Page 31 of Second Sets Omnibus

"Oh my god!" I cringe when Tessa and Sara squeal beside our booth, trying to squeeze in with us.

"Not tonight," I bark, taking a swig of my beer.

"But, Asher, baby," Tessa purrs in my ear, rubbing her hand over my shoulder.

"I said not tonight," I growl, catching her wrist and peeling her away. "Not in the mood."

"It's that Central slut, isn't it?" she hisses, earning a growl from Kieran.

"We're not interested. And I'd suggest you not call River names if you know what's good for you," I say, narrowing my eyes at her until she grabs Sara and huffs away.

One day, Tessa will understand we’re no longer interested in her company and haven’t been for a long time. Somehow, she’s been too oblivious to understand, but I feel she’ll get the picture now that we have our sights set on the woman across the room. Tessa has run through every person on this planet, hoping to get a little extra. It’s girls like her who make my teeth clench at night. They’re always looking for something extra like marriage, kids, and a bank account to go with it.

"So long, tiny tots!" Rad calls after her over the music.

After another hour of Sorcha’s band playing, the other squeaky bartender jumps on stage, taking their place. Looking at my watch, I frown at the late time and shake my head. We’ve been cooped up in this corner for so long that I almost forgot what Sorcha spoke of at the bar. Battle of the damn bands. Maybe if we make it through that avenue, we won’t need River to help us. But peeking at Kieran, Rad, and Callum again—that will not happen.

“Last call!” the bouncy bartender squeals through the microphone on stage. Throwing her mess of curls all over the place with every step, she grins down at the patrons. “Get your last drinks and pay your tab. You don’t have to go home, but you sure as shit can’t stay here. Say it with me, folks…” she says, pointing toward a sign above the stage.

“Get the fuck out!” the remaining crowd chants as one unit. They lift their glasses in the air and drink the last of their drinks for the night.

I blink at the small stage at the back of the bar. Dark curtains hide the small backstage, where I’m sure Sorcha and her band of women converge, cooling off after a show well done. My heart pounds when I remember the rush I felt jumping on that stage. It’s the one place I can let go of my rising tension and need to flee. It’s either that or running away from my issues on foot toward the only woman who ever gave a damn about me. I grind my teeth, taking a deep breath. Every worry in my life piles higher and higher on my shoulders.

My calculating eyes drift across the room toward the object of our newfound obsession—our ticket out of here. And the only reason I even agreed to come to this utter shithole tonight. Her. The girl with the perfect last name. The girl with our way out of this town and into the arms of a record deal—hopefully.

When Sorcha mentioned West records, I watched River’s nonexistent reaction. Her facial expressions barely moved, but I caught the slight twist of her face and the hate firing behind her mossy green eyes. If I had to wager a guess, River West hates her family with a fiery passion, which doesn’t bode well for us and our plan. If we expect to use her connections, then I don’t think we’re going to succeed. Not that way, at least. There has to be another way.

I can practically taste our future success on the tip of my tongue, and the cravings come back tenfold, churning in my gut. We need to leave and get out as a band of brothers running toward success. All before my father gets some bright idea about me taking over his company when I graduate from college in May. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever settle into a nine-to-five—but it’s what he’s depending on and what he’s been grooming me for since I was born. I’m his only son, and in turn, I’m the only person for the job. But I’ll be fucked if I step foot inside his business. It's not going to happen. The moment my college degree hits my hand after graduation, I'm gone. But it's never abad idea to have a fallback degree if shit hits the fan with the band. Wherever I’m going in the future, I’ll be prepared.

My only solution… is well… her. Some way, somehow, we’re going to utilize her in some capacity. Even if Kieran has to propose to River, drag her to California with us, and throw her at West Record’s front door. I frown, thinking about our escape plan. We’ve saved through the years from each of our gigs in an effort to escape this hellhole, but we've never had enough to execute our plan, even with Rad and Callum running a dirt bike track and taking bets. It never seems to be enough to write home about. One day we’ll fucking get there. But today is not the day.

