He signaled the bartender as he left the table, who glanced at Suzanne and nodded. She watched him walk to the restroom at the back of the bar, shaking his head theatrically as he went. It was remarkable how her conversations with Dylan, whom she had known for just a few weeks, could be so like her conversations with Marci, whom she had known nearly her whole life.
Marci. It was Friday night, and Marci was home. Suzanne pulled out her phone and sent a text: This is stupid. I’m a jerk. I love you and I’m SO sorry. Can we be friends again? PLEASE?
She wasn’t expecting an answer. Marci had probably gone to bed a couple of hours before, but maybe she would see it in the morning. Surprisingly, her phone’s text notification lit up just a few moments later. The response had come not from Marci, but from Jake: Suze, it’s Jake. M’s asleep. Please come over tomorrow. Take her for a pedicure or something. My treat. She’s driving me insane.
Suzanne laughed. She looked up when another round arrived at the table, but it was only her beer. The waitress took the other one directly to Dylan, who was standing across the room, where the band was taking their break by the pool tables. She watched him shaking hands with a couple of them as they returned from a smoke break outside. All wore broad smiles, and as they talked, she watched Dylan sign autographs for one or two of them, who looked grateful and a little sheepish.
She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but once or twice the whole group laughed. The lead singer was showing Dylan his guitar, in which the latter seemed to be showing appropriately polite interest. He looked over at her and waved, but did not seem to be inviting her over. She pulled her phone back out and played Tetris while she waited.
Then a cold chill ran over her suddenly, as though someone had scratched their nails on a chalkboard directly behind her. Almost imperceptibly, her mood changed and her muscles tightened. She had the faint but distinct feeling that she was being watched. She glanced at Dylan, but he was engaged in conversation and did not look up to meet her gaze.
She pretended to stretch and did a casual sweep of the bar and tables behind her, half expecting to see Rick there. Or perhaps someone hiding behind a strategically placed newspaper. Nothing. She saw two men in Vietnam veterans’ hats having a lively debate of some kind at the bar. A robust girl in a short black dress and striped knee-high socks with inky black lipstick and pigtails the same color, talking to a tall, bald man who facing away from Suzanne. The bartender busy with the remote control and a nearby customer in a polo shirt and khaki shorts advising him on locating something specific on TV.
Next to the bar at a long table, there was a group of young black women—one of whom wore a glittery tiara and wispy veil that were the trademarks of bachelorette parties—laughing at a shared joke with one of the waiters. A middle-aged couple in leather Harley-Davidson jackets making out in the corner booth. Four college-age guys apparently having a drinking contest of some sort.
One man was sitting alone, diagonally behind her. She did not recognize him at first glance, but chanced a second look. He was about her age, give or take a couple of years, with wild black hair and glasses. He wore a short-sleeve button-down plaid shirt and a wedding ring. A plate of half-eaten food was in front of him, and most of a light-colored beer. He was writing in a small spiral notebook. Was that a popular thing to do in a bar? Sit alone and write? She had seen someone doing that recently but couldn’t remember when. Yet neither the man nor the notebook looked familiar.
She decided to get a closer look. She stood and walked toward his table, her heart pounding, pretending that she was actually looking out the window behind him. When she was a few feet away, he looked up at her, returned the polite twitch of a smile she’d sent his way, and went back to his notebook. No nervous response, no blushing, no involuntary sign of recognition crossed his face.
“I thought I’d left my lights on,” she mumbled as she pretended to crane her neck to look out into the night, half to herself, but so he could hear. He gave another polite smile in acknowledgement and returned to the notebook. She could not see what he had written there, but it appeared to be a flow chart of some kind, or something with basic shapes and lines. She turned around and went back to her table.
Shortly thereafter, Rickenbacker’s Revenge made their way back to the plywood stage, and Dylan came back to the table with one of their CDs and his now half-empty beer. “Here you go,” he said, handing her the CD, grinning. “I had them sign it for you.”
