More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,30

fills a glass with lemon slices. He considers for a second. “What kind of band are they?”

I tip my head. “New alternative. Sorta electronic.”

He pulls out the Jägermeister and a few shot glasses, arranging it all on a tray. “Dressing room?”

“Well, more like backstage. There are a couple of rooms past Phil’s office. I’m sending them to the one farthest back.”

“I’m on it. You do what you need to do out here to get those doors open, and I’ll make sure the opening act is taken care of next.”

I want to cry out of pure gratitude. I want to know more about this super-capable version of Luke. Fumbling Luke was cute, Secure Luke is … hot? Superhot. Instead, I rush to the doors where there’s already a line and square away security with Dave and Mike before throwing the doors open to the crowd.

A moment later, Kazi rushes in, dreads flapping.

“You’re on bar,” I say. “Two-dollar drafts. There should be a sign under the register.”

He salutes and hops behind the bar, grinning affably. I might not love Kazi, but at least he takes orders well and showed up tonight. Which is more than I can say for Bearded Ben and his, um, beard.

Luke returns and stands alongside me, watching the club as it fills up. The opening band is tuning up, and for now, everything is working out. I join Kazi behind the bar and drag Luke with me.

“How about I show you around back here while it’s still moderately quiet?”

Luke grabs a bottle and tosses it in the air, twirling it.

My eyes widen. “Or not?”

“I’m surprised I caught it. That was a stupid move. I was trying to look cool, but I could have dropped it. Sorry about that,” he mumbles sheepishly.

I bite my lip, trying not to laugh at his chagrinned expression. Fumbling Luke is plenty hot, too, I guess. “Well, good thing you did. But we’re sticking to cheap drafts tonight. On the off chance anyone’s too fancy for beer, you can push it off to Kazi or me. Ever work a register?” I ask.

“No, sorry,” he says, and he sounds so contrite, I have to fight off another smile.

“It’s totally fine. Kazi,” I ask the dirty hippie, “if Luke writes it all—”

“How about he deals in cash? You good at math?” he asks.

Luke shrugs noncommittally, and Kazi says, “Can you count up? You can cash out if you count up.” Kazi pulls out a few bills. “So, like, the total is $5.25, and they give you a ten? First, always hold on to what they gave you and put it right here.” He plops it on the top of the register. “That way, no fucker can be all, ‘Oh, I gave you a fifty.’” He pops open the register and counts singles. “Six, seven, eight, nine twenty-five,” and he moves to quarters, deftly pulling them out. “Fifty, seventy-five, ten dollars. Done.” He flashes his pretend ten. “Give them their change, and then put your money in the register.”

“So no fucker can say I gave them a fifty.”

Kazi lights up. “Exactly. Point for the Brit.”

“Good,” I say, motioning to Kazi to take care of three frat guys flashing their bills. “It shouldn’t be overwhelming tonight, and if it is, I can hop back here as soon as the show starts and help out during intermission.”

11

LUKE

Two hours later and I’m dead on my feet, and I don’t even know how Vada is still standing. We’re hunched behind the bar, and she’s snacking on a cupful of maraschino cherries, her head bobbing along to the music.

The band is decent. They play mostly originals but threw in a few Something Corporate covers that featured their keyboardist. I could really dig that. It gave them an emo sound without delving too far back into the early 2000s. They also pulled out a remix on “Vienna” by Billy Joel that would have made my dad weep into his beer. As it was, I could barely keep myself from singing along.

With my eyes closed.

Correction. I can’t stop myself.

Vada’s head tilts onto my shoulder tiredly, and she says, “You have a pretty voice, Luke.”

Before I can get all embarrassed and dig up an entire childhood’s worth of drama and think too much about her leaning so close, she says, “You know how you know a song is really exceptional? The secret’s in the eyes. If you can’t possibly feel the lyrics with your eyes open—if it’s just too much to contain—that’s when you know