With fascination, I watch her from across the room, talking with patrons and laughing with them. One gentleman steps forward, handing her a wad of cash, and she grins, flirting back with the flutter of her eyelashes. Her brown hair hangs past her shoulders now, swaying when she laughs, throwing her head back. From here, I can hear the happy rasp in her voice when she knocks the guy on the shoulder. He nearly falls over from her push but rights himself and grins at her too. I take a drink of my beer, but I’m really drinking in my newest conquest.

“What the fuck?” Kieran hisses again as Rad holds him down. “Let me fucking go. I’m going to murder him. He’s touching what isn’t his,” he gripes, getting wrestled back into his seat.

Now, how do I make the one girl who won't look my way fall for me? Or slip into bed with me? I think about the quirk of her brow and the confusion earlier when I thanked her for the drinks. Honestly, I’m not an insufferable asshole all the time. Just sometimes. I run my fingers across my forehead, mentally groaning. Okay. I'm an asshole, but sometimes I can't help it. It just comes naturally to me whenever I'm not playing or listening to music. Music is my freedom, and being surrounded by it eases the tension in my chest. I can be wary about River but still execute our plan. Right?

I eye Kieran, the hopeless romantic. He’d do anything to have her as his possession. The image of him hand-feeding her strawberries and swirling whipped cream all over her body comes to mind. It’s pleasant imagery, and I’ll give him that. Somehow, I don’t think Kieran will ever give her up. Not without a fight. But for now, his behavior benefits us. She may want to hate him, but she can’t keep her eyes off us. And that’s what I wanted all along.

I bite my bottom lip, looking at Callum, who sits back in the booth with his eyes closed and earbuds in, ignoring our presence. Every few minutes, he peeks his eyes open, staring at her like a magnet pulling him in.

Tonight, it was like pulling his molars to get him to come out instead of staying on the couch and playing Xbox with Rad. They’ve had some sort of weird competition going on with some game called Angel Warrior for weeks. But now, I think he’s glad he ventured out. He’s not the type to hang at bars with crowds of people.

Rad talks a million miles a minute, the rum hitting him harder since starting his fourth damn drink. He grins and laughs, talking to people behind us, around us, and to anyone who will listen to his stupid stories. Rad never stops talking. The only time he seals his lips is when he’s macking on some chick and has his tongue down her throat.

And my dear stepbrother can’t stop his fascination from festering to the surface by keeping a keen eye on the short and demanding little manager flitting around the bar.

A loud snort pulls me from my musings, and I turn, looking toward the band sitting behind us. Sorcha and her merry band of women converge after a long, kick-ass set. They laugh and drink in celebration of a show well done. They’re a well-oiled machine, playing together like one person, and their music proves it. They have merch on a table near the back of the bar. They’re onthe damn Dot app and have the most crucial person supporting them. A manager. Someone to schedule these things. Someone so organized, he got them a gig here and with West Records. We have Callum. He does most of our gigs. But to have someone else work on it as we make music would benefit us immensely.

I clench my jaw, pulling out my phone. Battle of the Bands. Hosted by West Records. Skimming the instructions, I take it all in.

Invitations have been sent to fifteen select bands from across the country. Submitted entries are being accepted for any unsigned bands starting September 1st–November 1st. We will select only five bands from the entries, and only twenty will compete. A one-million-dollar prize will be awarded, and a three-year record deal. December 15th, the Battle of the Bands will kick off at the KC Club in East Point, California.

Qualifications include: music present on the streaming app The Dot in the form of an EP, performance footage available on YouTube, a healthy following on ClockTok, and a prominent social media following.

I scroll through our meager social media pages and growl at the dwindling number of likes on each of them. How are we supposed to bring those numbers up in just a few months?

My body jolts up when a loud bang draws my attention to the middle of the empty floor, and my brows raise. River scowls at the broken glasses littering the floor and shakes her head. She’s two seconds away from telling the drunken idiot off but takes a breath, holding her professional composure. I have to commend her for her tongue-holding abilities.