Page 6 of Crimson Desires

If I had to justify my complete idiocy, I’d say that I didn’t recognize Jack because he looked (and sounded) nothing like the tween pop star that my sister had idolized. His face used to be boyish, and his voice used to be a high-pitched falsetto. His ‘brand’ had been clean and wholesome.

And now he was an edgy rock star with tattoos covering his arms and biceps the size of my skull.

“Anyways, I let Jack and his touring staff know that dinner was on the house. And I’ll be deducting the cost of their bill from your paycheck.”

“You can’t do that!” I protested, my heart sinking like a stone in my chest.

“I can and I will. The free marketing that we could’ve received from Jack Maverick would have been a small miracle for this bar. And we missed out on it because of you.”

“That’s not my fault! I-,”

“Enough!” Greg snapped. His nostrils flared. “Aster, for the past five years, you’ve done nothing but disrespect me and this bar. Don’t think I’m oblivious to the fact that you shit-talk me to our line cooks.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Greg didn’t let me get a word in.

“I’m tired of your shitty attitude and your pathetic work ethic. I’ve been waiting for a long time for a reason to fire you, and now I’ve finally got one.”

Enter free fall. My limbs felt weightless. My head felt light. I grabbed the edge of Greg’s desk to steady myself.

“Greg, please, I need this job.” Now it was my turn to grovel.

Greg’s lips curved into a smile. “Put your apron in the break room and finish closing the bar. I would offer to be a reference for the next job your sorry ass applies to, but I think it’s fair to assume that you wouldn’t want a reference from a fucking asshole anyways, right?”

I left Greg’s office dazed. I’d always joked about quitting. On particularly rough days, I’d fantasized about giving Greg the middle finger, cussing him out, and marching out of the bar in a blaze of glory.

But now that I’d actually gotten my wish, I was miserable.

The bar was my only source of income. I barely had any savings. And since Dad didn’t qualify for disability checks, I was the sole earner in our household.

I took off my apron, balled it up, and threw it on the break room floor. I didn’t bother closing. In my last act of defiance, I decided to leave the dining room a mess. Greg would probably trash-talk me to the morning crew, but I didn’t care.

I had bigger problems to worry about.

I grabbed my drawstring bag from underneath the host’s podium and stormed outside. The buses were still in the parking lot for some reason. I ignored them.

My legs carried me across the parking lot to my car. I stuffed myself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.

Then, not caring who saw me, I screamed. I slammed my fists against the steering wheel, cussing my heart out.

After emptying my lungs of their anguish, I leaned back against my headrest and closed my eyes. I took a shaky breath.

And just when I thought my night couldn’t get any worse, Jack Maverick tapped on my window.

Chapter Two

Jack

“Hey. You okay?”

I hoped Aster could hear me through her car window. Judging by the murderous look on her face, she could.

My band, Wicked Crimson, planned to leave the restaurant immediately, but apparently, one of the roadies had thrown back one-too-many vodka sodas, and needed to finish puking out his guts before we could head to the hotel.

Typically, I would’ve returned to my bus. Except I wanted to wait outside to see if I could catch another glimpse of Aster as she left the restaurant.

I knew leaving my number instead of a tip was a dick move. But the way I saw it, I could easily treat this girl to more than a couple of twenties in obligatory gratuity. A nice meal, some real alcohol, maybe even a private helicopter ride—that was worth way more than a shitty, impersonal tip.

Not to mention the fact that 99% of women would probably kill for the opportunity to go on a date with me. How the fuck was I supposed to know that Aster was in the slim 1% of the female population that wouldn’t?

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