Rock'n Tapestries Online - Shari Copell

CHAPTER ONE

I was musing over the colors of a soap bubble when Scott Dreyfus, my boss’s son, walked up behind me.

“Princess Chelsea washing dishes! What’d you do? Draw the short straw?”

I glanced back at him. I must’ve looked a sight, up to my elbows in soapy water and dirty beer glasses, with my hair falling into my eyes. “No short straw drawn. I volunteered to wash glasses tonight. I like it back here.”

I was typically a waitress at Tapestries, the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania bar where I’d spent nearly every day for the last five years of my life. Tonight, though, I had an ulterior motive for wanting to wash dishes in the back room. I’d miss out on the tips, but it was worth it.

Tapestries was “the” place to play for local bands. It was not unheard of for incognito agents from the recording industry to put their butts in our chairs. Just the year before, a local band by the name of Brass Monkeys was signed to a rather lucrative contract. The bands fought to get on our stage; we were booked solid from Thursdays to Saturday nights for the next three years. No one ever cancelled a gig at Tapestries.

“Don’t I usually put the prettiest girls out to serve?” Scott’s eyebrows drew up to a peak in the middle of his forehead. I turned away so he wouldn’t see me roll my eyes. What a jerk.

“Couldn’t tell you, Scott. I don’t make the rules around here.” I bit my lip. The less said to this asshole, the better.

Ignoring Scott Dreyfus never seemed to work for me. He stepped closer and ran his hands over my ass. I knew the drill. This would end with him attempting to grind his cock against me. I was one of only a few women at Tapestries he hadn’t slept with yet, and I had news for him. It. Was. Never. Going. To. Happen.

I guess he thought he had me trapped because my hands were in soapy water. I half-turned and said as calmly as I could, “If you touch me again, I’m going to smash one of these glasses over your head.”

He jumped back as if I’d pulled a knife on him. “I’ll have you fired!”

“Oh, big loss. Like there are no other bars in Pittsburgh who wouldn’t love to have an experienced waitress.” He didn’t need to know I was bluffing. I liked my job at Tapestries and didn’t want to lose it.

Scott’s lips curled as he glared at me. Being shot down was a new experience for him. “I bet your cunt is as icy as the rest of you.” He picked up the partial bag of frozen hamburger patties he’d dropped on the floor and launched it at me. “Here. Put these back in the freezer. You’ll be right at home there, bitch.”

I yanked my hands out of the water and snatched the burgers out of mid-air. He spun on his heels and stormed toward the door, but turned back at the last second.

“Someone said you know the guitar player for the band tonight? Asher Pratt? They say he’s going places.”

“Someone is wrong. I don’t know him.” I dropped the bag of hamburgers on the sink next to me and plunged my hands back into the warm water.

I was lying through my teeth.

After Scott left, I blew out a breath and turned my attention back to the soap bubbles.

The truth was, I did know Asher Pratt, lead guitar player for the band Dirty Turtles. Intimately. It was why I’d begged to do dishes in the back room.

Our relationship ended five years before. I have never been able to put my finger on just why Asher affected me the way he did. I’m not even sure I can describe what he did to my insides.

He had a carnal vibe about him, an inherent maleness that was so compelling, even older women stopped to stare when he passed them by. I’d craved his presence when we weren’t together. Too bad I ended up being just another pathetic moon orbiting his alpha-male planet.

My family moved to Pittsburgh from Rochester, New York in my junior year of high school. I guess I’m pretty enough—long, dark hair, round blue eyes, tall and thin, yet curvaceous. No different than a lot of girls out there, but you know how guys sniff around the new girl at school no matter what she looks like.

I first locked eyes with Asher Pratt eight years ago. I was sixteen, and he