Page 15 of Cherry Beats

As would the night we were about to spend together.

Chapter Five

Three Years Later

“Yo, Tess! Get your head out of the clouds. I need your hands over here at the bar. I can’t do this shit all by myself.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Bourbon?”

I moved away from the heavy box of bottles I’d just carried up twenty steep stairs from the cellar. It was a busy Friday night, and I was wearing more sweat than clothes.

“Hurry!” he called out.

“Patience, boss. My feet, hands, waist, and head are all ten-feet underground, nowhere near the clouds, because I’m doing shitty jobs for you.” I muttered the worddickunder my breath.

Bourbon was unusually frantic, turning around and going one way, only to backtrack and then spin the other way to reach for whatever it was he needed. Unfortunately, we didn’t have Valium on our shelves.

I wiped my dirty hands on the thighs of my jeans and strapped on a smile as I walked over to the next waiting customer. “Sorry for your wait.” I pushed my new fringe away from my forehead. “What can I get ya?”

“Two pints ofSan Miguel, two white wine and sodas—one of those with ice—and… do you have any nuts?”

“Salted, roasted, or sweet chilli.”

“Roasted.” The guy gave me a wink that made my insides shrivel.

“Sure thing.” I smiled sarcastically.

I got to work, handing over his order as quickly and as smoothly as I could, not wanting to make it seem like I was trying to balance champagne flutes while running on a treadmill.

In the last three years, since Presley had gone to London to try and crack the industry and become involved in band life, Bourbon’s bar—BB’s—had seen a rise in popularity. A huge rise. A rise we couldn’t deny came from it being mentioned in Presley’s press interviews at least half a dozen times in the last eighteen months alone. But I couldn’t even think about him, let alone let his name roll around in my brain like he lived there, so I shook my head, quietly reprimanded myself, and focused on the blaring music.

The boss had installed new high definition TV screens in every corner, and we had this crazy mood lighting that made me feel like I was working for Tom Cruise in Cocktail when he’s in that multi-storey prison bar. Still, it kept the customers turning over, the tills full of purple notes, and it had given me the promotion I’d never expected from Bourbon.

I was now bar manager numero uno, working with a full time salary that had allowed me enough security to buy my first one-bed apartment—fine, you couldn’t swing a dead cat around, but at least it was mine—while also having enough money every month to start a little savings fund and know that I had a pension in the bag. It was more than I could ever have expected from bartending at twenty-two years old.

My parents hadn’t batted an eyelash when I’d told them I didn’t have any more exciting plans than bar work. I think they were just glad I had a job and was getting out of their way, given the fact that my younger brother still didn’t know how to put on his socks by himself. Two years my junior, Freddie Lisbon was a bit of a dick, but only I was allowed to say that because I was his big sister, and I had rights others didn’t.

“Tess. Tessa!” Bourbon called out, just as I was mixing a stupid Pina fucking Colada. Yeah, we were serving fancy arse rock star drinks now. I was going to kill He Who Shall Not Be Named if I ever saw him again.

Which was unlikely.

And probably for the best.

The crowds weren’t getting any quieter as they all began to push forward and get testy.

“Tess!”

“Yes, captain?” I called out over the sound of Led Zepplin’sHow Many More Times.It sounded like Robert Plant was on my side, screaming at my boss,How Many More Times you gonna call her name, idiot?

“The draft ale has run out.”

“Then grab the bottles.”

“The guy wants draft.”

“This is your bar. Why am I telling you what to do when it’s your bar?”

“Because I pay you to manage the place, that’s why.”

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