“Help with the act?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” He refused to meet my eyes, instead focusing on a cornfield.Cool, glad the cornfield is more interesting.
“You don’t know how to be a boyfriend. That’s what you’re saying.” I clarified.
“Yeah. I know the premise of one. But the rules are shaky.” He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and checked out the group of girls three tables over. I chuckled, although a flash of irritation went through me.
“Ronnie, you can’t blatantly stare at other girls if you are in a relationship. Well, if you are with the girl, you don’t eyeball someone else. Men are pigs sometimes.”
He frowned, bringing his gaze back to me with a focused look. “Okay. What else?”
“God, I’m not the best person for this.” I took a much-needed swig of drink. It went down real smooth. The temperature had risen quite a bit since we arrived. “You have the hand holding and pictures down. Thank god, we get along well enough it shouldn’t be too weird when we hang out in public.”
“Should I be affectionate?” His dark brows came together, a cute line forming right in the center. “Do I need a pet name for you, too?”
“Hmm. Pet name, uh, not really. Affection, you are a touchy person as it is. We might have to stage a kiss. Are you prepared for that?”
His gray gaze went back and forth between my eyes, slowly dragging down my face. It landed on my mouth, his nostrils flaring for just a second. “I’ll be fine. Will you?”
“Oh, pookie.” I shook off the butterflies in my belly and found my inner badass. “I will handle you just fine. I know how to kiss.”
“Is that so?” He bit down on his bottom lip, a smirk forming. “I’m curious now.”
“I’m sure you are.” I stood and pointed toward the petting zoo. “Are you going to lose your shit over baby animals, too?”
“Fuck off, Pita.” He joined me and conjoined our hands, but a way-too-smug look formed on his face.
“Pita?”
“Yeah. I figured out your nickname. Pain In The Ass.” He cackled at his own joke, the sound echoing around us. “Pita.”
* * * *
I walked into work later that night and wished I owned ear plugs. The garage band duo that took the stage sucked. They weren’t bad to look at, but their talent was lacking. They’d clearly left it at home. I shook my head, watched them for a song or two, and went to wipe down the bar. We had a steady stream of customers come in, order two pitchers, because, hell, one was a damn penny, and leave. My boss and manager, Claude—which was hislegitname—waved me over.
“What’s up, Sir Claude?” I teased him every chance I got. To make things worse, he was an art major. An art major named Claude who managed a bar and taught painting classes. He needed a mustache and to speak French and he would fit the entire stereotype.
“Whiskey and women suck,” he said, without emotion.
“I don’t know if you’re coming out to me right now, giving up whiskey for life or just making a casual observation.” I had my hands on my hips, lips pursed. Claude was special and often lacked social skills or the ability to read a mood. I had zero clue how he’d become a manager at a bar, in a college town, filled with young co-eds. But it wasn’t my place to judge.
“You and your charming wit,” he said, again without showing emotion. His large lips pressed in a flat line. “I need your help. Again.”
“Name it, Claude with a hot bod.” I tried out new nicknames on him every shift I had He vehemently refused C-Man because it sounded like semen, and he scoffed at Mod-Claude. There was also Clotty the Hotty, Claude-Wad and C-Nut. I might nothave been the best at coming up with nicknames. This one, though, Claude with the hot bod, got one of his firm lips to quirk up. That was like scoring a touchdown the last minute of the game on a Hail Mary pass.
“I need you to play again.” He glanced at the stage and back to me. “You are great and people are leaving. This is the fourth time a band has driven people out!”
“True. For a Saturday night in summer, a lot of people came in.” I ran my fingers over my bottom lip, thinking about playing.Can I do it? Do I want to?
“Sure. But you have a great voice. We need talented people. Damn!” His eyes grew wide and his voice lowered like he was telling me the dirtiest secret of all time. “We’re competing against the bar down the road, Geo’s.”
I bit back a smile. His face told me this was not the time to laugh at him. I nodded, hoping my enthusiasm seemed real. “Competing in what?”
“Numbers, Greta, numbers.” He scoffed, quite a burst of emotion from Claude the Robot. I liked that one.
“Do you have a guitar I can play or something? I can’t just sing. Last time I borrowed one of the musicians’.” I could, but I never felt comfortable enough to. I wished Callie had magically appeared with me. We’d sung in a band together in high school and having someone else on stage boosted my confidence. I had no qualms about how I looked. I knew what assets I had and could play up. But my voice…it crossed the overexposed line where all my vulnerabilities came to light. I thrived on the adrenaline, but choked on the nerves.
“I don’t know.” He raised his hands in the air. “Get on stage. Sing. Tell jokes. I don’t care, but go up there.” He walked with his awkward gait to the gentlemen on the stage, pointed to me a couple of times and they all three looked at me.Aw, hell.
