Page 5 of Crimson Desires

“Yeah. He’s a shithead,” I grumbled.

I know that I should have held my tongue. Usually, I can take a lot of abuse before my patience fails me. But it was late, I was exhausted, and I had just called my boss a “fucking asshole” right in front of him. I figured that I’d already hit the metaphorical rock bottom of my night.

But apparently, I could still dig deeper.

Greg shot me a murderous look. “In my office. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

As I walked back into the bar, Greg apologized profusely to Jack. With the way he was groveling, you would’ve thought that Jack was a king or something.

I stepped into Greg’s office. The space was small and cramped. A TV sat atop a dresser opposite the desk. It was paused midway through a movie. The freeze-frame didn’t show anything damning, but the CD case next to the TV read Busty Babes 8: Return of the Rack, which told me everything I needed to know.

On Greg’s desk, I noticed an ashtray with a half-burned cigarette and a suspicious bottle of unscented lotion.

So, it seemed the line cooks were right.

Not that I ever doubted them.

My phone buzzed with a text.

Dad: You O.K., honey?

I inhaled sharply. Then, I replied.

Me: I’m fine. Had to stay over for a surprise party of fifteen. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?

Dad: You know I can’t sleep until I see you home safe.

Me: I’m twenty-four, Dad. I’m not a baby.

Dad: Doesn’t matter. You’ll always be my little girl. Are you almost out of there?

Me: Yep, almost. I’ll see you soon. Love you.

Dad: Love you, too.

The office door creaked open behind me. I pocketed my phone.

Greg stormed into the office, his face beet-red. He marched behind his desk and slammed his hands down on the flat surface, causing me to jump.

“Aster, you seriously don’t know who that man was?”

“No.”

“He was fucking Jack Maverick, Aster!”

“Sorry. Not ringing any bells.”

“You’ve got to be fucking with me. You’re a female, right?”

“Last I checked.”

“So, how the hell do you not know Jack Maverick, the fucking pop star?”

The word ‘pop star’ triggered a realization. The synapses in my brain exploded, and I remembered exactly why Jack had seemed so familiar to me.

Jack Maverick had been a huge star when I’d been in middle school. My sister, Violet, had been obsessed with him. Her walls had been covered in magazine posters of his face, and her MP3 player had been loaded up with every single song in his discography.

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