Page 4 of Lucky Break
“Okaaaay.” I drag out the word and glance around.
“Stage. Now!” Lars barks from behind us.
“You’ve got this.” Tess narrows her gaze at me, then gives me a little push.
My brow scrunches and I let loose a little laugh. She’s being weird. So is Lars. Fuck, they probably have some stupid birthday thing planned. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Tess’s eyes widen with panic. “No!” she answers too quickly and then rolls her eyes. “Stop being an ass!”
I laugh, hearty and real, for the first time all night. “I’m going, I’m going.” I hold my hands up and saunter toward the small stage in the corner of the bar. I pick up my guitar and settle the strap over my shoulder before testing the mic. “How’s everyone doing tonight?” I say, and I’m rewarded with shouts, cheers, and a few cat calls. “For those who haven’t partied with us on Thursdays, I’m Callum O’Neill and I hail from a teeny tiny town just outside of Dublin.” I strum out a few chords. “I promise to play my heart out while you drink your arses off. Deal?” I flash a grin. “Don’t forget to tip your bartenders and servers, yeah?” The spotlights are bright and block my view of most of the crowd. I don’t know where Tess is, but I guess where she’s watching me from and wink in that direction before strumming my guitar. “Let’s have us a good night then, yeah?”
4
TESS
I’ve never feltthe need to meddle when it comes to someone else’s career. But the thing is, for as long as I’ve known Callum O’Neill, I’ve understood two things. The first, is that he’s crazy talented. The man came to the United States with a prayer and a dream. He started out living in shelters and bussing on park corners all because of his love for music and the belief he could be something more. But the second thing—the thing he’d never admit—is that Callum doesn’t expect, and never will ask for, a hand up from anyone. It’s what keeps him humble. He doesn’t use people, and the idea of working the social ladder to find success puts him off. I know because it’s one thing he and Celeste fight about often. It might be the only thing she and I agree on. Whereas Celeste is all about making friends and leveling up, Callum is content to take the long road. And over the last year, he’s stopped hustling so hard.
I don’t know why. I don’t even think he realizes it. But he’s gotten a little too comfortable. He pays his bills and is doing what he loves, which is more than most can ask for, and I think he’s scared to rock the boat. To ask the universe for more.
Fear has a crazy way of holding us back.
Sometimes we need someone else to push us toward the edge of the cliff, because the jump really isn’t as frightening as we think it’ll be.
Well, I pushed.
Hell, I campaigned, emailing every music label on the West coast with a simple recording from my phone. I’d hoped—no, I’d begged and prayed—that someone would open my email and give him a listen. Because if they did, they’d know exactly what I believed with my entire heart: Callum O’Neill was meant to be a star. He was destined for greatness. Almost as if it were written in the stars.
Because of my meddling, there are a couple of record label executives sitting in a back booth, and I’m waiting their table while they admire Callum’s performance.
He’s killing it. There’s an intensity with every note, every song. I don’t know if he can sense there’s more on the line, or if it’s fate. But tonight feels different. Almost as if he’s pouring all of himself into each and every word.
It takes everything in me to focus on my job. I want to stare and sing along like the rest of the bar’s patrons.
It’s been a while since I’ve waited tables, and I would much rather be back behind the bar. However, tonight I make an exception. We don’t get anyone famous here at Twisted Goat, and while the rest of the staff is practically tripping over themselves to get a closer look at our guests, I am careful not to interrupt the table from Detour Records except for when their drinks run dry. I don’t want anything to distract them from taking notice of Callum.
“Here’s a round of waters.” I place the glasses down. “The whiskey sour,” I shout above the music and slide it across the table. “And the two IPAs.” Picking up the last drink on my tray, I hand it to the woman with the red hair and smile. “And one Diet Coke.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I get you anything else?”
The guy with the tattoos nods, holds up a finger to indicate he needs a second, then glances at the woman next to him with the pixie cut. “We staying awhile?”
“Oh, we’re staying until the end of his set,” she states, and I swear I catch a hint of excitement in her tone.
“Are you hungry, then? Should we get some food?” He glances at the others.
“Let me grab some menus,” I say.
He smiles, his hair falling forward before he brushes it back. “That’d be great. Thanks.”
With a bounce in my step, I head back to the bar to retrieve a few food menus. Our offerings are basic but edible, and anyway, these people might be famous, but they don’t act it. They’re down to earth, and besides the security team sitting at the surrounding tables, they’re like anyone else who frequents Twisted Goat.
“Oh my god! Are you dying? How are you so calm right now? I would be freaking out. Please trade me sections. Please. Please. Please.” Ava catches me at the bar, her eyes wide and pleading.
“Ava, honey, don’t be desperate. It’s a bad look.” Preston rolls his eyes at her, then narrows his at me. “But seriously, do you know who you’re waiting on right now?”
I press my lips together, because while I overheard they were from Detour Records—one of the dozens of people I contacted over the last month—I have no clue who exactly they all are. I don’t keep up with celebrity gossip and I stay off social media. Now, if they’ve starred in any movies or shows I’ve binged lately, I’d be a little starstruck. But people are people, rich or poor, famous or not. The only difference is that when some people have too much, I’ve noticed they can turn into giant assholes.
