Page 8 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Luke doesn’t respond right away, he just nods. “Okay, well . . .”

I start to pull out my phone to type in his number.

“Davy, put her on the VIP list,” Luke says to the doorman.

“What?!” I squeak.

“Name’s Eleanor,” Luke goes on.

Davy starts scribbling on his clipboard. “Eleanor what?”

Luke nods at me. “Eleanor what?”

I stare at him. I was looking forward to a small jaunt down 6th Street after my first week at the museum and then a quiet night in with a bottle of wine and a good book. I hate to be the stereotype of a girl with glasses who works in a museum, but if the shoe fits.

“You can’t fight with me now,” Luke says in a low, gravelly tone, his eyes locked on mine.

My body goes numb.

Holy. Cow.

“Hayes,” I say. Instead of no.

Because even I can’t refuse an adventure when it falls into my lap.

“Eleanor Hayes,” Luke says. Should be for Davy the doorman’s benefit. But it’s all for me. My full name from his amazing lips. “Make sure she’s not paying for anything, alright? She’s my guest.”

Davy nods curtly before pulling out a walkie talkie to deliver the information to lord knows who.

Before I can attempt to fight, Luke disappears into the club, bags of gummies piled in his arms.

I stare at the spot that he left empty in front of me.

I don’t know if Luke knows this town, but it certainly seems like he runs it.

“Ahem,” Davy clears his throat. He’s pulled the red velvet barrier away. “Eleanor Hayes? VIP?”

I glance at the long line of Fried Polyester fans glowering at me.

I’ve never been a VIP.

Could be fun.

* * *

The VIP section is no joke. Instead of being tangled with the masses in the club proper downstairs, we get to watch it all from a balcony. No one is pushing anyone to make room, rubbing our sweat on each other, no threat of beer spilling down the back of my shirt. Not to mention, the floor isn’t sticky. It’s slick, dark wood, which compliments all the red velvet seating. It’s more like a lounge than a concert venue.

I notice a yellow-labeled beer in many audience members’ hands that I’ve never seen before. It must be a local thing.

Up here, the mood is calm and relaxed. Even the bartenders seem at ease. Rather than dealing with a line of patrons eager to get their drinks before the set starts, they are circulating the floor to take orders and deliver drinks.

I’ve posted up at a high top in the corner, my camera tucked deep in my bag so as not to incur side eyes from event security. For events like this, you need to be an approved photographer. Sure, I wouldn’t mind taking a few snaps here and there during the show but being a concert photographer is a totally different thing. You have to be at the edge of the stage with your ears packed with plugs to make sure you don’t lose your hearing. Not to mention, it can get dangerous if things get out of hand.

It’s a shame, though. I have a great view of all the techs tuning the instruments, with apathetic expressions on their faces and draped in hot pink and dark blue lighting.

The bartender with purple hair tied on the top of her head comes over to me. “One Yellow Rose of Texas for you.”

I take the drink. When it came to picking out a cocktail, I felt it was only right to choose the signature drink of The Yellow Rose. “Thank you so much.”

---