Roman Holiday

SATURDAY

Chapter One

I'm a classic rock kind of girl. I'm the kind of girl who head bangs to Meat Loaf and air-guitars to "Bohemian Rhapsody." I'm the kind of girl who dissects Van Halen's "Jump," can pinpoint "Hotel California" on a map, strum every chord to "Livin' on a Prayer" blindfolded, and name every single Bruce Springsteen song ever written in thirty seconds flat.

It's all because of Dad.

I didn't have the most...typical upbringing. I can do bands like Sublime and Halestorm too, but classic rock has a way of weaseling into the crevices between dateless Saturday nights and late shifts working at my family's bar, the Silver Lining. It's a dive of a place with cheap two-dollar beers, and halfway decent cover bands. It was Dad's brainchild before he took the midnight train too early.

Mom was the first of us to rebound from his death. She remarried her high school sweetheart, an architect named Charles Conway, three months after his funeral and became the black pariah of Asheville. And I was known as the black pariah's daughter.

It didn't bother me until the day before high school graduation when someone wrote in red lipstick on my locker, 'YOUR MOM'S A SLUT.'

"Forget about those dickheads," my boyfriend, Cas, told me. "You'll never see them again after graduation."

"You won't," I argued in a half-sob. We were huddled in his '78 Trans Am on a dirt road so no one would see us together. I thought, at the time, it was because I was crying so hard I could blow snot bubbles. "You'll be gone to Berkley."

"What happened to you going to going to Tech?" He wiped a tear away with his thumb and tucked a strand of my dishwater blond hair behind my ear.

I laughed ruefully. "If I leave, the Lining will sink faster than the Titanic."

"Your mom can't take care of it?"

"Between going on their monthly honeymoons to Bali and Aspen? That's funny, Cas."

He frowned. "You'll get out, babe."

No, I wouldn't. I knew I wouldn't. But I just smiled and kissed him to change the subject. The Lining still stands because I give a damn. Mom doesn't, and a part of me thinks that she'd rather have it burn down because it's too much trouble, and it needs a lot of work. Work that we can't afford because we're already scraping rock bottom. But someone has to keep Dad's soul alive, and that duty fell to me.

At the time, I didn't think I would mind.

Fast-forward a month and a half to July. Saturday night, my favorite shift. And where's Mom? Definitely not here. I squat down behind the speakers onstage, gathering the plethora of beer bottles tonight's band stashed there, and dump them into the trashcan beside the stage. Our sound guy, Danny, whistles Queen's "Killer Queen" as he flicks off the soundboard and drains the last of his strawberry mojito. I wish he would choke on an ice cube.

"Mike three was hot again tonight, Danny," I tell him, wiping my hands on my jeans. One of the bottles was sticky. Gross. "Rock Your Mouth ruined another Slipknot cover."

"I can only do so much with this equipment, darlin'," Danny retorts. "And they just sucked."

"They would've sucked less if you did your job instead of texting." I hop off the stage and begin tossing the empty bottles scattered across the bar into the trashcan. "I mean, they made me want to slipknot a noose and hang them from the rafters with it. And I usually never have a problem with Slipknot."

Danny spits through the gap in his front teeth. I inwardly cringe. He says it's a nervous habit, but I think he does it to get on my nerves. "Hey, sweetie, leave it to the professionals. Danny's got the big-boy sound stuff under control."

"Because you can text and push a slider at the same time, obviously."

"I've been doin' sound a lot longer than you've been alive, sweetie."

Sweetie, sweetie. I'm not sure what gets on my nerves more, his condescending tone, or the fact that he thinks he call me by a pet name. Danny is twenty years older than me, so it's probably the pet name. I even cringe when my boyfriend calls me "babe." I just hate pet names. Tossing a Coors Light bottle into the trash can with more force than necessary, the neck pops off as the base rings the side before finally falling in. "I'm just trying to help."

"Sweetie, maybe you should start worryin' about your own life, and not this shithole."

For a moment, all I can do is stare. Then something inside of me snaps. In two quick strides, I pick up his backpack and shove it into his chest, knocking him back in surprise. "Get out of my shithole."

"That's cute, sweetie."

"No, if you think this place is a shithole then I want you to f*cking leave!"

