Billionaire Rock Star

charming, repeating. I think of the Swiss as a bit humorless in general, but the Swiss couple in my section are entertaining. They decide to start the evening with a bottle of champagne, and they

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that I hope will melt away some of the sad loneliness seeping from his pores. "What can I get you tonight?" His voice is a low, husky rumble that sends a ripple through the air. "Whiskey, neat." Macallen 1926. My hands are firm as I insert the request in my tablet, but there is a curiosity burning me that has nothing to do with the club or my work. Drink it on the table in front of you, the ice tiller as a mock of laughing. Re! Someone must have taken Macallen.-My embarrassment is palpable. I

, to tell the truth. But there's something about him that feels like an unsolved puzzle. Names, faces, and orders continue to flow as the evening wears on. As the night reaches its peak, I find myself leaning on Max's experience and calm. I correctly hand the sad man in the back two more drinks during my shift, getting the drink right. He gives me a brief glance each time, but says nothing and seems lost in thought. I want to make him feel better, but I keep my distance. As

e future I'm eager to embrace. I take a deep breath of the warm desert air, let it fill my lungs, let it remind me of where I am, of the miles and time I've traveled to get here. I watch the incredible fountains of the Bellagio, letting the music and the fountains fill me with awe. Even at this hour, the strip is full of people walking. I suspect this city never sleeps. And as I start walking back to the temporary room that is mine for now, I allow myself to believe that anything, absolutely anything, is possible. Chapter Four It's the kind of ni

race myself for the small talk, the forced pleasantries of society. "Are you ready for a Macallen 1926, neat?" she asks, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Yeah, thanks for reminding me." I nod and smile faintly at her memory, my voice a hoarse whisper revealing the remnants of a canceled tour and too many nights of shouting into microphones. There's a slight quirk of Brandy's brow as she registers my order, her expression stirring an intrigue that nips at the edge of her professionalism. Maybe she senses the ruin beneath the stubble and tattoos that mar my skin, the story of a betrayed man turning inward. She returns my request, her sincerity filtering through the detachment I've shrouded myself in. She's human in a way that's become rare in my corner of the unive