He mumbled something, and I was 90 percent certain it wasn’t “Thank you.” Then he lifted the glass and took the whiskey as a straight shot. He held the glass out toward me, and my gut tightened at his rudeness. “Another one,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry, sir. I get the feeling you might have had enough.”
“I’ll tell you when that happens. Just bring the fucking bottle over if you are too incompetent to do your job and pour it yourself.”
Wow.
Just what my day needed: a major drunk asshole.
“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you to—”
Just then groups of people came walking into the bar, loud and rowdy. They were young, probably all under thirty, and dressed as if they had just left Coachella. Within seconds, there were at least twenty-five people walking into the space.
The chatter grew and grew, and it was clear that they were all annoyed beyond understanding. I glanced outside the window, and it looked as if the streets were littered with people—something that only happened after a concert or a game ended, but it was only eight thirty. The late-night crowd shouldn’t have been out already.
“I can’t believe that. I paid over four hundred bucks for those tickets!” one hollered.
“What a piece of shit. I can’t believe he didn’t show,” another barked. “They better be giving refunds.”
“Oliver Smith is complete trash. I can’t believe you talked me into even thinking about going to that lame show.”
At the name “Oliver Smith,” the man’s head tilted up, and I caught his eyes. Those caramel-colored eyes that I’d been obsessed with in my past. His eyes widened and looked a bit panicked as he heard his name mentioned. Then he curved his shoulders more, tugged on his baseball cap, lowering it even more over his eyes, and wiped his finger against the bridge of his nose.
I was frozen in place.
More people entered the bar, and still, my feet were superglued to that very spot.
“Don’t stare,” he whisper-hissed, his voice becoming even more clear. That deep smoky sound was something I’d listened to over and over again on his albums. Oliver Smith was wasted in my bar, and a storm of upset concertgoers were surrounding him without any idea that it was him they surrounded.
“I’m, I’m sorry. I, it’s just . . .” I was stuttering like a lunatic. Holy freaking crap. I’d had dreams like this. Dreams where I’d run into my idol in a very low-key way and pour my heart and soul out to him while we shared a drink. Then, of course, we fell in love and he wrote a song about me, which I shared with our great-great-grandchildren years down the road.
Though this wasn’t exactly the perfect dream.
Reality never is.
That night Oliver was unwelcoming.
And maybe sad?
Most people who drank that much alone often had a little bit of sadness in them. I couldn’t blame him for that. I’d be sad all the time if I’d gone through what he had, especially in the public eye. After Alex passed away, I read some of the hateful comments people made about Oliver. If it were me, I would’ve wanted to die myself. I was sure he blamed himself enough—the last thing he needed was the whole world to blame him too.
“I’m sorry, I just . . . how can I help you?” I asked with my shaky voice.
His shoulders rounded forward even more as if weight was being placed against him every few seconds. He nudged his glass in my direction.
“Right, of course. Another one. I’ll be right back.”
I hurried over to the bar and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, then took it back to his table, set it right down, and poured a glass. “There you go.”
He didn’t reply, so I awkwardly stood there, gawking like a fool.
It wasn’t until he looked up toward me with a cocked eyebrow of confusion that I shook out of my stance.
“Right, of course. Okay.”
I hurried off back behind the bar, flustered and nervous as I tried to get all the new customers their drinks. Business was busy to the point that it was almost impossible to keep up, and I would’ve killed to have Joey there to assist me. But then again, I powered through as I thought about the tips I’d receive. Plus, Oliver freaking Smith was fifty feet away from me. Drunk, sad, and still, somehow perfect.
The fangirl in me wanted to ask him a million questions