Page 4 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“Need a bag?” The older man asks from behind the counter.

I shake my head, giving him a pathetic and apologetic smile. I look like such an asshole right now. Blame up-and-coming cowpunk band Fried Polyester.

With my spoils in hand, I bolt out of the 7-Eleven and begin striding down 6th Street at a steady clip. “Alright, I’m on my way.”

“Great. I’ll let them know.”

I hang up the phone and shove it into the pocket of my suit jacket. I ought to make this band pay for my dry-cleaning bill. This suit is custom after all. Breathe, Luke. It’s all a part of the job. A job I love in a city I love. I can handle this.

Being a music promoter isn’t always easy work, but it’s rewarding. I get acts from across the country, across the fucking world, streaming into Austin’s best venues. It’s a hustle and grind every day, but that also means every day is different. I could never see myself doing anything that required me to sit at a desk, in a cubicle, or fill out spreadsheets. That’s what corporate America is, right? And don’t get me started on becoming a real estate agent. I’ve already got the wardrobe for it, but trying to sell homes to people who are hung up on the type of hardwood floors they want is not my cup of tea.

No, my home is on 6th Street, Austin’s nine-block strip of clubs and music venues. Beautiful vintage buildings line the streets, neon signs to boot, and crowds wander between the sidewalks and streets indiscriminately.

I’ve been pounding these streets since I was just a kid, being dragged along to jazz clubs and blues sets with my dad, eventually sneaking into the harder shows with my friends when I was underage.

Yep. 6th Street is where I belong.

Even if I’m having to track down a specific type of gummi bears for a smarmy band from Brushy Creek, Texas.

“Hey, Luke!” a familiar voice shouts.

I tick my head over my shoulder to get a better look. Everyone’s always yelling out “Hey, Luke” around here. I’m a fixture of the scene. Whether it’s musicians, venue owners, hell, even concertgoers, I’ve got my own little fan club.

Before I can find the face of whoever called out my name, I slam into someone. Something rigid jabs into my belly and I yelp in pain.

Bags of gummies fall to the ground at my feet. Fuck me.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay? Did I hurt you?” the woman asks, delicately touching my arm.

I’m about to swear and be more of an asshole than this person deserves considering I was the one who wasn’t looking, but I go mute when I lay eyes on her.

She’s not just a woman, but a beautiful woman. One with lots of dark, corkscrew curls, high cheekbones, and big brown eyes magnified behind the lenses of her glasses. I’ve always been a sucker for girls with glasses.

In her hands is a camera. A nice one. I must have been jabbed by the lens. I touch the aching spot on my ribs. “I . . . uh . . .” Of course, that’s the moment I spot who called out my name, an older club owner, one of the more old-fashioned types. He’s across the street, snickering at my pain with the bouncer. I ignore him.

She drops the camera, so it hangs around her neck. “Let me help you with . . .” She crouches down and picks up a bag of the gummies. “Your gummies.”

I drop to my knees. “No, I’ve got it, I’m the one who ran into you.” I scoop up as many as I can before she can get to them. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking.”

“No, it’s my fault,” she says. “I had my head down. I was looking at my . . .”

Our eyes meet; she doesn’t manage to finish her sentence. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or maybe she’s sizing me up the way I just did her.

“Anyway, here,” she says, dropping her gaze and shoving the couple bags of gummies she collected into my arm.

“Thanks,” I say.

We both stand up. It feels weird to move along and act like this encounter didn’t happen, despite the mortification.

“That’s a lot of gummies,” she says.

“I—um, yeah, they’re not all for me. I’m prone to cavities anyway,” I say.

She offers me a laugh and a shy smile. “I would never judge a sweet tooth.”

“No, seriously, they’re not for me, they’re for a band I’m working with.” A lock of my hair has fallen on my forehead, and I don’t have a spare hand to put it back in place. Apparently, I needed more gel before I left the house.

Her eyes skitter along 6th Street. “You’re in the music industry?”

---