I left for L.A. early the next morning, long before Holly or Pierre stirred. Griffin, the assistant manager of Sunset Records, had worked the closing shift so I could go to the festival. He was one of my best and most loyal employees, and he’d been with us since before granddad passed. He worked hard and never complained, gladly covering any shift necessary. The only exception was Sunday, when he picked up his grandmother from her retirement home and took her to church, followed by a trip to the hairdresser.
That left only Holly or me to manage the store on Sundays. I took the bullet myself, since it was my place. Besides, I couldn’t afford to pay Holly what she was worth as a manager, yet she stayed with me, anyway.
The drive was peaceful, with the sky lightening over the mountains as orchestral versions of my favorite songs played from the car speakers. I had a cup of gas station coffee in one hand, the steering wheel in the other, and a vacant smile on my lips. Between work and living with Holly, my alone time was almost nonexistent.
Not that I usually minded. Having my best friend around was ideal, since I had no surviving family.
Grandad had been the last of us, and my sole aim in life was to honor his legacy—the store—and make him proud. A familiar leaden weight settled in my gut as I thought about it. If the store continued the way it was going, we had enough capital for a couple of weeks before I had to start laying people off.
No, I told myself, begging the adage to come to fruition. I had the will, so where the fuck was the way?
As I passed in and out of radio station dead zones between the mountains, a silky voice cut through the music, mixed with static bursts. I hoped to afford a vehicle with an aux cord someday, but it wasn’t today.
Tapping my transmitter to shut off the warring frequencies, I turned the dial until the generic voice of a radio star rang clear through my speakers.
“Tell me about that show-stopping moment last night,” he said. “That must be a first for you guys.”
The coffee lurched in my stomach.
“Adrian has killer eyesight,” Jack Torren said through my speakers, chuckling a little. “He saw it go down. This man’s a genuine hero.”
Hero? I thought, irritated.
There was nothing heroic about pouring his blood down my throat. He’d probably enjoyed it, so it was hardly a selfless act.
“Hardly a hero,” Adrian’s voice chimed in over the airways.
At least we agree on something.
“She was actually just fine,” he went on, smoothly brushing over my almost-death like it was nothing more than an inconvenience on his just-launched tour.
Gripping the wheel so hard one of my spiked rings bit into my skin, I told myself this was a positive thing. The band had to address the incident. It wasn’t like someone got clocked upside the head with a Jägermeister bottle at all their shows. Adrian had to say I was fine, unless he wanted to out himself as a vampire on the radio.
I could only imagine that statement: “So, I’m immortal, and I hold the power of life in my hands… along with my drumsticks. Follow me for more vampire tips!”
Why did I care so much what he did or didn’t say during an interview no one would probably hear? It wasn’t like he might share his deepest, darkest secrets.
When the radio guy switched topics, asking the band about their favorite spots in West Hollywood, my hand flew forward and slammed the radio off.
Silence was golden.
* * *
In all the years I’d spent at Sunset Records, which was most of them, I’d grown accustomed to the cross-section of customers. When I was much younger, our shop was still a destination for snagging albums on release week—compact discs dominated the store space. I used to carry a tan feather duster around as a child, only ever cleaning the CDs within my reach.
Vinyl records had been more of a status symbol at that point—collectors’ items meant to scratch the itch of ego that came with displaying good taste in music. As music streaming companies rose in popularity, the store patrons became sparser and sparser. Even though the industry was in a renaissance of records, with every big studio album released on vinyl as well, I could only see the red on the balance sheets.
The store’s days were numbered.
I couldn’t recall the last time we had a line inside the store, much less outside the doors. So when I saw the small crowd stretched along the sidewalk in front of the record shop, I assumed a new celebrity restaurant must’ve opened on our block.
Annoyed with the all-too-common phenomenon, I unlocked the back door and flipped light switches while passing through the employee lounge into the retail side.
My phone controlled the front of the store, and I used an app to illuminate the lofted space as I chose a playlist appropriate for Sunday morning. It wasn’t until I went to flip the Closed sign to Open that I noticed the line on the sidewalk didn’t pass my door—it started there.
This should have been a good thing, but it felt ominous, like the other drumstick might drop at any moment. I unlocked the door and scurried back as the first customers hurried inside. Not since 1976, when Carly Simon had signed autographs for the afternoon, had so many people packed our aisles that quickly. My grandfather had told me the story so many times I had every word memorized.What is going on?
I did my best to greet customers and answer questions, but it quickly became clear that I needed help. I fired off a group text to my current employees: SOS. All hands on deck. Time and a half if you can make it!
My stomach twisted even as I hit send—could I afford it? I glanced at the line forming at the register. I knew I couldn’t afford to lose all those sales.
“Do you have Sunset Records merch?” the first customer asked as I rang him up.
“Um, yeah.” I gestured to the wall behind me. “T-shirts, sweatshirts, and hats with the logo.”
“In what colors?” he asked.
“Navy, black, and white,” I said.
“One of each—all three colors. Mix up the sizes.” The man slapped an AmEx on the counter along with a Ben Folds CD. “Sorry to be an ass, but my client is waiting, if you could hurry.”
I rang up the sale and loaded his purchases into several bags. “Can I ask—why today? Why the sudden interest?”
He gave me a wry smile as he took the bags I’d set on the counter. “Adrian Kane named Sunset Records as his favorite spot in L.A.”
All the blood drained from my face. What the actual fuck? Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to dwell on the why of it all. The line at my register grew longer by the second.
