“Watch it down there,” Ramona said into the mic between lines, eyes locked on mine.
I lifted my middle finger in response, because that was easier than answering.
She laughed into the next lyric, feeding off the crowd again.
I took another swallow of beer and finally felt it burn down my throat. It didn’t touch the coil sitting under my sternum, the one that tightened every time I pictured my booth sitting empty in a convention hall full of actual artists.
A couple squeezed in beside me, the girl shouting over the music. “This band is insane.”
“Yeah,” I said, watching Ramona throw her head back and rip through the bridge. “They are.”
The drums cut out on cue, and the bar went manic.
I clapped with everyone else, bottle knocking against my palm, and told myself I’d stay for one more song before I decided whether my loyalty was worth losing a good night’s sleep.
Ramona launched into the next song without warning, the opening riff rough enough to rattle the glasses behind the bar. The crowd shifted with it, a fresh wave pushing forward, and I adjusted my stance so my shoulder caught the edge of the monitor instead of someone’s elbow.
That was when the door opened, letting in a draft of cold night air and six feet plus of problem.
Aiden didn’t hesitate in the doorway. Just stepped inside with his head angled down as if he already regretted it. Broad shoulders under a plain black jacket, dark jeans, Surge cap pulled low. He moved through the press of bodies with the kind of economy you only got from years of disappearing on command. People parted without realizing they had.
I hadn’t thought about him since he’d launched out of my chair last night, but now there was an inexplicable pull in his direction.
He made it to the bar, waited his turn, and gave his brief order. No smile or lame joke for the bartender. No scanning the room to see what he might be dealing with. He took his beer, nodded once, and claimed the last stretch of counter near the jukebox where the light was bad and the mirrors behind the liquor shelves fractured his reflection into pieces.
The band hit the chorus, and Ramona’s voice climbed over the crowd. I listened with half my attention pulled across the room.
Aiden lifted the bottle and drank without looking up.
I watched him longer than necessary, cataloging the tension in his shoulders and the tense line of his mouth as he stared down at the scarred wood under his palm.
Fine.
I wouldn’t be calling it a night just yet.
Clutching my tepid beer, I threaded through the crowd. By the time I reached the bar, Aiden had rotated his bottle a quarter turn and taken another drink. Up close, he looked exactly like he had in my chair last night. Maybe a little tired around the eyes.
“Does your tendency to skip out on things include bar tabs, or is that exclusive to tattoos? The bartender’s a good friend of mine. I’d hate to see him cash up short tonight.”
His gaze lifted, and recognition flickered there before he smoothed it out. “I was told the team settled all payments.”
“I’m fucking with you,” I said, taking the stool next to him. “Figured you probably didn’t rack up enough grief over what happened, and could use some more.”
He studied me for a beat, then the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”
“You wish.” My beer tasted like lukewarm piss. I grimaced through one last swallow before abandoning it, and calling for another. “My best friend’s lead vocal and guitar.”
He glanced at the stage, head bobbing up and down as if he’d only just realized there was any kind of music at all. “They’re good.”
“If you’re into that kinda thing.” I took a sip of my fresh beer. “So what’s your kind of thing? Apart from Icy Veins’s super cool embodiment of what I believe is alt, indie, garage… rock.”
“Depends.”
“On?”
He turned the bottle between his fingers. “What I’m trying not to think about.”
“Oh, boy. Sounds a little bit Country to me.”
