like someone had found it on the curb near the trash. And it smelled like they’d brought the trash, too. God knew what had transpired in here over the years. I tried to touch nothing. Micah flopped down on the sofa and picked up a box of half-eaten Chinese food. His red Converse tennis shoes and dark green pants clashed with the brown-gold hues that stained the formerly whitish sofa.
I plugged in my phone, praying I’d remember to fetch it before I left. I fished out some ibuprofen and grabbed Micah’s beer to wash it down. I waved off his interest in the drugs I was popping. “Birth control,” I lied.
Without looking up from his noodles, he said, “Oh, good. I was starting to worry you’d joined a convent.”
When Micah finished eating, he led me to the front of the club and put me to work setting up his merch table. His band’s CDs wouldn’t sell, but his self-produced EP of solo work would disappear. Mostly for girls to have something for him to autograph. They’d already own his music digitally. A suitcase filled with rolled-up T-shirts lay under the table. I bent down and selected one of each design to display as samples.
Micah moved around onstage helping the club employees drag cables and whatnot. Not for the first time, I envied him for inheriting some of Mom’s Scandinavian coloring and height, while I got Dad’s pale Irish skin and raven hair. Micah repeated “one-two-three check” into the mic a few times and then disappeared around back to grab one last smoke before he had to transform from my sweet older brother into that charismatic guy who held a crowd in the palm of his hand.
Right before the doors opened to the public, one of the guys I’d seen setting up the stage stopped by the table and flipped through the T-shirts and CDs. He picked up Micah’s EP and then raised dark brown eyes. “Micah Sinclair. You like his music?”
He wore faded jeans and a threadbare T-shirt from a long-forgotten AC/DC concert under a maroon hoodie. His black hair fell somewhere between tousled and bed head. I saw no traces of product, so I assumed he came by that look through honest negligence rather than studied indifference.
My quick scan revealed: too grungy, probably unwashed, poor. I resisted the urge to pull the merch away from his wandering fingers. But I wouldn’t risk the sale, so I leaned in on my elbows, all smiles.
“He’s amazing. Will you get a chance to hear him perform?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely.” He set the EP down and held out his hand. “I’m Adam, by the way.”
I wrapped my hand around his out of sheer politeness and proper upbringing, but I couldn’t help laughing and saying, “Just so you know, my worst nightmare would be dating a guy named Adam.”
He quirked his eyebrow. “That’s kind of discriminatory.”
“My name’s Eden.” I waited a beat for the significance to register, but I guess any guy named Adam would’ve already dealt with such issues of nomenclature. His eyes lit up immediately.
“Oh. Seriously?” He chuckled, and his smile transformed his features. I sucked in my breath. Underneath the dark hair, dark eyes, and hobo wardrobe, he was awfully cute. “I’ll rethink that marriage proposal. But could I get you anything? You want a beer?”
This was a new twist. Usually, the ladies were offering drinks to my brother. I loved getting the attention for a change. “Sure. Whatever lager or pilsner they have on tap.”
He walked off, and I snickered. Maybe some guys like pale brunettes, Kelly. As he leaned against the bar, I assessed him from the rear. Tall enough, but too skinny. Questionable employment. Either an employee of the club, a musician, a wannabe musician, or a fan. Shame.
Micah strolled up. “Is everything ready?”
I forced my gaze away from Adam’s backside. “Are you?”
He scratched his five-o’clock chin scruff. “That’s the thing. I may need some help tonight. Do you think you could maybe sing backup on one song? I was hoping to harmonize on ‘Gravity.’”
“Sure.” What were sisters for? I had his whole catalog memorized, even the music from his band, although that music ran a little too hard rock for my tastes.
Micah left me alone at the merch table, and Adam returned with a glass. “Did I just miss Micah?”
He’d pulled his hoodie up so his face fell into shadow, giving him a sinister appearance. With the nonexistent lighting in the club, I could barely make out his