Their timing was perfect. A local band from Vancouver had just wrapped their set. She’d seen them a million times, and somehow, they still hadn’t improved. Why hadn’t they called it quits already? The only explanations she could come up with were free drinks and the occasional groupie. Not exactly a sustainable business model.
Tyler surveyed the room, but as she’d suspected the only music industry person there was Allie Kowalski. Everyone else was out partying like it was SXSW.
“I’m stoked to see this band,” Allie said, standing on her tiptoes and peering over Cary’s head. “No fucking Tommy?”
“No fucking Tommy,” Tyler said, hugging her friend. “I wasn’t about to invite him.”
Allie blew out a breath. “Fucking asshole.”
“I know,” she concurred. “Him and Sebastien.”
“Is Porter coming?” Cary asked.
Porter Reynolds was the president of Allie and Tommy’s booking agency. He’d made the “30 Under 30″ list at twenty-one after selling his first company for a ridiculous sum. Sebastien and the old guard couldn’t stand him—for his swagger, his millions, and the fact that he didn’t play by their rules.
“Totally not his scene, man,” Allie said, thumbs flying across her screen. “He thinks everyone in the music biz is an idiot.”
“He’s not entirely wrong,” Tyler muttered, glancing around the room. “I don’t see anyone we know here.”
Allie didn’t even look up. “Good.”
“Can I get you ladies a drink?” Cary offered.
Allie nodded. “Sure, I’ll have a beer. Thanks.”
“Beer, please,” Tyler said.What if someone recognizes him?Then again, Cary Kingston in a shitty bar in Saskatoon? It wasn’t very likely.
After he was out of earshot Allie gave her a sideways glance. “What’s that about?”
“It’s exactly what you think it is.” She wasn’t about to lie to her. “He’s my boyfriend.”
“Nice!” Her eyes drew inward. “Does Sebastard know?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t worry, man.” She angled her head toward the bar. “My lips are sealed. So, how’s the sex?”
Tyler closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. “I can’t even.”
A few moments later the Oh Claires plugged in their guitars and cranked their volume knobs to eleven. Their Marshall amplifiers looked likeHollywood Squares, stacked 3 x 3.
“It’s loud!” Allie shouted, twisting foam plugs into her ears.
“What?” Tyler leaned closer.
“I said it’sloud!”
“Loud like AC/DC.” Tyler grinned. Her dad had taken her to the Stiff Upper Lip tour when she was a kid. She was still amazed she hadn’t lost her hearing—or her eyebrows from the pyrotechnics.
Allie laughed. “It’s weird that AC/DC is from Australia, right?”
“I think of them as British,” Tyler said, agreeing.
“I’m going up,” Allie beamed, heading toward the stage.
“Wow!” Cary yelled over the music. “It’s a little loud, don’t you think?”
“Rock and roll ain’t noise pollution,” Tyler said laughing.