"Jesus, calm down."

"Leave. And don't worry about coming back."

"You firin' me?" He sounds genuinely incredulous. "Who else are you gonna hire? I'm sorry sweetie, but you can't do it."

"I think I can manage. Hal!" I call over to the bouncer at the bar. "Escort him out, please?"

The bouncer, a burly guy with knuckles the size of pancakes, abandons his beer. He saunters up, towering over Danny. Watching the sound guy squirm gives me a tiny bit of satisfaction.

"I'll mail you your last check," I tell him.

"You need me, sweetie—"

"And don't" —I interrupt, flipping my pink hair over my shoulder— "call me sweetie, a*shole."

He opens his mouth to retort, but Hal punches his fist into his other hand menacingly. Getting the hint, Danny pulls his backpack over his shoulder and stalks to the front door. When he throws it open, it ricochets off the wall and almost slams him back inside, but he dodges out. He whips a glare back at me before the door slams shut.

"Dumbass," I murmur and make my way over to the bar where Maggie, my best friend, is spinning herself around in one of the swivel chairs.

She stops when I come over, and puts up her fist. "Great job, bb! You sack acely."

"You have no idea how long I've dreamed of doing that." I hop onto the stool beside her, and fist-bump her hanging fist.

"Your new hair must make you bold. It's totes cute on you B-T-W. Who did it?" She winks.

I shrug casually, twirling my finger around a lock of neon pink. "Just some totally awesome best friend."

"Aw, bb, you flatter me!"

I grin before glancing back at the door. "You don't think I was too harsh?"

"Too harsh? That sleaze-ball totes deserved it. He always looks at my tits. I know they're perky and everything but ugh!" She shivers, pulling out her phone. "Totes gross."

"Totes," I laugh.

Maggie and I met in second grade. She was the new kid. I was the weird kid. A match made in heaven, really. On the first day of school, Mrs. Eller teamed us up for an in-class writing assignment—Who is the Most Influential Person In Your Life? The idea was to help each other write our own responses, but I took one look at her paper and was appalled. To be honest, I had never heard another kid call Bruce Springsteen the Boss—or even know who the rock legend was to begin with. All they talked about Britney Spears and Beyonce.

To say I was shell-shocked was the understatement of the year. To say that I wholeheartedly disagreed with her came in close second. "No way, Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi all the way!" I argued.

"Most influential? You even know what that means?" She sniffed indignantly.

"Yeah, Bon Jovi totally changed my life." Dad had taken me to a Bon Jovi concert half a year before. We had seats in the nosebleed section, but it was still the best night of my life. I refused to wash the cigarette smoke and concert sweat out of the t-shirt after. It resides in the top of my closet now. Whenever I begin to miss Dad, I pull it down and take a big whiff. It doesn't smell like him, because he constantly smelled like beer and stale Cuban cigars, but it smells like the memories of him. And that's just as good.

Maggie and I became inseparable after that essay, and learned that she wanted to be a journalist, and kept diaries like I kept music collections. We were like Velcro—she was the sticky, I was the spiky.

But then, five years ago, Roman Holiday came along.

I bet you've heard of them, probably not by name. You can't really distinguish their songs between Justin Timberlake and Maroon 5, although the front man, Roman Montgomery, does try a little ingenuity. Sad to say, I doubt he can think his way out of a paper bag, much less come up with something memorable. Nevertheless, no matter how much I fought to get her to listen to other bands—The Format, the Darkness, Motion City Soundtrack for God's sake!—she became obsessed with Roman Holiday. She went to the concerts, bought the posters, and wore the t-shirts.

It was worse than herpes.

I thought it was a phase. Like N*Sync and Hanson. But it wasn't. It got worse when Holly Hudson died, and the band dropped off the face of the earth. Now, Maggie's obsession is a plague on both our houses. Every tabloid headline, every newspaper snippet, every photo on the internet she consumes like a vacuum. There's a paparazzo she follows—John...James...something. I try not to pay attention. He actively stalks Roman Montgomery with a vicious sort of vendetta. Of course Maggie likes him best.

"Oh my God," she gasps, staring down at her phone, "they're in Montana! They bought groceries!"

"Yay, groceries," I murmur, thrumming my fingers against the fake marble countertop. I wish we could afford wood, at least.