A dozen customers later, I sold out of every piece of store-branded merchandise on the floor, including a mug holding pens beside the register. A woman had offered twenty dollars, which seemed like a hell of a deal for a decade-old mug with a crack on the bottom.
Two of my part-time clerks showed up together a few hours after the worst of the rush. One slipped behind the counter to relieve me, and I sent the other onto the store floor to “help” people confused by the “Please Don’t Touch” signs.
With things under control, I escaped to my office and pulled out my phone. The messages and notifications were coming in too fast to read. I flopped into my desk chair and started scrolling the texts.
Holly: Holy shit, you’re on TMZ!
Pierre: Tabloids should require consent before posting pictures—my double chin is not meant to be famous!
Uncle Wayne: I’ve been trying to call you all morning, pick up!
Bartha: Hey, I saw what happened. Sending love and light.
It was the last message that tripped me up—a narcissistic ex-boyfriend reaching out meant things were more public than I’d imagined. Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I opened my news app and searched for the festival.
I couldn’t unsee the results. The most popular photo was gruesome, likely used because I’d survived and the media could get away with it. As I laid dying on the ground, the shittiest of humans in the crowd had snapped pictures.
What the hell was wrong with people?
Video links caught my eye, and I leaned back in my chair before tapping one.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
At least none of the captions identified me by name, just “lucky fan.” They had reduced me to the lucky unidentified fan knocked out by the crowd but saved by the rockstar. That was sort of worse.
On my phone screen, Adrian vaulted over his drums and darted forward, leaping from the stage and over several rows of heads before touching down. Definitely not human. He’d reached me way faster than possible. The clip ended with him carrying my slackened body through the crowd, careful to keep my face hidden from view.
I doom-scrolled past the other search results, bile rising in my throat. If a polite knock on my office door hadn’t interrupted me, it was entirely possible I would’ve smashed the device and booked a one-way ticket to somewhere without internet.
“Come in,” I called, expecting one of my employees.
Instead, piercing blue-green eyes peered out from beneath rogue black curls through the slightly open door. “Is this a bad time?” Adrian Kane asked.
Fuck.
“If it is,” he thrust a giant cold brew coffee toward me, “maybe this will help.”
My damp hair was slipping out of a loose ponytail, my smeared eyeliner hinted I hadn’t done a great job removing my makeup from the night before, and I was pretty sure the brown stain on my sleeve was fig jam… hopefully. Still, I needed the caffeine fix badly.
I waved him inside the office, holding my hands out for the coffee without thinking. He closed the door behind himself, handed me the drink, and then propped himself against the wall, crossing his arms. The memory of his unshuttered expression as he’d pressed his wrist against my mouth crashed in, sending me into the same confused spiral as last night. My body was at odds with itself. I’d never wanted to jump a man and puke on his shoes at the same time.
“Let me guess, you want me to sign an NDA?” I tasted the cold brew. Not too sweet. Just like I preferred it.
Should I be concerned he knows my coffee preferences? I wondered.
His dark brows drew together with feigned confusion. “I rarely ask women to sign anything legally binding until the third date.” He flashed a wicked smile. “That’s when my kinky side comes out.”
I rolled my eyes. “You aren’t afraid I’ll sell my story to the tabloids?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “What story, exactly? The blood-drinking rumors have been around for years. Nothing new there.”
“Is that vampire humor?” I quipped.
This time, his smile included fangs.
Fuck. I was absolutely right, and he wasn’t pretending otherwise.
“Oh, good,” he answered with a sexy grin when he saw acceptance and not horror in my expression. “It’s so much easier when I don’t have to spell it out.” He gestured to my office couch. “Mind if I sit?”
I minded a little, but Adrian sank down onto the worn cushions before I could protest.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
Propping his ankle on the opposite knee, he studied me with his smoldering gaze. The heat in his eyes caused a corresponding warmth to pool below my belly button. I didn’t like that he had this effect on me. It was dangerous.
His hand dipped into his hoodie pocket before flicking out, and my wallet landed on the desk in front of me.
“There’s that,” he started. “You left it on the bus. And I wanted to check on you after last night…” The amused tone fled from his voice, replaced by something more earnest. “It can be a lot for most people.”
“I’m not most people.” I meant it to sound snotty, like a comeback, but it came out more like a challenge.
“You are, without a doubt, one of a kind.” Adrian leaned forward, taking my hand between both of his. A silver ring on his forefinger caught the light, and my brain focused on the glint to keep from spontaneously combusting. I rarely went for guys who wore jewelry, but it somehow fit him. “Go out with me tomorrow night.”
It wasn’t a question, but I responded with one.
“Why?” I asked.
His confusion was genuine this time. “Most women just say yes.”
“Most men actually ask for a date instead of telling me I’m going on one,” I fired back.
He brought my hand to his cool lips and brushed a kiss across my knuckles. “I’ll pick you up at eight.” He was on his feet, one hand resting on the door handle. “I’m not like most men, Ophelia.”
We stared at one another, both daring the other to blink first. Adrian relented, the question a seductive whisper when it left his soft lips. “So, what do you say, Phi?”
“Yes.” The answer popped out before I gave it much thought. Then, I caught myself. “On one condition—I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”
“Worried the conversation will get dull and you’ll need to fake a sick relative?” he teased.
Something told me nothing about Adrian could ever be boring. My issue was sort of the opposite, like I might find our dinner discussion so interesting I ended the night in his bed. At least with my car, I’d have to think about that choice way harder.
Adrian fought a grin, like he knew the thoughts running through my head. “I’ll text you the address.”
He slipped through the door before I could remind him that we hadn’t exchanged phone numbers.