by Katia Rose
We break apart, and she beams at me.
“How did you—What are you—”
She laughs at my stuttering, but before she can say anything, DeeDee is slamming a tray of shots down on the bar. She motions for me to sit in my stool again and sets one down in front of me. It’s layered with a few different colours of liquor and has a lime wedge resting on top.
“This is my new recipe!” she announces to the crowd. “It’s called The Sexy DJ!”
Everybody laughs, and DeeDee raises her own shot glass as she leads them all in a toast.
“To Paige! Bon voyage, ma belle! New York is going to love you.”
I take the shot, and it’s as delicious as every drink DeeDee makes. I finish with the lime wedge, and then turn to find Youssef at my side.
“Hey, sexy DJ,” he says into my hair.
I don’t care that everyone’s watching. I pull the lime out of my mouth and fling it away before kissing him as hard as I can.
The party doesn’t last long, considering it’s a Sunday night, but it’s perfect. DeeDee even gets me on the dance floor for a bit, but mostly I just spend it by the bar, listening to all the congratulations and catching up with Isabella while Youssef pops in now and then.
She tells me she hopes she can catch more of my shows, and that I’m welcome to stay with her in Toronto whenever I’m in town. I can’t stop smiling.
We’re sisters again. We really are.
Eventually, she has to head out with the friend she’s staying with, and guests start leaving quickly after that. By 2AM, it’s just Youssef and I and some of the Taverne Toulouse staff left. We help them with the clean up, and I end up gathering glasses from around the bar to take to the dishwashing machine.
I pause for a minute and set my plastic bin down on a table so I can look around the bar. There was a time when this was the biggest venue I’d ever played. It was my first regular set. It’s where I met Ingrid. It’s where DeeDee started becoming a friend and not just my roommate’s girlfriend. It’s where I let myself tell stories and share feelings I never thought I’d entrust to anyone.
It’s where I found Youssef again.
This bar is the place that changed everything, and it’s the perfect place to spend my last night before everything changes again.
Only this time, I’m not so scared of that change.
“Hey, Paige.” Taverne Toulouse’s owner, Monroe, sets a bin of empty glasses down next to mine. She stands next to me, short enough that the top of her head only reaches just past my shoulder.
I don’t know her all that well. She’s close with DeeDee, and I know everyone here loves working for her. According to the staff, she’s the heart and soul of this place, and she’s the one who took a chance giving me my regular set here.
“Congratulations,” she says. “It sounds like you’ve got some amazing things ahead of you. I can’t believe Taverne Toulouse is losing its best DJ.”
Now that I’m booking bigger venues that are taking me farther away than ever before, I’ve had to pull out of my commitment to the bar.
“I might be back begging for gigs before you know it.”
She chuckles. “I don’t think so, but we’d always love to have you. You’re part of the Taverne Toulouse family, you know?”
I don’t know why, but that makes my throat get all thick. I wasn’t ever looking for a family here, but that seems to be how things turned out.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “That, um...Thank you.”
She nods and wishes me good luck again before heading off to grab more glasses. Youssef finds me soon after that, sliding a hand around my waist after I’ve dropped off the last of the glasses.
“I think they’re about done here. Take one with me before we head out?”
He holds up his other hand, and I notice the tequila bottle with about two shots’ worth of liquor sloshing around the bottom.
I narrow my eyes. “Did DeeDee give you that?”
He grins. “Maybe. I might have mentioned I wanted a moment alone with you.”
He takes my hand and starts steering me away before I have a chance to question him. We move past the staff members finishing last minute tasks and head for the kitchen. The hallway leading there is dark, but when we turn the corner, I find the steel appliances all strewn with multicoloured string lights that make the empty room glow.
“Uh, Youssef, why is the kitchen full of Christmas lights?”
He chuckles, and I turn around to face him. His skin is lit up with all the different colours.
“I was going to use candles, but apparently that’s a safety concern, so DeeDee found these in the bar’s storage closet. I figured you would find candles too cheesy anyway, so this is my attempt at a romantic setting.”
I blink. “Why do we need a romantic setting?”
He shrugs, still grinning at me. “Because I wanted a moment just for us. We’ve missed a lot of those.”
“No.” I shake my head. “We’ve always been exactly where we need to be.”
I believe that now, with everything I have. This path is the right one.
He stays quiet for a few seconds, and then he nods. “You’re right.”
He steps past me, and that’s when I notice the little tray set up with two shot glasses and lime wedges. I suspect DeeDee has struck again.
“Have a drink with me?”
He pours the shots and holds one out to me before raising his and catching my eyes.
“To us.”
I just look at him for a moment—really look. He’s beautiful. It’s not just his face or his eyes or his smile. It’s everything he is, everything he means to me. I feel it every second I’m by his side.
Whatever comes next, I know that’s where I’ll be.
“You ready?” he asks.
I clink my glass to his. “I’m so ready.”
Thank you so much for reading WHEN THE LIGHTS COME ON!
