Page 64 of Street of Dreams
He tried his hardest to seal his wounds and concentrate on the music, but thoughts of Jake still haunted him as he ran through another song. A part of him hated Jake for the rejection and the way it dampened his good fortune. He couldn’t enjoy the ride of his life to the fullest because he wasn’t sharing it with the love of his life.
Again, he shook his head to clear the distracting thoughts and listened to his bandmates as they played the new song. It needed a little work, but considering they literally just wrote the rhythm, it sounded pretty good.
Just as Mac finished packing away his guitar, the bus pulled into the parking area of the hotel where they’d be staying for the night. He picked up his overnight bag and was about to head to the front of the bus when Austin, the singer for Cut Throat, appeared in the archway between the sleeping area and the kitchen.
“We’re going to hit a dynamite club downtown,” Austin said. “Drop your shit in your rooms and meet us out back in 15 minutes. I got a limo picking us up.”
Mac just wanted to go to bed, but he agreed, and within the hour he was seated in the VIP area of a club filled with beautiful people. Music thumped energy through Mac’s veins, and he felt renewed. The tour may be kicking his ass, but tonight he was hellbent on partying like a rock star.
Thanks to the celebrity status of Cut Throat, Mac and his bandmates received the royal treatment. Bottle service offered the best of the best, and gorgeous waitresses poured drinks for everyone.
“I understand this was a special request just for you.” The beautiful blond licked her lips as she handed Mac a heavy crystal glass filled with amber liquid. She leaned forward so Mac could see down her shirt, which was low enough for him to see the little bow at the center of her bra between her breasts.
Carlos nudged him in the shoulder while displaying a wide grin. “You sure you’re not straight? I saw you looking at those babies.”
Mac promptly shut his jaw and blinked. “I . . . I . . . they were in my face,” he finally said, which garnered a round of laughter. Still flustered, he tossed back the alcohol in his hand, and his taste buds practically exploded. He brought his fingertips to his mouth, as if to ensure not a drop of the delicious whisky escaped. It tasted like cherries and toffee. Decadence rolled across his tongue, and he let it linger before swallowing. He immediately took another large sip and found the bottle on the table situated in front of him. “Eighteen-year-old Highland Park?” He turned to the guys from Cut Throat with disbelief. “Did you special order this?”
“Nah,” Dylan, Cut Throat’s drummer, replied, with the wave of his hand. “I just told them to bring the best imported scotch they had. Do you like it?”
Mac’s brows shot up. “Do I like it?” He took another long sip and swooned as he rolled the liquid in his mouth. Unable to describe the heavenly mixture of honey and smoke lighting up his tongue, he needed Dylan to taste it. He stood, grabbed a glass from the table, poured a hefty splash of the whisky into it, and tried to hand it to Dylan.
“I’m not a whisky guy.” Dylan held up his glass. “Vodka.”
“I’ll try it.”
The voice came from a guy sitting halfway around the circular couch, and Mac turned in his direction. Blond curls, blue eyes, and cheekbones that looked as if they were carved by Michelangelo, greeted him.
The guy stood and approached with his hand extended. “May I?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t gulp it,” Mac quickly warned.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The guy maintained eye contact with Mac while he took a long sip and slowly let the whisky roll around his mouth, moving his closed lips from side to side. He appreciated and savored the expensive scotch. Acknowledged its worth. Then he dropped his eyes to the glass and nodded. “That was delicious. Not harsh or hot in the throat at all. I never knew scotch could be buttery.”
“Finally!” Mac exclaimed. “Someone who appreciates scotch. What’s your name?”
“Alex.”
“I’m Mac. Are you a friend of someone here?” he asked, as they shook hands.
Alex motioned his chin toward a pretty brunette. “My friend has been following Cut Throat’s tour. She’s already dragged me to four shows. Wait.” He smiled and quirked an eyebrow. “Mac? You’re Reid Mackenzie. You opened the show. I should have recognized you with that long red hair.”
It was still odd to get recognized, but it happened almost daily now, and it inflated Mac’s ego. “Did you like the show? It’s my first tour.”
“Really? You were so comfortable on stage. You really engaged the crowd. It was a great performance. And that kilt.” Alex clinked his glass against Mac’s. “Nice touch.”
“Thanks.” If Mac’s head got any bigger, he’d float away. “Are you coming to the show tomorrow night too?”
“Hell yeah!” Alex raised his voice with excitement, and everyone seated around their table stopped talking and looked at him. So, he motioned for Mac to join him on a free section of the couch, instead of standing in the middle of everyone and blocking the table that contained the alcohol. “Is it authentic? The kilt. You’re really from Scotland? You gotta be with that red hair and those green eyes.”
“The kilt’s authentic, but I was born here. Well, in Chicago. My parents immigrated from Glasgow shortly before I was born.”
Alex smiled, enthusiastically. “Let me hear you say something Scottish.”
