What did he expect? Elliot Desmond himself?
Ted let out a yawn. “You’ll do. Be here tonight at nine.” He disappeared behind a door at the back of the bar.
No conversation about money, not that Mike could be picky. No exchange of phone numbers, nothing.
The older man clapped a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about Ted none. He likes to think he’s more’n he is, if you get my meaning.” He shook Mike’s hand. “I’m Merle, owner of The Stallion. Can I get you a beer?”
* * *
The trailer wasn’t much, but came equipped with a ride to the club via the pink-haired bartender, who lived on the far side of the trailer park. At least until Mike got his Bronco back.
Tiny kitchen, tiny living area, tiny bathroom, one bedroom so small even with the bed pushed against the wall he could barely turn around. The place wouldn’t work for more than one person, and not for very long. Who knew they even made trailers this old and small?
One of those tiny house shows might like it.
Not the worst place he’d ever stayed. The fridge was cold enough to chill beer, he had a bed to sleep in, somewhere to shower and shave, a place to bring someone back to if he got lucky, and nothing tempting enough to make him stay.
And no apparent vermin.
Putting his clothes and toiletries away took all of five minutes. The joys of traveling light. His ride didn’t mind stopping by the garage to get his things. He’d worry about the price for the ride, except the bartender made things clear she didn’t expect anything but maybe a joint every now and then, or a beer. She had a boyfriend in the service, thank you very much, and porn, toys, and an active imagination meant she wasn’t looking for side action.
Some people didn’t know when to stop sharing though. All the same, it beat some offers he’d gotten of “ass, gas, or grass, nobody rides for free.”
In the time it took to get from the trailer park to the bar, Mike knew her life story, her boyfriend’s life story, how they met, how she’d lost her virginity in the back of his Chevy, and that she didn’t like radishes. She veered off subject at the drop of a hat.
Her chatty nature probably made her a hit at The Stallion, and won her lots of tips. She filled him in on all the neighbors and most of the regular customers.
Riding with her meant he got to the club early, but Merle treated him to a burger and fries. So, plenty of decent people lived in town; Ted must be the token jerk.
He wondered at the wisdom of appearing onstage without so much as one practice with the band, but the handful of folks gathered around pool tables and at the bar didn’t strike Mike as die-hard music critics. Based on the limited number of people, he likely wouldn’t be bringing in much money, either, but hopefully enough to cover rent and replace some of the cash disappearing under the Bronco’s hood.
“Four on the Floor,” Ted called out, launching into the first verse without waiting for the introduction. The lead singer just had to be Ted, didn’t he?
Fingers on the strings of his guitar, Mike played. The guy sang off-key, and only three or four people bothered to applaud at the end of the song.
Nope. No getting rich here.
At least no one requestedAmazing Grace.
10
“Well, fuck.” Ted hurled his phone down on the bar. “Chico said he’s gotta have some kind of surgery and probably won’t be back for two weeks or so.” The fact Ted hadn’t learned details or mentioned taking up a collection spoke volumes on how little he cared.
The remaining band members, except for Mike, groaned and cursed. To be totally honest, it wasn’t like anyone would miss the lead guitar player, or any other band member. They simply weren’t good enough for anyone to give a shit.
“What are we gonna do?” the drummer asked. “I don’t know about you guys, but I need the money. Where can we find a replacement?”
The keyboardist nodded. In two weeks of playing with the band, Mike had yet to hear the man string together a full sentence.
Ted scowled, which wasn’t much of an improvement on his usual foul expression. “I don’t know. Paul moved to Colorado Springs, and I’m still not talking to the shithead we used last time.”
“What about Craigslist?” Mike supplied, not that he owed the band anything. However, it would be nice to play with someone worth the effort. “I’ve gotten some jobs through them.” He’d also arranged a few hookups via the site, but the bartender cornered the market on oversharing; no need for Mike to compete.
As if knowing his thoughts turned to her, Roxy of the pink hair smiled and waved from the bar.
Hallelujah, he’d gotten his Bronco back and no longer had to hear, up close and personal, every little detail about the bartender’s life. She still managed to fill in far too many particulars while he ate his customary burger and fries before the show.
Ted rubbed his chin. “What would I say?”
