Bitter Riff (The Muse Series), page 1
Bitter Riff
The Muse Series
Addison Carter
J A Publishing
Copyright © 2022 J A Publishing
All rights reserved
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.
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 publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: AF Designs
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Content Warning
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Acknowledgements
Support
Stalk Addy
Books In This Series
Content Warning
This book contains some material that some readers might find difficult to read.
Please follow my social media links (found at the back of the book) to find a list of warnings. If you have any concerns regarding anything, listed or not, please do not hesistate to reach out via direct message or email.
Email: Addisoncarterauthor@gmail.com
Instagram: @Addisoncarterauthor
For the ones who wanted to give up, but didn't.
I'm so happy you're here.
;
1
"You can spend the rest of your day dwelling on the bad, or you can forget it all and look for some good.” Dad’s words echoed in my head. He never let anything get him down for too long, and neither would I. My morning may have been a complete shitshow, but that didn’t mean the rest of my day had to follow suit.
I pushed the door open, making sure it locked into place, then made my way along the length of the bar, running my hand along the dented surface before ducking into the corridor and throwing open my office door. I cracked all of the windows, then shoved a fire extinguisher in front of the door to jam it open, hoping to create a breeze running through.
It was one of the quickest ways I knew to boost my mood. Allowing the fresh, salty sea air to wash through and eliminate the lingering smell of bleach from last night’s deep clean.
I paused in the middle of the room, then laughed to myself. I hadn’t opened the bar myself in weeks, and for a brief moment I forgot what I needed to do next. My bar manager, Clem, had completed her final shift yesterday and today was starting her maternity leave, so all responsibility would be falling back on to me until I trained someone to step up. Something I really should have considered doing way before Clem’s leave began.
‘Turn it into a bar,’ they all said. Every single one of my friends had told me to do this. ‘You’ve always wanted to run your own place.’ That was true. But they neglected to mention that it would be really hard work, and that when you inherited a complete dump of a restaurant from your parents when they died, and decided to turn it into a live music venue, that it would be really bloody expensive. And exhausting.
But despite it all, I love my bar, and I had big plans for it. The place was all me, all my hard work, and I was proud of that. I wouldn’t want to put my money anywhere else, or my time and energy. My bar makes me happy, most of the time. And when it didn’t, I found happiness elsewhere.
The bad mood that I was attempting to banish was all down to my sister. She may be the best friend I’ve ever had, but the girl was hard work. She was constantly getting herself into sticky situations, and I was the one who usually bailed her out.
This morning she had called me from Venice. She had been hysterical, screaming down the line because private photos had been leaked all over some site I had never heard of before. Photos that she had sent to one of her bandmates. The guys were going insane, the press were all over it – another thing to add to the ever growing list of gossip about my sister – and no one knew who was responsible or how to fix it. I had presumed this was something their manager would do, but apparently, he had disappeared. Not a single person had any idea where he was. So it was down to me to one, calm my dramatic big sister down, and two, work out how to get the pictures buried as quickly as possible.
Luckily for her, I have always been a quick thinker. So I had managed to find a solution before Bea had stopped sobbing. Maverick was on the case – being the most level-headed one of them all – and I had been making calls to all of the right people. Throwing her money in all the right places.
It had been dealt with. Done.
So my mood had calmed, I was no longer worried about my sister, until I received a call on my way down to the bar from a reporter who decided it would be a fantastic idea to attempt to drag me through the mud with Bea. It had happened before, so I knew how to handle it. But when you’re not the rich, famous sibling, it’s a lot harder to make stories go away for good. I had accepted that this wouldn’t be the last time, finding out my secret wasn’t as hard as uncovering any of hers.
I couldn’t let the whole world know what had happened five years ago, and I definitely wouldn’t let my sisters name get ruined by my past. So I bargained with him. Of course, he wanted money – they always do. I sent it, every last penny that I had saved up for the bar, to make the place perfect. And the arsehole had the audacity to fucking laugh as he thanked me for my ‘cooperation’.
I had been left with a sour taste in my mouth, and an irritated shift in my mood. I didn’t like feeling irritated. I needed a long swim, or…
Thank god I owned a bar. A bar that was stocked full of high-quality liquor. 11am might not be the most conventional time to start, or while I was working, but fuck it. One little drink wouldn’t hurt.
Reaching up and pushing onto my tiptoes I grabbed the tall crystal bottle from the very top shelf and snatched up a glass before heading to my office to begin the process of setting the bar up.
“Juney?” a gruff male voice called through the bar just as I finished counting my final till.
