From the Jump(83)

Behind him, Deiss is approaching, flashing enigmatic smiles at the people who try to trap him in conversation.

“Am I missing a group meeting?” he asks, slapping Mac on the back. “You know you’re allowed to talk to other people than each other, right?”

“But-ola they-ola won’t-ola be-ola able-ola to-ola understand-ola us-ola,” Phoebe says.

Deiss shakes his head. “I told Mia not to allow any children in.”

“We-ola snuck-ola in-ola the-ola back-ola,” I say.

“You, too? I expected better.” Deiss tsks, but a grin tugs at his mouth as he moves around them to stand by me. The backs of our hands brush against each other, sending little waves of warmth caressing my skin.

“Good turnout,” I say, wishing I could kiss him. I’ve always considered PDA tacky, but now I can’t remember why I ever cared. I like it when I’m working at the counter and he comes over and tilts my chin up to brush his lips against mine. It never feels ostentatious, just sweet.

“You outdid yourself on the flyer,” he says. “The band asked about it as soon as they came in. I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”

I beam with pride. “Can you introduce me?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.

“After the show,” Phoebe says over Mac, who’s high-fiving me for making the coolest flyer ever, even though I doubt he’s seen it, considering he lives in West Hollywood. “You should play hard to get.”

“Too late for that,” Simone says with an ugly sneer.

I freeze, my hand still in the air, but Deiss doesn’t.

He tilts his head toward Simone. “What’s that?”

A flush of deep crimson creeps up her neck. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Deiss asks calmly. “Because I respect your right to share whatever you feel you need to. Just make sure you’re showing that same respect to Liv.”

Mac’s brow furrows with confusion, and he reaches up and lowers my wrist with his finger.

“Am I missing something?” Phoebe looks back and forth between the three of us.

Deiss and Simone are focused on each other, locked in a silent stare, so I pretend to be distracted by the tweens who have just stumbled through the door in a flurry of giggles. They’re a strange sight after Deiss has just mentioned children, and it occurs to me that my advertising might have been too effective. Deiss has always considered his shows to be more of an underground scene for genuine music lovers, and these girls look like they should be at home wearing onesie pajamas and braiding each other’s hair.

The awkward moment of silence is interrupted by Booker, who, for once in his life, has managed to appear at exactly the right time.

“Can I just take one bottle of liquor down?” he asks Deiss, ignoring the rest of us. “I heard what you said, but I think you should reconsider. People have come to expect it. It’s good for the vibe.”

“You mean the tips are good for your wallet,” Deiss says, breaking free from his silent showdown with Simone.

“Fine,” Booker says. “I need the money. Just let me have this.”

“I wish I could,” Deiss says. “But we can’t do it. We still haven’t figured out if the liquor license is going to be worth the investment, and the crowd’s gotten too big to control the risk.”

“Hi, Booker,” Phoebe says, waving a hand in front of his face. “It’s me, your friend, Phoebe. You’re supposed to greet me when you enter.”

Booker steps around her arm without breaking focus on Deiss. “Just one last time. Come on, boss. Don’t go all corporate on us. This isn’t open mic night at some dumpy coffee joint. It’s a freaking rock show.”

Deiss looks at me, silently looking for my opinion. As flattered as I am to be included in this decision, I don’t know what to tell him. I think he was right to shut it down. But I also know it’s not Booker’s appeal to his vanity that’s making Deiss reconsider. It’s the knowledge that Booker needs new headshots, and he was counting on tonight’s tips to get them.

“Is this a totally new crowd, or do you know a lot of the people here?” I ask Booker.

He gives me a grateful smile. “Oh, I’ve seen most of them in here before. We’re tight.”

“Tight sounds like a bit of an oversell,” Deiss says dryly.

“What if he kept it covert and stuck to the people he’s served before?” I say. “He could stick to the back half of the basement to limit exposure.”

“That’s stupid,” Simone says sharply. “Everyone would catch on anyway.”

Deiss and I turn toward her, matching expressions of surprise on our faces. Simone is the last person either of us would expect to be concerned about Deiss’s business at this particular moment.

“Don’t do it,” Simone insists. The intensity of her words doesn’t match the casualness of the conversation. “You’ll get in trouble.”

Deiss’s eyes flick toward me again, and I shrug covertly.

“Do you know something?” Deiss asks Simone. But his words are drowned out by the shrieks of four tweens who press into our little circle.

They bounce and squeal, rushing Deiss so that he backs into one of the record bins.