The Wharf wasn’t as packedas it’d been Friday night, but it was busy considering it wasn’t tourist season yet. The Wharf was known for its live music all weekend long, though the first act of the night wasn’t set to go on stage until eight. We still had about an hour before the live music started, and yet it was already crowded.
As Evan and I shouldered our way in, I scanned the crowd for Connor’s red hair, finding her sitting at a table with Lara. They had a plate of nachos in front of them that they were sharing.
Glances of recognition came, and I nodded at a few familiar faces as we made our way over to their table. I slid in beside Connor, leaving the spot beside Lara open for Evan. He plopped down beside her, sending a cheeky grin her way.
“Hi, Evan. How have you been?” Lara’s tone was polite, her smile genuine.
“I’ve been pretty good,” he said, stealing a nacho off their plate. “What about you?”
“Good,” she hesitated, glancing at Connor and me with a cheeky, knowing grin. It was clear Connor had told her about us. Placing my hand on Connor’s thigh under the table, I relaxed. “Filming has been keeping me busy, but we’re wrapping that up for the season soon.”
“Still trying to get in with the London Symphony?” Evan asked.
“That’s the plan. I have auditions in August.”
“What! You didn’t tell me that!” Connor exclaimed, her eyes bright and excited.
“Well, I only just found out Friday and you’ve been a little…preoccupied,” Lara explained, sending a pointed look to me. “It’s not a guarantee, obviously. But it’s still an honour to audition.”
“I’m so happy for you! Let’s celebrate,” Connor waved the waitress over. “Can we get a round of Buttery Nipple shots?”
“Absolutely! Do you guys—holy shit. I mean, hi!” Our waitress stumbled over her words, taking in Evan and me with wide eyes. “I’ll be right back with the shots,” she scurried off again, and Evan let out a laugh.
“That never gets old,” he said, swiping another nacho and leaning back comfortably in his seat.
“Women falling all over themselves around you?” Lara asked, tilting her head to the bar. The waitress was pouring our shots and talking to the bartender. She gestured in our direction, and the bartender nodded at something she said.
Connor watched the waitress, an uneasy look in her eyes. I gave her thigh a gentle squeeze, recapturing her attention.
“Yeah, it’s a perk of the job for sure.” Evan grinned.
The waitress returned with our tray of shots. She handed them out and Connor turned to her friend. “Here’s to Lara! If anyone deserves to have all their dreams come true, it’s you.” We all lifted our glasses to her before tossing back the sugary shot.
Lara’s eyes welled up a little, but her smile was radiant. “Thank you, Connor.”
Our waitress watched us with a smile. “Can I get you guys anything else? A round of beers, maybe? Something to eat?”
“A round of beers would be perfect, darling. And another plate of nachos.” Evan grinned.
“Actually, could I just get a pop, please?” Lara corrected. “Sprite?”
“Coke for me,” Connor added. The waitress—Sadie,as her nametag read—nodded and scurried back to the kitchen.
“So, Dare. Evan. How was the tour?” Lara questioned, popping another nacho into her mouth.
“It was great, well…up until Vancouver. Sucks we had to miss our last show, but the other acts performed so the venue wasn’t totally pissed.”
“Do you guys have to pay a penalty when you miss a show?” Lara asked, curious.
“Yeah, but it’s not a big deal. It was a partial refund, since Two Stoned and Killian played that night,” I replied, shrugging. Before we could continue the conversation, George Mason approached our table, a sheepish look on his face. He still looked the same—big white beard, hair shaved on the sides and longer on the top. Maybe a little rounder at the mid-section, but he looked good.
George had owned and operated The Wharf for going on thirty-five years now. Before him, his uncle had run the old pub. It was one of the oldest pubs on the East Coast, and the décor inside alluded to its history.
“Good evening, fellas,” George said once he’d reached us. “How are you doing?”
“Pretty good, George, how are you?” I asked. Although we’d talked briefly at Frank’s reception, it’d been ages since I’d last sat down and shot the shit with him. He used to let us play at The Wharf on Friday nights before we signed with Maple Records.
“Not so good. The band scheduled to go on in fifteen minutes just called—they can’t make it to the gig. Any chance you fellas would be up to performing?”