He didn’t, however, sit down. “Would you excuse me for another minute?” he asked, patting her shoulder as though she were an elderly relative.
“Sure,” she said, confused.
He walked to the stage and stepped up, smiling awkwardly as the lead singer handed him an acoustic guitar. Oh my God. He’s going to play. Just a regular guy, eh? He smiled at her as he hoisted the guitar strap over his head. The lead singer stepped back and squeezed in next to the bassist, but still called the count for the band to get started. After a few bars, Suzanne recognized it as a very slowed-down cover of R.E.M.’s “Don’t Go Back to Rockville,” one of her favorites from her days at UGA in Athens.
Dylan’s usual twangy sound was more gravelly and interesting on toned-down college rock, though he kept the strong Tennessee accent that made him recognizable. He sang close to the microphone, with barely a couple of inches between the well-worn bill of his cap and the top of the microphone. His face was largely hidden this way, but he grinned at the band when he fumbled through a couple of lyrics.
Even though he limped a little through the words and the timing, the lack of rehearsal didn’t take away from the polished quality of his voice. In this setting, it was more obvious, not less, that Dylan made his living singing. His pitch was spot on, as far as Suzanne could tell, and sounded more authentic than it had on her iPod. She decided that Dylan was one of those singers who was more hurt than helped by all the editing and studio mixing that go into an album.
It took the ever-growing crowd a few minutes to process the change in lead singer. Some people did not notice at all. But near the end of the song, Suzanne could see a few whispered conversations and people nudging one another as they realized, or suspected, who Dylan was. He caught her eye and winked at her from beneath the baseball cap. He was having fun.
The song ended, and the band moved smoothly into another recognizable tune. Suzanne was just realizing what they were playing when Dylan’s voice began the lyrics, as familiar to her as the worn sweatshirt she’d had since her freshman year of college. “Fire and Rain” was her favorite song. He’d remembered, and was now singing it with almost-velvety softness and the garage band accompanying unobtrusively.
He did not look at her as he sang, but gave a crooked little smile at the mention of her name in the second line. No one had ever sung to her before. Suzanne felt a flush spread from her belly up to her cheeks, and down, too. Jesus, no wonder all those girls throw their panties on stage at him. She brought her hands to her mouth, smiling so wide behind them that her cheeks began to ache.
The folk song was closer to his usual genre, and by the time it was over, almost everyone in the bar had figured out who he was, or had it whispered to them by companions. Applause greeted him as he ended. Dylan gave the room a polite wave and turned around to restore the guitar to its rightful owner.
The lead singer of Rickenbacker’s Revenge tossed a dark black mop of hair out of his eyes as he returned to front and center. “Thanks to our new friend,” he said to the crowd, gesturing at Dylan with an open palm. Dylan returned to his seat across from her with a polite “we’re done here” sort of wave at the crowd. Most people got the hint and turned back to their drinks and conversations, while a few continued to gaze at Dylan with broad smiles, hoping to catch his eye. The band, meanwhile, launched into a raucous version the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated,” bringing the attention back to themselves.
“Show off,” Suzanne said.
For a split second, he looked hurt. “But it was beaut
iful, thanks.” She put her hand on his. “Really.”
She opted not to mention the eerie feeling she’d had that someone was watching her, or the man with the spiral notebook who gave no evidence whatsoever of being menacing. Still, she felt off-kilter for the rest of the evening and had trouble staying focused on their conversation.
“You okay?” he asked finally. “I didn’t embarrass you, did I?”
“No, of course not,” she said. “I’m just really tired, that’s all.”
In illustration of this point, Suzanne shook her head vehemently when the petite waitress stopped by to ask whether they wanted another round. “Together or separate?” she asked.
“Separate,” Suzanne said firmly, giving Dylan her best uncompromising look. He opened his mouth to object, and then rolled his eyes, muttering something about stubborn feminists.
The waitress returned with a check for each of them, and an extra bit of receipt paper, on which she had scrawled a phone number. “I don’t mean to be too forward,” she said, looking at Suzanne. “But if y’all aren’t together—?”
