“Yeah, well, you threw wide. Count it.”
“It hit the wire,” and so the argument kept going.
On stage, Ramona pushed closer to the mic and drove the rhythm harder. Her gaze swept the room before landing on me.I lifted my beer in quiet support, but she just rolled her eyes, her voice taking on a terrifying edge through the“think I’m dramatic now, you should hear the chorus”part.
Usually a crowd-pleaser, but the only people in front of the stage were the ones passing it to get to the bathroom.
Mike took the lack of enthusiasm personally. He planted one foot on the monitor, his bass hung low against his hip while he challenged the room with a snarling run he’d clearly made up on the spot. She shot him a look but could do little to get him back in line.
A group of cowboy hats at the end of the bar remained deep in conversation. Didn’t flinch at the drops of sweat and desperate bass licks flying their way. Mike climbed fully onto the monitor and aimed the head of his bass right at them. Nothing. Well, nothing except one guy turning his back to the stage.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my grin contained. This would be the lament of the week; bruised egos deluxe.
The bartender passed behind me with a crate of empty bottles. “They always this loud?”
“They get louder when nobody pays attention.”
He scoffed and set the tray down behind the bar, pausing to wipe a wet ring off the counter. “Should probably research the demo before booking a club.”
The Leaky Buckaroo was hardly a club. Shit, it barely fit the description of a bar with a counter that was chipped and peeled down to bare wood, and old taps that sputtered more than my mom on her second pack for the day.
On stage, Melvin tried his own solution.
He drifted closer to his amp as Ramona’s voice fluttered over the last notes of the song. His fingers danced over the fretboard,making the amp shriek into a blast of feedback that ripped through the room.
People covered their ears, a few drinks were spilled in alarm, but nary an impressed look in the house.
Melvin lunged for the knobs and twisted one down. The screech faded, and Ramona glared with enough heat to melt the strings off his guitar.
It was too risky to laugh. They’d choose that exact moment to look over and I’d be screwed, having to grovel to get back in the good books. I dropped my head so my hair would shield my face, shoulders shaking.
“This taken?” A guy in green flannel tapped the back of the seat next to me.
“Go for it.”
He pulled the stool out and climbed on. His attention stayed on the Hurricanes vs Canucks replay silently flashing above the bar. Here was a man’s man who definitely didn’t come out for the music tonight.
“Thank you.” Ramona pushed her hair away from her face, breath blasting into the mic in short bursts. “You’ve been a great crowd. Try not to tear the house down on this next one.”
A sickening burp tore out of the guy next to me, and my head snapped in his direction. I must’ve been crazy to expect an embarrassed laugh and muttered apology.
“Everyone knows Dallas is taking the Cup this season.” He hiccupped to confirm his authority on the matter. The guy’d clearly been crawling all night, because this was only his first drink here.
Which told me all I needed to know.
A quick escape was in order. I eyed the corner of the stage—my usual refuge—and felt an elbow in my ribs.
“No comment, huh, pretty lady?”
“Excuse me?”
My newest bar friend hiked a thumb in the direction of the TV. “You’re a Hurricanes fan, I take it. Probably— Probably goo-goo-gaga over that… whatshisface center all the girls like.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, so please stop doing it.”
“Stop doing what?” His pea-sized brain visibly rattled in his thick skull.
“Talking to me,” I said, and turned my back to him which, incidentally, had me looking right at the entrance when the door swung open.
