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Still delivered.

Okay. No problem.

This night is salvageable.

I pour myself a drink from a bottle meant for five people and raise it at the empty side of the booth. I’m two drinks into deciding whether to just fucking leave when a hand lands on my shoulder.

“No way. No way. Cal fucking Fox.”

I don’t know him. He’s got a white linen shirt on and a cardigan draped over his shoulders. Behind him, a table of six or seven guys who all look like they describe themselves as founders.

“We met at Sushi 89,” he says. “Two years ago? You guys were just blowing up.”

“Course, yeah.” I grin. “Good to see you, man.”

I have no idea who this person is. But his table is full, and mine basically has tumbleweeds

rolling through it, so when he says come sit with us, I pick up a bottle meant for my best friends and carry it over to strangers.

Turns out I’m hilarious tonight. They laugh at everything I say, including the things that aren’t jokes. I say I’ve had a rough week and the whole table howls.

Brutal, bro. Legend.

Someone pours me a shot for it.

I’m not really here anymore. I checked out somewhere around the second shot and left the frontman of Atlas Falling, and he’s doing great. He always does great.

The girls arrive and, my god, they are smokin’. One of them slides in beside me, all curves and bare legs, smelling a little too sweet for my taste. But she’s gorgeous and clearly interested. Tonight, that’s enough. She puts her hand on my forearm and whispers to me how much she looves the band.

“Yeah?” I say.

“Yeah, you’re like, my favorite ever.”

“Now you’ve gotta be lying.”

“No, but like, are you okay?” I shift uncomfortably. So far, I’ve avoided any and all questions about Cascade and why I walked off.

“Never better,” I say, and smile at her while stroking her bare thigh with my hand.

Her gaze follows it, and the concern disappears. Thank fuck.

After that, the night gets loose. Shots I stop counting. Cardigan pitches me an app—something about music combining with crypto? And I say yeah sounds cool, send me the deck. A guy makes me listen to his demo by holding his phone against my ear, and it’s shit, and I tell him it’s got potential, because tonight, I’m apparently a liar with a heart of gold.

The girl’s got her hand flat on my chest now. Another one has appeared on my other side, and I’ve got an arm around each of them and a third girl taking a photo of us all. Ah, maybe I will forget all my worries in this sweet party girl sandwich.

Somebody tips off the DJ, because Sun on Glass comes on, and the whole section loses it, screaming and pointing at our table. I stand up on the seat with a bottle in my hand and sing my own chorus into a stranger’s phone flashlight. The girls scream the words back at me.

At some point I’m in the bathroom with my forehead against the cold tile, and I get my phone out.

Delivered.

I leave at three with the girl tucked under my arm. Cardigan hugs me like we’re brothers. Outside, someone across the street yells CAL FOX, WOOO, and films us getting into the car. I shoo them away.

After that, the night comes in flashes.

Perfume smothering me in the back of the car. Her laughing. My front door taking three tries. Her hands everywhere. Her mouth on my dick. My head tipping back against the wall, eyes shut and head swimming, thinking about absolutely nothing at all.

I don’t even remember finishing.