” one hollered.
“What a piece of shit. I can’t believe he didn’t show,” another barked. “They better be giving refunds.”
“Oliver Smith is complete trash. I can’t believe you talked me into even thinking about going to that lame show.”
At the name “Oliver Smith,” the man’s head tilted up, and I caught his eyes. Those caramel-colored eyes that I’d been obsessed with in my past. His eyes widened and looked a bit panicked as he heard his name mentioned. Then he curved his shoulders more, tugged on his baseball cap, lowering it even more over his eyes, and wiped his finger against the bridge of his nose.