I hope you enjoyed following Paige and Youssef on their wild ride of a love story, and I’m thrilled to have gotten the chance to share it with you.
It’s bittersweet to be bringing Barflies to a close, but I’m looking forward to what’s ahead for me as an author. If you are too, Club Katia is always the first to get updates on new stories from me!
In the meantime, I’d love to introduce you to the series that launched Barflies as a spinoff: my super popular Sherbrooke Station quartet! You’ve seen hints of the Sherbrooke boys and their leading ladies throughout Barflies, and trust me, their stories are just as steamy and swoony.
Start YOUR RHYTHM and find out what happens when journalist Kay starts falling for the one person she’s not supposed to: Matt Pearson, a sexy drummer and the source for her latest article.
Read on for an excerpt from Your Rhythm to get a taste...
Save An Indie
Thank you so much for picking up a copy of When the Lights Come On! It means the world to me to have you as a reader.
Fun Fact: When the Lights Come ON is an indie book, meaning it was published independently by the author. Indie publishing is an awesome thing that allows more writers to get their work out into the world and more readers to find the kind of books they love.
Here’s how you can help ensure your fave indie authors are able to serve up new stories for years to come:
Step one: obtain indie books in a legal manner. Step two: take a minute out of your day to drop a quick review. Reviews are the LIFE BLOOD of an indie author, and just typing a simple “I liked it!” is it all it takes to straight up SAVE AN AUTHOR’S CAREER (which means more books for you!)
On behalf of all indies, THANK YOU for your support!
-Katia
Up next
Your Rhythm
You know what they say: save a snare, bang a drummer.
Kay Fischer is well aware of what they say, and she intends to ignore it completely.
After her first step into the world of music journalism ended with a screw-up so royal it deserved a crow
n, Kay’s been struggling to re-stack the building blocks of her career. Salvation comes in the form of Sherbrooke Station, the latest alt-rock craze to grace Montreal’s legendary music scene.
A front page feature on the band everyone’s talking about seems like a foolproof shot at success, even after Kay meets their drummer. Matt Pearson might have a smile sexy enough to be the eighth deadly sin and a passion for music so powerful it makes her heart ache, but Kay’s got things under control.
She’s a professional, goddammit, and a professional would not get tongue-tied over a source.
A professional would not find herself opening her door at an hour long past midnight to pull said source inside and lead him to her bed.
No, that’s not at all what a professional would do.
Read on for a free excerpt from Katia Rose’s next romantic comedy.
One
Fader || The Temper Trap
KAY
I might as well be in the Yukon.
Winter turns Montreal’s downtown core into a series of giant wind tunnels, icy air blowing in from the Fleuve St-Laurent and shooting up the streets to hit you like a slap in the face every time your path intersects with an eastward-facing intersection. Combined with a snowstorm like the one going on today, it feels more like I’m traversing the arctic, not walking to work in one of the most populated cities in Canada.
Most of my route runs along the RÉSO, the network of underground tunnels Montrealers burrow themselves into to get around downtown in the colder months, but I have to walk the last few blocks up on street level.
“Which wouldn’t be so bad,” I mutter to myself, hoping my breath will help warm my face where it’s already buried under a scarf, “if there wasn’t a pile of FUCKING SNOW stuck down the side of my FUCKING BOOT and freezing my WHOLE FUCKING LEG OFF.”
I swear a lot when I’m cold.
When I finally make it into the lobby of my building, I have to take a few minutes to unravel enough layers that I no longer look like a walking, talking, profanity-spewing snowball. I pull my fogged up glasses off and wipe them on my scarf.
After an elevator ride during which the thaw begins and my boots start dripping all over the salt-stained carpet, I walk into the office of the Montreal newspaper La Gare. I reluctantly peel off the rest of my outdoor stuff before swapping my boots for the pair of Keds I keep in my cubby. That’s a Canadian winter for you: an office full of grown adults has a cubby shelf to hold all our indoor shoes.
I wave to a few people on my way to my desk but don’t say anything. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t manage more than grumbling, “Fuck everything,” if I did. I’m just starting up my computer when an arm reaches over my shoulder to place a steaming takeaway cup down on my desk.
“Comment ça va, princesse de la neige?” asks Pierre, stepping away to set his own cup down on his desk a few feet away.
‘What’s up, Snow Princess?’ is a typical greeting from him. I respond with one of my own.
“Fuck everything.”
He just laughs, popping the lid off his coffee to blow on it before taking a sip.
“Ah, ben là, you Torontonians are so soft,” he chuckles. “It’s not even that cold today. You should be used to it by now.”
“First off, I’m from Hamilton, not Toronto. Different city. Secondly, just because I’m used to it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.”
“A few months ago you told me you like the cold.”
“I told you I like the crisp air of autumn. There’s a difference.”
Pierre pulls his chair out and takes a seat.
“Torontonian,” he teases.
“Hamiltonian,” I insist.
