Page 3 of Second Sets Omnibus

“Well, I’d say good. This is my doing.” I wave a proud hand at the band on stage as more of their fans pile through the door with eager eyes.

It might sound cocky to some, but I’ve worked my ass off to bring Kieran and his merry band of dickbags here and all the people who follow them from venue to venue. I’ve stalked them on their barely-there social media, begging them to come here and play. I knew if they performed, all these suburban snobs would turn up, too. Cha-ching, money in my damn pocket. Never mind who he is to me. If it's a chance to make extra cash for my future, I'll take it.

Ode whistles, leaning an arm on my shoulder. “How the hell did you get Whispered Words to come here? They're like the hottest little band in Central Illinois right now."

I snort, waving more people along, stamping their hands, and checking their IDs. “Incentive,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek when she throws her head back, laughing.

“Like pussy incentive? Because yeah, Riv, I’d say you’d give them a run for their money. Especially Kieran. I remember him from school," she murmurs through a whole-body shudder, eyeing his thick frame with lustful eyes. "He was so damn dark and mysterious. Who knew he'd end up… up there…” she says, waving a hand in his direction.

“Shut up,” I say, elbowing her in the gut, causing her to burst into manic laughter. “I’m not putting out. God, what do you take me for?” I grumble at the last part, earning a few stares from the stragglers handing me their money.

“A Central City whore?” Ode chortles, earning another glare from me.

I frown, pushing my wet stamp right onto her arm. “Way to keep the stereotype going, bitch,” I mumble. “Us Central girls have to stick together, especially against them.” I nod toward the jumping suburban girls bobbing their heads to the musicwithout a care. They hold their hands in the air, hoping to catch the attention of the four men rocking out on stage.

The boys are too enthralled in their music to notice the bouncing blonde elbowing her way to the front of the stage. Their eyes remain closed and focused on the euphoric sounds spilling from their fingers and vocal cords. I could watch them all day.

“I’m joking, girl,” she says through a laugh, tossing her arm over my shoulders. “But in all seriousness, woman. They’re like the best band on this side of the Mississippi. How the fuck did you convince the preppy assholes from the burbs to play at a place called Dead End?” She raises a brow in my direction, inspecting my face, and then she smiles. “You bitch, you used your name, didn’t you?” My stomach drops at the accusation, and I quickly shake my head.

A lie rests on the tip of my tongue, eager to tell her I didn't. Because if there's one thing I'd never want to admit, it's that I used my name to get me anything in life. I resent the asshole who loaned me my last name for the past nineteen years. If I could give it back and tell him to shove it, I would.

I wave a hand at her, continuing to do my job despite her incessant yapping. “Maybe,” I say, side-eyeing her when her mouth drops open in shock and flies swarm out.

Or they would if they were around. Ode is so damn shocked I pulled out the only famous piece of me—my last name. In East Point, California, my last name could get me a limo, a million dollars, and four hunky men willing to do anything for me. But here, in the middle of nowhere Illinois, it got me Whispered Words, and I call that a win in my book.

“River Blue West,” she shrieks, hitting my shoulder and nearly knocking me off my stool.

I cringe at the sound of my full name and shake my head, sneaking a peek at Kieran. “Bitch, not so loud.”

“I’m just surprised, is all,” she says, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “You hate your name. You hate your father and anything that involves him. Which includes your name, babe."

I scoff, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. “Hate is a strong word when talking about the West legacy. Besides, I'm not the only loser West daddy dumped. So, I use it when it's to my advantage, like getting bands like this in the door. Besides, they never saw my face. It was only my last name. They probably think I'm a dude, anyway. Plus, I worked it out to get a commission for a good turnout.” My grin grows when Ode’s eyes turn to the size of saucers. “So, for every person that walks through the door and pays me, I get twenty-five percent."

And the sooner I get the money, the sooner I can get out of town and start my life. Money. College. New life. It's on the horizon for me. Freedom is in my future, far from this shitty stereotype I've had stamped on my forehead since I stepped foot in this town when I was two.

I sigh, thinking about all the shit I’d love to do but can’t because I don’t have enough money. I’ve been working here and at Dead Records, the only vinyl record shop in town, since I was fifteen, and saving like my life depends on it. I still don’t have enough to escape this hell hole I call my hometown. There's nothing here for me in Central City except a shitty stereotype about where I come from and dirty looks. All I’m trying to do is survive and make it from day to day until I can plot my escape. Until then, I’ll put up with the Lakeview douchebags from the suburbs, who turn their noses down at us every chance they get.

“Oh my God, you finally got Booker to agree to that? You have that man wrapped around your pinky finger, I swear,” she says, shaking her head without judgment.

“What’re you doing here, anyway?” I ask, stamping another hand of the elite and watching as they walk to the bar, ordering a drink.

“Leon called. Apparently, the new manager filled the damn house up, so my brother said he needed an extra hand in the kitchen. The man is cooking his life away. But I’m always willing to give, especially since it is cash under the table.” She grins at that, rubbing her hands together.

“The best way to keep the government out of our damn pockets,” I say in agreement, sighing in relief at the pause from new people coming in.

“Well, tell your brother I said hi, and he’s doing good work. I’ll be up here until people stop coming in.”

“Aye, aye, Miss Manager!” she sings, slapping me on the shoulder, and disappears behind the kitchen door.

We may be a small band venue at night, but Booker runs a bar complete with delicious food and drinks during the day. Ode, my neighbor turned best friend, sometimes comes in to help her brother Leon prepare the food and serve it to our patrons. We’ve all worked here together for several years—Leon and I, mostly. Ode has been in and out, going to different opportunities, but she always finds her way back. Together, we’re a dysfunctional family making ends meet. Even if we still live with our parents on our journey to bigger and better things.

I glance around, taking in the unruly crowd as the music continues taking me out of this world. Building and building, it finally hits the chorus, and the crowd explodes with cheers. Phones light up and lift into the air, swaying back and forth until the chorus falls into the next verse. The beauty behind music never ceases to send goosebumps down my flesh and shivers up my spine. It takes me to another world, letting me leave the one I'm in. Music lives in the soul—hell, it lives in my DNA. Literally.

My pounding heart accelerates through my lungs when my gaze snaps to the one man I've been drooling over since he cockily walked in. His piercing, mismatched blue eyes stare atme from the top of his kingdom on stage, ripping the soul from my body with one devastating look.

But does he recognize me as the girl he used to run to when his mom drank too much and kicked his ass out so she could make a buck?

Deep in the depths of my body, something shifts, leaving me a gasping mess, desperately pulling oxygen into my lungs. It feels like we're two magnetic pieces shifting into place and finding their match—once again. I only experience relief when Kieran’s eyes pass over me, running over the crowd of girls shouting his name. The moment he breaks our stare, oxygen floods my body again, and my trembling fingers halt.