Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1)

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

©2015 Strung Out by Lyrica Creed

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Published by: Rock Star Reads

Cover Design: Book Bangs

Formatting: Book Bangs

00405160

to musicians and those who love them through the highs and the lows of rock and roll

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‘Finding my best friend and getting the hell out of California is top priority. Especially as the relationship with my rock star stepbrother becomes more complicated with each passing day...’

I wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse that my schedule had just opened, making my return text a possibility instead of an idle threat. It had been two weeks since Ivy’s messages from the bus on the night of the concert.

“Scarla? Could I get some service, like yesterday?”

Restraining the urge to grab a soda gun and spray his smug face, I shot a smile down the long bar to the unruly patron and his tumbler of melting ice. “Of course. Another?”

“Make it a double.”

“Coming right up.”

I could almost see steam pouring from his ears when I took my time closing the text screen and then the email screen before pocketing the phone in my jeans. The figurative clouds vaporized, and his glowing gaze stuck like glue to my derriere.

With my forefinger, I hooked a selection from the neatly-lined liquor bottles and assembled the ingredients into the shaker. Tired of the sensation of his staring eyes, I turned, fully facing him as I mixed and poured. Flipping a bar towel over my shoulder, I carried the glass, switched it out with the empty, and wiped up while he pulled bills from his wallet. He always tipped well, possibly in atonement for his behavior, and I curved a forgiving smile when I saw today was no different.

The mirror behind the bar reflected a smudge of eyeliner beneath one eye, and I wiped it away while closing the money into the register. My hair was in a fritz due to the humidity, and I ran a smoothing hand down the tresses. Was there a hair clip in my purse…

“Hey, kitten. I ordered a double. I paid for a double.”

And here we go
. At least once a week, this man made my shift a misery by harassing the other customers until he ended up in a fistfight, or was escorted from the premises. Due to the weather, the bar was near empty. With no one else to aggravate, he focused more on me.

“It
is
a double.” Leaning into the damp cloth, I put extra elbow grease into wiping up an empty area of the bar. “You watched me make it.”

“Everything okay?” The deep timbre of the voice was more than familiar, and relieved, I turned to the newcomer. Behind him, rain pattered on the sidewalk and then the door fell closed, as silently as it had opened. He swung a leg over the stool in front of me and sent a knowing look down the bar. Derrick kept me company during my shift often enough to know the troublemakers.

“It will be, in five minutes when I’m out of this joint.” I poured him his usual. In my peripheral vision, I saw my least favorite customer had decided he didn’t want to stir things up yet and was back to drinking in silence.

After thanking me for the drink, Derrick sipped and fiddled with his coaster. “Did you check out that concierge job?”

“I did.” Grateful for the job lead at the resort where he worked part time, I’d followed up. “The money isn’t right. The tips, you know. They keep me in school.” I deliberately let the appreciation in my voice carry. For two years, I’d done well enough working part time to take courses full time.

Until now
. But he didn’t know the bad news yet.

He took another drink, and his lips thinned into a line. He’d offered a loan many times—so many that we’d argued when it last happened. Never one to stay moody for long, he looked up hopefully. “You got any of your hot sauce left?”

Knowing how addicted he was to my homemade salsa, I regretfully shook my head. “I ate the last of it when I got here. Wiped out the chips too. Sorry.”

“Bitch!” His jest was a little overenthusiastic, his voice carrying, and the others at the bar honed in.

“If you’re nice, I’ll bring some tomorrow.”

“I can do nice,” he assured.

His wolfish smile didn’t go unnoticed, and flutters tickled the inside of my belly. I made a quick circle, checking on my other customers. The man who worked so intently on his tablet. The couple who jested about celebrities in constant need of rehab while watching the muted television above my head.

Choosing a canned drink from the fridge, I pondered my dire financial straits. An entire semester was about to eddy down the drain. Stationing myself across from Derrick, I leaned a hip against my side of the bar, popped the tab, and tipped the can to my lips.