Coming here tonight could have been a huge mistake, but Joz was one hell of a persuasive man. Besides, if my PR team got wind of a story, they’d squash it before it was published.
Lars’s cheeks pinked up, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, of course. Why don’t I get you guys a drink? What’ll you have, Aspen?”
“Cosmopolitan, please.”
“Gotcha. Joz?”
“Iced water. Good luck tonight.”
“It’s open mic night if you’re up for it.”
Joz shook his head. “I’m off the clock.”
“Fair point. But if you do decide to, this is a safe place. No press, guaranteed, and you won’t get bothered either.”
“Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.”
We chose a table at the back of the room, to the left of the stage, and Lars brought our drinks over, then began doing the rounds. As he promised, not a single person approached Joz to ask for an autograph or a picture. In fact, no one paid us any attention at all.
“How long ago did you give up drinking?”
“A few years back.” He angled his head away from me, seemingly lost in thought. “I’ve done it all: drugs, booze, sex.”He faced me again. “Bad things happen when you lose control. It wasn’t easy to quit, but I’m a better version of myself for it.”
A distant memory pricked at me, something I’d read, perhaps, but I couldn’t bring it into focus. I opened my mouth to ask a follow up question, but Joz cut me off.
“How’s the kid doing?”
Didn’t want to talk about his past. Got it. “He’s a little bemused, but he’ll get there. We’ll take it slowly with him.”
He nodded. “I knew your label was the right call.”
A woman got up on stage and began to sing a jazz number. “I’ve invited Presley to your press conference on Monday,” I said. “Thought it would be good for him to see the rigmarole of it all up close.”
“For sure.” He drummed his fingers on the table, tapping his foot in time to the music as a train of singers took their turn, some better than others.
Dialogue flowed between us like we’d known each other for years and had done this a hundred times. This was the real Joz Raynor: music lover, great conversationalist, easy to be around. When he quit the constant flirtatious behavior, he appeared vulnerable and even a little bit sad or lonely.
As the clock inched toward eleven, I finished my drink and picked up my purse. “I really should go. I have an early flight.”
“Don’t go yet. Stay a little while longer.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“If I sing, will you stay?”
“You’re off the clock.”
“Not for you. I’d like to sing for you. Please.”
I rubbed my lips together. Hearing him sing live was worth staying up late for. “Just one song. Then we’re going. Deal?”
His brilliant smile caused my stomach to flip over several times. “I like making deals with you, Aspen.”
Getting to his feet, he ambled over to Lars, who was propping up the bar. Lars nodded, then disappeared, returning a few minutes later with an acoustic guitar that he produced from God only knew where.
Joz climbed on the stage and pulled up a stool. Several murmurings reached me as recognition swept through the audience.
“Evening,” Joz said, saluting the small crowd. “I’d like to sing something, but I have a favor to ask you. Please, no cameras.”