Leaning back in my chair, sipping the neat vodka, I peered down to the front door, wondering who on earth was here so early. I knew it would be one of the regulars, they were the only ones who would call me that. Important people – scary people – usually called me Juniper, and I insisted that everyone else call me Juno. Then there was Bea, who was the only person alive who could get away with calling me June-bug. I might be all sunshine and rainbows most of the time, but I would tear into anyone else who tried to call me that.
Hadley came strolling towards me, a wide grin on his weathered face as his heavy boots stomped along the permanently sticky – no matter how much I tried to clean it – floor.
“Hadley, you’re here early,” I declared, throwing back the last dribble of burning liquid and rising to my feet.
“I’m not here to drink. I’m just checking in on you, my love.” He leaned against the doorframe and ran his fingers through a tangle of long, grey hair.
I gave him a wide grin, and grabbed the till, jerking my head towards the front of the bar. Hadley took the heavy tray from me, and I followed him, shaking my head and rolling my eyes as he walked ahead of me. I nudged the fire extinguisher and let my office door close behind me as I followed the huge man. He finished my set up for me as I continued to shake my head and scolded him for treating me like a weak little mouse.
“Stop complaining,” he laughed. “Just let us take care of you.”
“You boys are too good to me.” I winked, leaning against the bar and flipping open my laptop to find a playlist to suit my mood this morning. The Vodka had done a great job of perking me up, but I just needed a little something more, something to really turn my day around.
“You’re too good to us,” Hadley argued, moving around to the other side of the bar and pulling up a stool. He sat down and pulled out his phone, as usual, scrolling aimlessly and thinking that I didn’t know what he was doing.
Every day this happened, if it wasn’t him, it was one of the other two. My protective little gang of old dudes. They were pretty scary guys, all friends of my parents, and they had always treated us girls like family. So when I took over this place, they made a deal between themselves that one of them would always be looking out for me. It was cute, but what was even cuter was that they thought I didn’t know.
“How’s your sister?” he asked, glancing up at me as I put on a playlist of bouncy pop punk cover songs and hooked it up to the speakers, keeping the volume low enough to chat over.
“Drama follows that girl everywhere, I swear,” I sighed, trying not to think too much about how my morning had gone. “I think they need a break, but they’re determined to finish touring.”
“She’s so much like your mum.”
I nodded in agreement. She was, and I was just like Dad. Dads life motto had been something like ‘Every cloud has a silver lining’, and I wholeheartedly agreed with that. Mums was more along the lines o
Before I could dwell for too long on thoughts about my parents, another head popped through the door and in walked Jeremy – Hadley’s twin brother.
“Must be my lucky day,” I teased as the men scowled at each other, having clearly messed up their scheduling. But they quickly fell into comfortable chit-chat and managed to entertain me to no end with their bickering and fun – repetitive – tales of their youth.
Five hours later, happier and full of chips which Hadley had popped out to grab for me when I started to nibble on pork scratchings, they left me under the watchful eye of the third old dude. Carl. He had turned up to help me set up the stage for the evening. Fridays were always my favourite day of the week. Open mic night. We had all sorts come in on those nights, some talented, some not so much. But each and every one of them would be met with a raucous cheer at the end and a pint on the house.
Carl took up his spot for the night, sitting in the small booth he had made himself, and I took over a couple of glasses of lemonade to keep him going. Carl didn’t drink alcohol anymore, which was great for me, since he also never paid for a single drink. Not that I minded as he was doing me a huge favour by running these nights.
Once the crowd had thickened out a bit, I jumped up onto the small stage at the very back and welcomed everyone. Then – as expected – Hadley’s son got up on the stage and kicked off the night with a half decent cover of a City and Colour song. When he was done, he bounded off of the stage and straight up to the bar where I was waiting with a fresh pint of Otter ale, just like every week.
As I was wiping down the bar during the seventh performance of the evening, the man at the very end snorted a laugh, grabbing my full attention, and earning himself a raised brow.
“What’s amused you?” I asked curiously, cocking my head and leaning against the bar so that he could whisper his response.
“I find it funny when people sing their songs.” He rolled his dark eyes, and I glanced up at the stage where a woman was belting out a Hand That Feeds song quite impressively.
“She’s good, so why is it funny? It’s not like she’s ruining a great song.”
He slammed his whiskey glass down on a beermat with a grunt and narrowed his eyes. “Nothing to do with her. She’s fine. It’s the band that I hate.”
“Well, let’s hope the next person sings somethin’ that you approve of, or better yet, get up there yourself?” I bit my tongue with a wide smile as I watched his jaw tense, and his lips pressed tightly together.