Suzanne shook her head no. Then she realized what was happening. Did girls really do this?
“Okay, good,” said the waitress. “Well, Mr. Burke, I’m a huge fan, and I don’t know how long you’re in town or anything, but I’m off in an hour and some friends and I were going out to have a good time. If you’re interested, we’d love for you to join us.”
“That’s really nice, sweetheart, but I think I’m going to make sure my friend here gets home all right and then go straight to bed. Maybe some other time, okay?” He left the number sitting on the table where she’d put it. The waitress looked a little crestfallen, but clearly not ready to give up.
“Don’t be silly,” said Suzanne. “I’ll be fine. You should go. Have a good time.”
Dylan raised an eyebrow at her, which the waitress obviously took as an encouraging sign.
“Yeah, seriously, you should, Mr. Burke. How can you turn down a bunch of hot girls who know how to party?” Suzanne thought the poor little waitress sounded like a bad commercial for a phone sex line. Apparently, though, she thought the reason Dylan hadn’t scooped up her number was that she was too subtle. She licked her lips, leaned over and began whispering in his ear.
Suzanne couldn’t hear what was being said, but she saw Dylan turn bright red. “Wow,” he said, when she had pulled back and stood waiting for a verdict. “I tell you what, sweetheart, I’ll put your number in my pocket, and if I think I can handle…that, you’ll be the first one I call.”
Taking this as a potential acceptance of what was obviously quite an offer, the waitress scooted off, arching her eyebrows as she looked back over her shoulder at him. Dylan reddened again and turned back to Suzanne.
“I didn’t think you would embarrass so easily,” she said.
“Embarrassed? Hell. Try terrified.” Dylan looked at the disappearing form of the waitress and shuddered. Suzanne noted, however, that he did not take the number out of his pocket.
In the parking lot, he looped her missing scarf around her neck, and lingered at his truck for a moment, considering. “Will you be offended if I offer to follow you home? I have only honorable intentions.” He made a little mock bow.
“What, you think I can’t handle myself? I need some big, strong guy to protect me?”
“Not you,” he said. “You don’t seem like the type who needs rescuing, Scarlett. I’m more worried about the poor idiot who’s stalking you. But I know you don’t need some macho asshole running your life for you. I’ll see you around.”
He started to get in his truck and she thought about the guy with the spiral notebook with a slight shiver. She put a hand on Dylan’s arm. “Um, actually,” she started.
“Yeeees?” he said.
Why did this guy insist on needling her all the time?
She spoke deliberately with no exaggerated accent or batting eyelashes. “I would really appreciate it, Dylan, please, if you would follow me back to my condo and make sure that no one is there before going home.”
He bowed again and tipped his baseball hat. “Ma’am, I am at your service.”
Dylan not only walked her to the door when they got to her condo, he followed her inside, making an elaborate show of checking all the closets and even the balcony. Suzanne couldn’t tell whether he was serious or still making fun of her, but something about having another human being here with her was comforting.
“Do you want anything?” she asked, getting a bottle of water from the fridge. “I have beer, or I can make coffee.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I think I’d better go.”
You mean you really came all this way just to check my closets? “You sure? I hate for you to have come all this way for nothing.”
“You took your posters down,” he remarked, looking at the dining room.
“Oh, yes,” she said. Because I decided to track down the guy I was almost engaged to fifteen years ago. The thought struck her suddenly as completely ridiculous.
“Here,” she said, handing him a chilled bottle of water. “For the road. If you decide to call that little waitress, it sounds like you’ll need to be hydrated.”
“Thanks,” he said, taking it. If she had been hoping this conversational bait would lead him to illuminate his further plans for the evening, or to deny that he might call the kinky little waitress, she was disappointed. He looked at her with a curious expression, and then kissed her forehead. “I gotta go, Scarlett. I’ll, um…I’ll call you.”