"No, this is legit! Look at this, bb. Look!" She spins her phone over to show me a blurry image of a dark-haired guy bending over a mound of lettuce. "It's RoMo!"

"He eats healthy at least," I remark. "I really don't see why you stalk a murder on Twitter."

"He didn't kill her, okay? Roman Montgomery couldn't hurt a fly." She rolls her eyes. "Why does everyone think he did?"

"A guy with no alibi? Getting off scot-free?"

"He has an alibi. He was out."

I quirk an eyebrow. "Out where? Or was he f*cking some roadie again and didn't want to admit it?"

She rolls her eyes, "Smartass," and returns to her Twitter feed, rattling off other news—that their contract is running out, their album Like Thunder, which came out a month prior to Holly Hudson's death, is about to go Platinum, blah blah blah... "So when are you leaving for Dirty Myrtle? Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. In the morning. Are you sure you can't go with me?" I try to put as much whine in my voice as humanly possible. "It's going to be hell without you."

"You've gone every year without me so far," she says, not even sparing a glance up from her phone.

"But this is different! That was with Dad and Mom, not Mom and the step-idiot. He'll ruin it. All of it. How will I survive?"

"Better question," she replies, "how will the bar survive without you?"

I deflate a little. Of course, she wouldn't understand the condo was something between Mom, Dad, and me. It was our vacation. And now Chuck—Charles—is going to poison it with his expensive shampoos and lavender-scented aftershave. "I'm prepared to come back to a smoldering ruin."

"You have so much faith in the bar staff."

I eye Geoff, our head bartender, schmoozing up a broad-shouldered hunk in the corner of the bar. Behind Geoff, the faucet is running. I take a bobby pin out of my hair, letting a leaf of pink hair fall into my face, and throw it at him. "Hey, earth to Major Geoff!"

He jumps when it hits him square in the ear. "Ow! Sorry. Was, uh—"

"Yeah, I know. Faucet."

He jumps to turn it off. "I swear I'm not a space cadet," he replies with a chuckle. "Nice hair though, boss. Is that fuchsia or electric pink?"

"It's called My-Mother-Will-Kill-Me-Pink."

"Sounds about right. Got that whole Lolita thing going on." I snort in reply. Geoff tsks, turning back to the patron he's trying to flirt the pants off of. Geoff's a twenty-four-year-old horn dog from New Jersey, so he has the whole Jersey Shore dark hair and tan thing going on, which the pale mountain men of Asheville eat up like a dark chocolate mousse. He says over his shoulder, "You're turning into such a heathen, boss."

"Ugh, I know." I mock-roll my eyes. "Now all I need is to go clubbing and bring home a guy with tattoos and a bullring."

"Well..." Maggie bites her bottom lip thoughtfully, "if you're not doing anything tonight, a few college guys playing a Quidditch match down at Hope Park. They're probably still there. Wanna go? Most of them don't have bull rings, but I totes think you can find a tatted Malfoy."

"Tempting. Do I have to run around with a broom between my legs?"

“Well, yeah.”

“Then that's a deal-breaker.”

“Muggles,” she scoffs, sliding her phone into her back pocket, and twists her long dreads up into a bun behind her head. She fans the back of her neck with a drink menu. "Just means I'll have all the Nevilles to myself. Dear f*ck, it's hot. Are you ever going to get the air conditioning fixed?"

I shrug apologetically. "Eventually?"

"Eventually, eventually. Well, eventually you'll regret not coming with me to the Quidditch match."

Normally, I would cave and go with her, just to be a good wing-woman, but tonight's different. I'm already late to my boyfriend's house, and it's not exactly like I can tell her that. Caspian and I aren't quite... official. Like, we're not even facebook friends, which is why tonight is important. Tonight, all of that's going to change. "Sorry, bb. Geoff, you closing tonight?"

He gives me a salute and quirks a teasing eyebrow to the hottie in the corner. "I'll take my time," he replies coyly, more to the patron than to me.

Maggie and I slide off our stools together. She holds the door open for me as we exit the bar and split our separate ways. "I'll make it up to you?" I offer.

"We both know that's a lie!" She calls over her shoulder, waving goodbye with her middle finger.