I pry my cup open and the sugary scent of French vanilla wafts up to meet me. I have an unfortunate weakness for girly drinks when it comes to coffee.
“Thanks, by the way.”
I lift the drink up towards Pierre and we mime clinking our cups together before settling down to work.
Pierre has grown to fill the role of my Work Husband in the five months I’ve been at La Gare. He likes to deny it, but the bald patch creeping up the back of his head proves he’s about ten years older than me. I’ll admit he’s going to be a total silver fox one day, but things have only ever been platonic between us. We bonded as much over the fact that our desks are right beside each other as we did over being the only people here under forty-five.
La Gare is one of those newspapers you get for free out of stands next to bus stops or from the hands of someone in a vest aggressively thrusting a copy at you as you make a mad dash for the Metro. I don’t think they’ve updated their logo or their office decor since the 1980s, and I’m pretty sure most of the staff has been here that long too. It’s not exactly the pinnacle of journalistic achievement to be writing for them and the pay is absolute shit, but I’m lucky to have gotten it after losing my last job.
I write the Arts and Culture section. Pierre told me it took my predecessor literally dying of old age before they decided to hire someone new. Monday to Friday, I have a page to fill at the back of the paper.
I spend the next hour gathering some research before Marie-France, our chief editor, marches over to my desk. She’s short and squat and has a habit of wearing Hillary Clinton-esque pantsuits.
“Kay,” she begins, “I have quelque chose for you. It’s an interview. I scheduled you to meet with Ace Turner today.”
I blink at her. “And Ace Turner is...?”
“Vraiment, Kay?” Pierre butts in. “Even I know who Ace Turner is, and I’m not even a music freak like you. He’s the front man for Sherbrooke Station.”
“Ugh, them?” I groan, turning back to Marie-France. “Do I have to?”
I see her fight to keep the smile off her pursed lips.
“Ouais, Kay. You have to. I emailed you the details. It’s at seven.”
She struts away, swinging her arms like a drill-sergeant as she goes.
“Awesome,” I mutter to myself. “That’s really convenient timing. Let’s just extend Kay’s work day for as long as possible, why don’t we?”
“If you wanted a nine to five job, you really picked the wrong field,” Pierre chides.
“I have another interview at eight in the morning tomorrow,” I shoot back. “I don’t want to spend my evening listening to the latest Tumblr craze give me a few half-assed answers I could have predicted myself. It already takes me almost an hour to get back to fucking Verdun every night.”
“Well that’s your fault for living in fucking Verdun.”
I glare at him. “How does Marie-France even know who Sherbrooke Station is?”
“Everyone in Montreal knows who Sherbrooke Station is. What do you have against them, anyways? I think they’re pretty good.”
I stare out the window at the snowflakes getting pulverized by drafts of frigid air, trying to come up with an explanation for why I can’t stand the band nobody seems to be able to stop talking about.
“They seem so...synthetic,” I attempt. “It’s like Atlas Records decided to just pull a band together based on the current trends in male sexiness. It’s like they’re too cool, you know? It just bugs me.”
Pierre stares at me like I’m crazy and I don’t blame him. I can’t deny their songs are good, for now at least, but experience shows that anyone who signs with Atlas is usually on the brink of selling out and losing any trace of originality.
I could be biased, given my history with the record label, but something about the dishevelled haircuts and sculpted, tattooed arms of the absurdly hot guys who make up Sherbrooke Station still pisses me off whenever I see them pop up in my news feed.
“Her name was Alexandra but I met her in Sofia...”
“Oh my god, Pierre, please no.”
It’s no use. He spends the next five minutes humming the tune of their hit song ‘Sofia’ as I throw balled up sticky notes at him from my desk.
Two
Figure It Out || Royal Blood
KAY
If I have to spend my evening working instead of sitting at home defrosting dinner in the microwave—while defrosting my feet in front of a heater—then at least I get to do it at Sapin Noir.
The microbrewery is one of the best places to hang out in the Mile End, a neighbourhood known for having the highest per capita of vintage shops and painfully trendy, unemployed hipsters in a city full of both. It’s a bit out of the way as far as Montreal nightlife goes, but since it opened last summer people have been bypassing the usual haunts to come mingle in its moody, stone-walled alcoves. Around midnight it turns into more of a dance club and they even have bands come play on the weekends.
I take the metro over after work and get there just before seven. The place is dead at this time of day, which is probably why we’re meeting here. It’s Thursday night though, so things should be picking up soon. I doubt we’d even be able to hear each other over the noise if we were meeting an hour later.
I spend the first ten minutes hovering near the door before I decide to just go ahead and order myself a beer.
“Quelque chose pour toi?” the tattooed woman behind the bar asks.
“Ouais,” I answer in choppy French, “une bouteille de la rousse, s’il vous plait.”
I sound like I’m gargling marbles when I try to use French, and most people just start speaking English to me after a few sentences, but I think it’s polite to at least make a stab at it.