I was frozen in place.

More people entered the bar, and still, my feet were superglued to that very spot.

“Don’t stare,” he whisper-hissed, his voice becoming even more clear. That deep smoky sound was something I’d listened to over and over again on his albums. Oliver Smith was wasted in my bar, and a storm of upset concertgoers were surrounding him without any idea that it was him they surrounded.

“I’m, I’m sorry. I, it’s just . . .” I was stuttering like a lunatic. Holy freaking crap. I’d had dreams like this. Dreams where I’d run into my idol in a very low-key way and pour my heart and soul out to him while we shared a drink. Then, of course, we fell in love and he wrote a song about me, which I shared with our great-great-grandchildren years down the road.

Though this wasn’t exactly the perfect dream.

Reality never is.

That night Oliver was unwelcoming.

And maybe sad?

Most people who drank that much alone often had a little bit of sadness in them. I couldn’t blame him for that. I’d be sad all the time if I’d gone through what he had, especially in the public eye. After Alex passed away, I read some of the hateful comments people made about Oliver. If it were me, I would’ve wanted to die myself. I was sure he blamed himself enough—the last thing he needed was the whole world to blame him too.

“I’m sorry, I just . . . how can I help you?” I asked with my shaky voice.

His shoulders rounded forward even more as if weight was being placed against him every few seconds. He nudged his glass in my direction.

“Right, of course. Another one. I’ll be right back.”

I hurried over to the bar and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, then took it back to his table, set it right down, and poured a glass. “There you go.”

He didn’t reply, so I awkwardly stood there, gawking like a fool.

It wasn’t until he looked up toward me with a cocked eyebrow of confusion that I shook out of my stance.

“Right, of course. Okay.”

I hurried off back behind the bar, flustered and nervous as I tried to get all the new customers their drinks. Business was busy to the point that it was almost impossible to keep up, and I would’ve killed to have Joey there to assist me. But then again, I powered through as I thought about the tips I’d receive. Plus, Oliver freaking Smith was fifty feet away from me. Drunk, sad, and still, somehow perfect.

The fangirl in me wanted to ask him a million questions about what made him write certain songs, but I kept myself together. The last thing I needed was to make a scene.

As the night went on, people started putting their dollars into the jukebox machine. Even though it was refreshing to hear different music, I wished the crowd didn’t have such awful taste for bubblegum pop.

Each time I glanced over to Oliver’s booth, more of the whiskey in the bottle was missing.

What happened to him that night, and how did he end up at Seven?

The crowd kept talking complete crap about Alex & Oliver—mainly Oliver—and I couldn’t imagine what it must’ve felt like to sit there and listen to the putdowns. If it were me, I would’ve snapped—or, well, cried. The more and more Oliver drank, the more tense he became. Hours passed, and people still kept bringing up his name.

It was as if they had nothing better to talk about than the superstar who’d crashed and burned.

“Honestly, it pisses me off that Alex died and Oliver didn’t,” a big, broad-shouldered man commented as he took a shot. “He was the better brother. I always thought Oliver was odd. Besides, their music was trash.”

“As if you know shit about good music!” Oliver barked before he downed the remaining brown liquor in his glass.

The big man tilted his head toward Oliver. “What did you just say?”

“I said”—Oliver stood up, rolled his shoulders back, and stumbled a bit before removing his hat and wiping his hand across his lips—“that you don’t know shit about good music. You’ve been playing the same clichéd bar songs for the past two hours.”

Oh boy. This can’t be good.

The room instantly broke out into shouts as people realized the drunken man in the corner booth was indeed the very Oliver Smith they’d been shitting on for the past two hours.

“I mean, r-r-really,” Oliver slurred, picking up the whiskey bottle and taking a long swig. He walked in the direction of the guy, who was at least twice his size, and poked him in the chest. “I’m s-sick of listening to your bullshit.”

Oliver was smashed, and him approaching the guy talking to him made me nervous. The man was a freaking rock. He had muscles on muscles that were probably growing baby muscles. The guy was a beast, and if Oliver had been a tad bit sober, he never would’ve challenged such a man.