Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Velvet tones resonate from the phone, making my dick harden.
There’s a gravelly edge to her low notes that not a lot of female singers possess.
She’s good. Really fucking good. With the right look and the proper marketing, she could be something special.
The door opens, and Ren saunters back in, holding his hand out for his phone.
“Well?”
“Leave the address for the club on your way out.” I wave him off and go back to the computer, but I’m not concentrating on the numbers on the screen. No, I’m consumed with little Sofina’s image playing through my mind on repeat.
“Stock the fridge, clean the tables, and sweep the damn floor. Your college degree is going to waste and a dream to be a singer fading with every passing night,” Rosy snaps, taking the bottles from my hand and stacking them in the fridge for me. “I don’t know why you’re still here. I thought the whole point of you going to college was so you weren’t stuck here wasting your talents.”
Rosy is the best damn bartender we have, but she’s pushing forty, and recently found out she’s pregnant, so she’s decided to hang up her drink slinging days.
Fifteen years she’s worked here. Hired by my father.
It’s going to be tough when she leaves us. My brother is already freaking out about her replacement. Rosy is well liked and dependable. She’s also a constant in our lives, which we tend not to have many of these days.
“The idea was that I use my degree for the business,” I remind her with a sigh, leaning my butt against the bar, hating the thought of still being here when I’m forty.
She squats to pull out a crate of clean glasses from a bottom shelf.
“Rosy, please let me do it. You should be resting, not me.”
Scoffing, she looks over her shoulder at me and rolls her eyes. “I’ll be doing enough resting when I leave here. Why don’t you go and warm up your pipes for later? Your brother isn’t in for another hour.”
My stomach jumps with the thought of having an hour with the mic before Lucca arrives, but the place still needs the tables wiped down.
“I should clean the tables,” I utter, nibbling at my lip and wanting so bad to rebel. To do what I want for once.
“Sof, you’re not Cinderella,” she grumbles. “Your papa wouldn’t have wanted you working in this damn bar. Hollie will be in soon, so she can clean tables. Now go make everyone happy and treat us to a song.”
Looking around the bar, I notice there are only a handful of day drinkers occupying a couple of booths. The DJ isn’t due in for another two hours and the equipment for open mic night is all set up and sitting there.
“Okay,” I agree, grinning, before skipping happily over to the stage.
Standing on the small stage gives me a rush like nothing else. The nerves trickle through me every time my palms wrap around the mic, but as soon as my mouth opens to sing, everything fades. It’s just the lyrics and me.
The bar disappears from view as my eyes close and I give myself over to the sound of my voice. Words flow, and my hips sway. I pull in all my stomach muscles and draw air into my lungs to hit the high notes. Suddenly, it’s over, and the mic cuts out before I can finish.
My eyes spring open to find the intense blue eyes of my brother glaring up at me from the dance floor below.
Crap.
Disappointment blankets me and my stomach drops from the look of anger and spite on his features.
“What the fuck are you doing? You know tonight’s one of our busiest nights, and the tables need to be cleared.” He fumes, the tattoos chasing up his neck coming to life with his anger.
“I just—”
“Just what? Just fucking around as usual. Get the tables cleared and then get behind the bar,” he orders, storming off toward the bar.
I hate that he treats me like a child and runs my damn life.
He raised me when our father died unexpectedly of liver failure when I was fifteen, and he was only twenty-one.
He gave up school and his future to keep me from being put into foster care and took over the Ritz Russo’s bar to stop Dad’s legacy—this place—from going under. He blames me in a way for what he had to give up. He would never admit it, but I feel it in his tone—in his stares.
He’s bitter…I can taste it.
Offering me a sad smile, Rosy places the cleaner and cloth on the bar for me to grab.
Fuck my life.
“I hate you!” I huff to my brother.
If he’s going to treat me like a child, then I’ll act like one.
“Yeah, remind me of that when you’re sleeping under my roof tonight with a full belly from my stocked fridge,” he spits out.