“Why the fuck would I do that?” he finally asked, his voice a low rumble that had my insides sparking with something warm and electric. There was no denying that the gorgeous grump was hot. I had noticed him the moment he had stepped foot in the door, talk, dark and mysteriously handsome. But now that he was speaking, I was realising that it wasn’t just my eyes that appreciated his presence.
“Because it’s fun,” I said, earning myself another eye roll that I laughed off as I leaned even closer, slowly ran my tongue over my lower lip, blatantly flirting. “And because it means you can take control of what’s being sung. No more Hand that feeds.”
His gaze dropped to mine, cold and hard as he searched my face for a moment, then shook his head and raised his glass. “Nope, but I’ll take another.”
I sighed and straightened up, grabbing the bottle I had poured his first drink from and topping him up before locating the card machine.
A couple of songs later he piped up again. “How can you tolerate this shit?”
The man up on the stage was putting on a dramatically choreographed performance of an original song. His voice was awful, but he was entertaining my customers, and that was what this place was all about. Giving people a place to enjoy themselves, even if it wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.
“That’s my brother,” I deadpanned, “don’t be rude.”
Something a little like embarrassment flashed across his face, but it was gone in a flash as he blew air loudly from his nose. “He looks old enough to be your dad. I’m calling bullshit.”
I looked back at the man on the stage, realising that he was right as I tried to stop myself from laughing. He looked even older than my dad would have. “Fine,” I chuckled, “You got me. But I tolerate it because it’s fun.”
“It hurts.” He rubbed his finger and thumb hard against the bridge of his nose, then met my gaze, holding it as he pushed back his black hair before unhooking the pair of glasses tucked into the open collar of his linen shirt and sliding them up his nose, drawing my attention to the dark curls sitting just visible beneath the white fabric, the top two buttons hanging open in a relaxed way that didn’t at all fit with the stern expression fixed on his face. “Pass me the sign-up sheet.”
I did as he commanded, curiosity spiking and drowning out the fact that he was coming across as a bit of a rude arsehole. “You’re gonna perform?”
He raised the pen, his jaw tightening. “No, I just wanted to draw a massive cock on it. Of course I’m going to perform, anything to show these poor people what real talent is.”
Once again, I ignored his rudeness – and the way he said cock – and smiled as I took the sheet back and read his name aloud. “Nate, is that short for Natha-.”
“And you are?” he cut me off abruptly.
“Juno.” I said, holding out my hand for him to shake. He stared at my brightly painted nails, then jerked his head in greeting instead.
“Short for Juniper I’m guessing?”
“Good guess, but please, just call me Juno, pretty much everyone else does. So, what will you be playing for us?”
“Something impressive. Something that will put every other performer to shame.” He boasted, and I had to clench my legs to stop myself from squirming. Apparently cocky confidence was my kryptonite.
What do they say? Opposites attract? Well that was a bloody understatement, on my part anyway. I definitely have a type – older, grouchy arseholes who rock the ‘I hate everyone’ look. I’ve always been a sucker for a guy who would more than likely treat me like rubbish. But I’ve also always bounced back straight after. Perks of that inherited optimism.
“I’m looking forward to it.” I grinned, pouring him another whiskey and gesturing to it. “For the nerves, it can be quite scary when it’s your first time up there.”
He laughed coldly, ironically sending a rush of heat through me. “This isn’t my first time, not that you’d know that, Juniper.”
I bit my lip and nodded, “Well, in that case, get that down you, and get your ass up on my stage, baby. It’s your time to shine.”
2
It was barely a stage. Just a small platform really. Not big enough for my old band to fit comfortably on, even all those years ago, when we were still messing around and working out our dynamic, before they moved on and became one of the biggest bands in the world. Leaving me behind, to what? Play shitty open mic nights while working a dull as hell 9-5 and not knowing how to flirt with adorably cute girls who look like the last place they belong is behind the bar of a dark, dirty ‘music venue’.
Not that it really mattered. A sweet young thing like her would never find what she wanted in someone like me. No one ever did.
And there was that blatant age gap. I probably had about fifteen years on her. Although sometimes it felt as though I had a hundred years on everyone I met. Living too many lifetimes already, yet not enough to be a better man.
I stood up and rolled my shoulders, threw down the large measure of whiskey she had just poured me, and walked away, winding through the half empty tables and approaching a guy standing at the side of the room.
“Can I borrow that?” I asked, nodding at the acoustic guitar propped up against the wall beside him. I wasn’t prepared for this in any way, so I hoped that the guy was in an agreeable mood, and that the instrument was tuned correctly. There was nothing worse than sitting on a stage piss-arsing around with your instrument while the people watching lost interest.
