Page 122 of Sing Your Secrets

thirty-six

Miles

6 months later

Iwatch Reese’s breasts jiggle around in her low-cut tank top as she musters all the elbow grease she can, to wipe down the sticky bar.

She bats away a curly tendril of her hair that has snuck free of her ponytail and is currently glued to her face. She grumbles when she sees me approach. “What the fuck were they serving tonight? It’s like wiping glue off of the table.”

“Sedi says it’s all over the DJ table too. He was so pissed someone spilled their drink near his equipment. It was the house drink tonight—that Elderberry syrup.”

Reese scowls and ducks under the bar. She pulls out three bottles of dark purple, thick syrup, then dumps them into the plastic garbage under the bar. “And that drink will never be featured at The Garage again.”

“Why are you wiping down the bar, anyway? Where are Maggie and Sean? Since when does the big boss get her hands dirty?” I smile as I ask because Reese pours her whole heart and soul into this place. She manages every single concert, act, performance, and one really awkward goth wedding we hosted. I mean it was cool…but the Marilyn Manson cutouts everywhere were super creepy at night. Reese played wedding planner with a big smile on her face. I never imagined that my baby would be more fulfilled running this place than in her fancy business suits, with a cushy paralegal paycheck.

“I told them to go home early and try to recover some semblance of a weekend. Sean has worked eight shifts in a row and Maggie snagged her nipple ring on something,” Reese says with a grimace. “I told her to take her ass to the hospital.”

I make a face. “Nipple ring, huh?”

“Yeah,” Reese says with a wicked smile, “does that turn your crank?” She sets the purple-stained rag down and hops up on the bar, swiveling her legs around. She makes the come-hither motion with her forefinger. Waiting until my hands are wrapped around her slim waist, she whispers in my ear, “I could get something pierced for you.”

“Ha. No one needs to put holes in my girlfriend.” I nip at her neck. “I love you just the way you are.” I drag my tongue from the base of her neck to her earlobe. “Even all sweaty.”

She throws her head back and laughs as she hooks her legs tightly around my waist, knocking against my ass with her heel. “I need to go home and shower. We need a good night’s rest anyway.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Big day, tomorrow.”

“Which reminds me, should we go through the checklist?”

She glowers at me. “When are you going to trust me when I say I’ve handled it? We’ve been running this place together for half a year, and I can tell you out of the two of us, I’m not the one who forgot to order new kegs, locked everyone out of the building—twice, and broke a window when facilitating an impromptu tackle football game inside with their dad and brothers.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Do you keep a list of my transgressions to use against me when you need it most?”

She blinks at me. “Of course not.” She crosses her arms. “But skimp on Valentine’s Day again next year and you’ll hear a few more.”

I hold my palms in the air and my voice goes squeaky. “We were both working! You were the one who had the grand idea for me to do a shirtless performance of Usher covers for single ladies’ night on Valentine’s Day—remember? You basically pimped me out to sell tickets.”

“That’s called damn good business, my sexy little money maker,” she sasses. “I’m talking about after.”

Okay, so after two straight hours on stage, and helping my girl with clean up, we got home to the apartment we now share and I…fell asleep.

“I was tired.”

She narrows her eyes. “Mhmm.”

“I more than made up for it the next morning.” I hold up two fingers, indicating the number of orgasms I gave her in the shower that morning.

“Meh. It wasn’t your best work.”

“Woman…let’s just go through the list.”

Reese hops off the bar and resumes breaking down the bar. She removes the plastic nozzles of the soda guns and drops them one by one into a bucket of seltzer water. Yanking out my phone, I retrieve the to-do list I made last night when my mind was racing and I couldn’t sleep.

“Did you call Petey and ask if he’s bringing the good mics?”

She glares at me.

“Baby,” I whine, “please? For my peace of mind? I’m nervous. This is my first real tour.”

Her expression softens and she blows me a kiss. Reese can’t resist vulnerability. It’s all she preached at me as we took the EP that got me a record deal—sort of—and expanded it into a full album. In homage to the record that somehow brought us together, we took Petey’s Depth and named my debut album Deeper. It’s just as much Reese’s album as mine. Mac took the reins on the first five songs, but once Reese got her footing, she took over.

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