She closed the door behind him and sank against it until she reached the floor. She sat there for a while, wondering about the mystery that was Dylan Burke. She realized it was the first time a guy had told her he’d call and she was neither sure if he would, or more important, whether she wanted him to.
Chapter 18
“Now you know how we normal girls feel,” Marci said. “You know, those of us who aren’t a perfect size six blonde bombshell with a line of guys around the block waiting to fall at our cute little feet.”
“Oh, shut up,” Suzanne countered. “I seem to remember a time in the not so distant past when you had your pick of at least a couple of different guys. Didn’t He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named drive all the way from Austin to try to win you back? Asshole!”
Suzanne said, “Asshole!” in this ritual way every time she referred to Marci’s old flame Doug in conversation, the way superstitious old women sometimes spit to ward off ill luck.
“That was an exceptional situation,” Marci said. “That kind of stuff happens to you all the time.”
They were sitting in massage chairs at Fab Nails III, a small salon around the corner from Marci’s house in Alpharetta, soaking their feet in warm water with some kind of blue stuff in it. Suzanne had followed Jake’s text instructions and driven to his and Marci’s house first thing that morning, bearing a gift of blueberry bagels with honey cream cheese, Marci’s favorite.
Their reconciliation was quick and tearful. It began with hugging and crying and ended with both of them swearing that they couldn’t remember what they were fighting about but that they were each positive it had been her own fault entirely.
Jake had watched this scene with bemusement. “Chicks,” he said, shaking his head as Marci bawled and Suzanne rummaged in her purse for tissues.
They had both glared at this misogynist utterance, which apparently reminded him that he had some footage to edit in his basement workspace right away. He dug in the paper bag until he found his favorite “everything” bagel and ran away with this and a large thermos of coffee. Suzanne noticed as he rounded the corner heading for the basement that Jake was not yet showing any signs of sympathy weight gain from Marci’s pregnancy. He still looked great, even in loose jeans and a ratty old t-shirt.
“Ahem,” Marci had said, clearing her throat and arching and eyebrow. “That one’s mine, remember?”
Suzanne stuck her tongue out at Marci, laughing. “Don’t worr
y, no danger there. Jake was the only guy I could never win over, remember?” She put her hand lightly on Marci’s little belly bulge. “He was meant for much better things.”
This had prompted a fresh round of tears and hugging; so it was another hour before they had managed to get to the nail salon, where Suzanne was catching Marci up on all that she’d missed during their time apart.
“Anyway,” Marci was saying, as she obediently lifted her left foot out of the water for the pedicurist, “it sounds like you have nothing to worry about. He obviously cares about you.”
It might as well have been twenty years ago: the two of them spending a Saturday together, talking about boys. “Maybe, but…” Suzanne said. “I don’t even know if I want more from him.”
“Yeah, that would suck,” Marci said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “to have an attractive, sweet, rich guy who can sing like an angel show an interest in you.”
“An attractive, sweet, rich guy who’s featured in People every week, with a family who’s in the tabloids every other week, who goes on tour for months at a time and has girls literally throwing themselves at him. You should’ve seen that waitress last night. She might as well have just given him a blow job right there at the table.”
The small Asian woman working on Suzanne’s feet looked up sharply. “Sorry,” said Suzanne. “But seriously, Marci, she basically offered him at least a threesome, if not more than that, while we were paying our checks. Right in front of me.”
“Yeah, but obviously he didn’t take her up on it,” Marci argued. “Did he?”
“I don’t know,” Suzanne admitted. “He still had her number in his pocket, as far as I know, when he left my place. Who knows what he did next? He can do what he wants. He’s Dylan Burke!”
The other pedicurist, now using what looked like a cheese grater to exfoliate Marci’s feet, looked up now. “Dylan Burke?” she said, and Suzanne was instantly embarrassed that she’d been assuming the woman didn’t speak English. “I love his music! What is that song, with the little boy?”
Regrets Only (Sequel to The Marriage Pact) Page 16