“I’m planning on it, Reggie.” Cary winked at the doorman.
Really?
Reggie mustered a chuckle. “What’ll it be?”
“Beer?” She shrugged at Cary.
“We’ll have two beers, please,” Cary answered. “And we’re paying full price.”
“It’s on the house,” Reggie said. “Your money’s no good here.”
“I insist, Reggie.” Cary pulled out his wallet and flashed a twenty-dollar bill.
“Cary goddamn Kingston,” Reggie said and walked away, not taking his money.
The room was at capacity, but luckily, the hipsters hadn’t spotted Cary—or if they had, they were too cool to acknowledge him. Even their server ignored them when she dropped off their beers. For once they were enjoying themselves like a regular couple until she glanced at the stage.
Chris? No. It can’t be.
Chris was the drummer in her ex-boyfriend’s band, and she hadn’t seen him in years. As far as drummers went, he was tolerable, but what were the chances of him being there?
Apparently, one hundred percent.
Fuck!The rest of the band, including Dave, walked across the stage. Was this some joke? She scanned the room for hidden cameras, convinced she was being punked.
The house lights flashed on Dave’s olive-green eyes and he squinted, holding his hand above his chiseled face. Loose black curls hung past his shoulders and he tousled his locks while a few girls screamed.Ugh, spare me. He wore a tight black T-shirt that hugged his lean muscles, although he never worked out a day in his life.
Dave adjusted the microphone stand to match his 6‘2“ frame and scanned the crowd, focusing on the tables near the stage. When his gaze locked with Tyler’s, he flashed a sexy grin—until he noticed the person beside her, his jaw unhinging like a picture frame slipping from its hook.
That’s right, asshole. I’ve upgraded.
With an aggressive grab of the microphone, Dave counted his band in. The song was the fourth track from their second record, one of their self-proclaimed hits.
She closed her eyes and shook her head, disgusted with herself for remembering the album sequence. During their set a wave of bile inchedup her chest, quickening her pulse with every word he sang. Was she going to puke or have a heart attack?
“They’re not that good,” Cary said, casually drinking his beer.
She nodded, keeping her expression neutral. “Yeah, they’re pretty bad.”
After Dave’s band finished their set, Cary flashed his wallet at their server.
“It’s been taken care of by some fans,” she said, setting down two bottles of beer on the table.
“Here.” He took out a twenty-dollar bill. “This is for you.” He turned his head and leaned back in his chair. “I’m happy to say hi to them or sign an autograph.”
She plucked the bill from Cary’s hand. “It’s from those guys over there.”
Shit.
Tyler spotted Dave strutting over, all smug confidence, while the first four notes of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony droned in her head. Was it too late to trade in her birthday wish?
“Tyler,” Dave said, smirking.
Cary narrowed his eyes, looking suspicious. “How do you know each other?”
“I’m Dave.”
Cary gave him a blank stare, then looked at Tyler.
