More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,29

he says before hurriedly changing direction to, “I’ll call Phil.”

“Fuck. Hold on.” I say, holding up my hand and thinking fast. I can do this. Can I do this? I need two hands to cover the bar. Sundays are generally light, but local favorite Salvador Retriever is playing. If I push two-dollar drafts, that’ll cut down on mixed drinks. So, two bartenders, but really only one, with another on standby. Security dudes can handle crowd control, and I can assign one of them to the door. This is fine. Don’t panic. “Don’t call Phil. He’s in Ohio with his sick mom.”

I can’t do this. I start to feel dizzy and stupid, and hot tears surge into the corners of my eyes and don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“I can stay.”

I whirl around, and Luke is standing there, holding his longboard.

“Sorry. I overheard you were … um, Cull just left, and I wanted to let you know we’re all wrapped up in the sound booth … but, I can stay. Er … I don’t technically work here, but I can help keep an eye on things if you’re pouring drinks. I’m good at following directions.”

I consider half a second. I mean. I literally have no other options. It’s 8:00 p.m. on a Sunday night. “Have you ever mixed a drink?”

He grins. “Grew up around pubs, remember?” Right. Famous punk musician. The Greenly boys have been mixing drinks since the womb.

“Are you eighteen?” The Loud Lizard is technically “all ages” unless we specify an over-twenty-one show, and even then, you only have to be eighteen to serve alcohol in Michigan. Trust me, I’ve been studying the loopholes for two years. Nevertheless, I can’t have anyone under eighteen behind the bar.

“Last month.”

“Oh thank God,” I say, impulsively hugging him before stepping back awkwardly. “You’re hired.”

His eyes widen, and I rush to correct myself. “I mean, for tonight. Unless you, um, want the job? Either way, I owe you.”

“I’ll let you know. But tonight, I’m yours. Or whatever. I’m here for you,” he says earnestly, shoving at his glasses before dropping his board with a clatter. “Shite.”

“Here,” I say. “You can lock up your stuff in Phil’s office.”

“So, I can leave?” Ben asks. I seriously forgot he was there.

“I thought you didn’t have a choice?” I remind him acidly.

“I don’t.”

I wave him away, pulling out my keys. “Stay here until we’re back, okay?” As I unlock Phil’s door, I whisper under my breath, “And then you can fuck the fuck off.”

Luke snickers.

“Sorry,” I say. “This is my first night closing the club alone. I practically had to beg Phil for this shift and promised I could handle the extra pressure even though he was leaving town, and now I’m short staffed.”

“It’s fine. Really. I’ll text my mom to let her know.”

“I can drive you home later,” I offer.

“That would be great.”

“I’m not kidding, Luke,” I say, smiling for real. “I owe you. You’re saving my life here.”

“Happy to help. So, what time do the doors open for the show?”

I glance at my watch. “We have five minutes.” I take a deep, cleansing breath like my mom taught me. In my nose, out my mouth. “Five minutes. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.”

“Vada,” Luke says. I’ve noticed when he says my name, it comes out like Vay-der rather than Vay-duh. I like it.

“Hm?” I say, exhaling again.

“We can do this. It’s like my granddad the car salesman always says—under promise, over deliver. This is a dive bar, not Saint Andrew’s Hall. So, play it cool, and if we happen to remember water bottles in their dressing room, we’ll come off looking extra classy.”

“Water bottles?” I ask, panicking.

“You have any?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“Great. You have no idea how magical a couple of water bottles in the mini fridge can be. Have any lemons?”

“Behind the bar,” I say, bemused.

He nods once, his blond hair flopping around his ears. He tucks one side back and moves to the door. “Perfect. A couple of lemons with the water and all of a sudden you’re not only prepared, you’re high class as fuck.”

I snort, following him.

“What?” he asks as I close Phil’s office door and lock it behind me.

“I don’t think I’ve heard you say fuck before. It sounded odd. Like, you’re too posh to say fuck.”

“Well, that’s fucking ridiculous,” he grouses, jumping behind the bar like he owns the place. I wave Ben out as Luke pulls out a handful of water bottles and