by Quinn Nolan
“What the hell,” she says, surprising me. She pulls her apron off and stuffs it onto the low shelf under the bar before grabbing a pint glass and filling it halfway with the same beer she poured for me. “Teresa, cover me?”
Teresa’s eyes widen, but she nods. She catches my eye and gives a nod of approval.
There’s an empty table near the low stage and Ashlyn walks purposefully toward it. I sigh, slipping my hand into hers and tugging her to a stop a few tables back. When she looks back—almost mutinously—I shake my head. “Trust me.”
That’s all it takes. She allows me to lead her to the table and doesn’t complain when I put her in the chair not facing the stage. When she swivels in the chair, craning to see Graham, I catch her face in my hand, gently turning her back to me.
“I don’t get it. How’s he gonna know I’m even over here?”
I tilt my head to the side, studying her. These are the words of a girl who’s always felt overlooked. I’ve heard them many times before—from fans, most recently, but from girls where I grew up before I made it big. Some of them said those things—about not believing I’d even notice them—and I would know right off the bat they were lying. Some girls sculpt themselves to be noticed, from the expert application of their makeup to the salon-quality of their hair to the teasing bits of flesh revealed. Half the time, the insincere ones I’d kick to the curb before anything got started. I get insincerity everywhere else, I don’t need it in my arms, my bedroom. But there are particular girls who really mean it when they express their surprise that I’d pick them. Contrary to the way Chase picks his women—going, always, for the hottest one with the slimmest waist and biggest boobs—I’m more diverse in my tastes. Sometimes it’s the knowing that they’re not full of themselves, too overconfident, that’s appealing. Like Ashlyn. She honestly doesn’t realize that her face isn’t the only way someone could identify her. It’s the way she moves, the curve of her back, her neck, the color of her hair.
And if Graham can’t notice her unless she’s dangled in front of him, he doesn’t deserve her to begin with.
I squeeze my eyes closed for a beat. Thinking like that won’t get me anywhere but trouble. I’m here to uphold my part of a bargain to get something I want—honest appraisal of the songs I’m working on. Nothing more.
Ashlyn narrows her eyes, studying my face like she’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking. And for some reason, I get the feeling she could actually find out. I take a breath, setting my expression between the politely engaged look I wear during never-ending interviews and the muted awe of when I’m at an awards show and a band I’m not fond of is on the stage. Better to put on a mask than to have her keep scrutinizing me like that. I’ve got my part to play.
I scoot my chair toward her, tucking hair behind her ear and leaning in. She squirms but doesn’t back away, her eyes flicking not toward the stage but toward the full part of the dining room, the bar. I get it—this isn’t the safe anonymity of the bar from this weekend—she works here, knows these people, and she’s afraid I’m going to kiss her, causing difficult-to-answer questions. But I’m not going to do that—not now. Instead, I slide my fingers down her neck, over her shoulder, and down her arm to her hand, where I lace my fingers.
The whole time, I hold her gaze with mine. Her eyes are blue—I knew that already—but now I study the different shades in her irises. A thread of midnight blue weaves its way through lighter hues: a road map to her soul. It pulls me deeper and deeper, my heartbeat speeding up as the minutes pass. And as we stare at each other, it comes to me that looking can be even more intimate than kissing.
***
Ashlyn’s beer is warm, still untouched, when Teresa breaks our spell. She bites her lower lip apologetically and murmurs something to Ashlyn, who flushes. She stands, not looking at me, and downs her beer in one go before heading back up to the bar.
I’d follow, but I can’t make myself move. Whatever just happened between us is still affecting me. I take in a deep breath and release it slowly, shaking my head to clear it. By degrees, the room around me comes back into focus. The group of girls closest to the stage is still there, and the blonde has been pulled into conversation, no longer staring longingly at Graham. I wonder if he’s taken notice of her yet or if he realizes this is just a brief interlude before she fixes him in her sights again. The crowd around the pub has thinned more, but there have been new arrivals, too—mostly guys sitting at the bar. There’s definitely a bent toward men here.
Graham’s drawing to a close on this song. Has he taken a break since I’ve been here? How long were Ashlyn and I sitting here before Teresa interrupted us?
I can’t help snorting. Interrupt. I’m not sure it’s the right word, since we weren’t doing anything.
But that’s not entirely true. I’ve traced every line of her face with my eyes so many times I’m positive I could identify hers by touch. The way the freckles fall across her nose and cheeks, the perfect Cupid’s bow of her mouth.
Graham finishes his song and announces he’ll be back for another set soon. There’s a smattering of applause from the all-girl table and the group-date table, and Graham holds up his hand and ducks his head in mock-humility.
Ashlyn returns to the floor, checking in on the few remaining tables. A glance behind the bar is enough for me to know she and Teresa have switched places—at least for the time being. Teresa catches my eye and winks. An unaccustomed heat flashes in my neck, my cheeks, and I give a quick nod before hastily turning away.
The girl table flags Ashlyn down, and she crosses to them. Graham’s gaze strays in her direction and I feel a stab of satisfaction. So far, so good. When his eyes flick to me, I narrow my eyes like I imagine a jealous boyfriend would.
Or maybe I’m not imagining.
When Ashlyn’s done with the girls, Graham flags her down and she walks to him, smiling. But this isn’t the basking-in-the-glow-of-attention smile she could be wearing—rather, it’s the same smile she gave to the baseball-cap guy at the bar earlier. Either she’s getting good a pretending, or she’s not as excited for his direct attention as she might have been an hour ago. While she talks to him, her eye strays into the larger dining area. When her gaze meets mine, she smiles in an entirely different way—a way that makes her cheeks flush and her eyes sparkle.
Or maybe it’s just the lighting.
When she passes me on her way back to the bar, she runs her fingers along my shoulder, leaving a warm tingle on my skin. I wonder if Teresa told her to do that. When I hazard a glance back at Graham, his attention is fully on her, a hungry look in his eyes. This is good—it’s what Ashlyn was hoping for, what I promised to help her with. Then why does it make me feel hollowed out?
Ashlyn doesn’t sit down again, but every time she passes me, she makes a point to touch me on the hand, the shoulder, the back. And each time, the ghost of that touch lingers. Graham starts his next set, but I barely hear him. The pub starts steadily emptying except one table by the door and a handful of broad-shouldered guys at the bar. Besides me, there’s no reason for Ashlyn to even come this far onto the floor. I could go back to the bar, but I know it’s best for me to stay where I am, to draw Graham’s eye whenever she comes to talk to me. I order another beer and sip it.
Graham’s next set is much shorter and he immediately crosses to the bar where Ashlyn and Teresa are. From the set of his jaw, I know exactly what’s on his mind: It’s Sunday night, no one’s really listening to him anymore. He wants to know if he can shove off. When he’s given the go-ahead, I expect him to head back to his equipment and start packing up, but he remains, chatting. When Teresa is called away, he leads Ashlyn a few steps into the dining room, his hand on her arm. From the way her eyes widen and fight flicking in my direction, I know what’s going on. He wants her number. He wants to call her.
Mission accomplished.
I wait until he’s busy packing up his things before heading to the bar. “I’m headed out.”
&n
bsp; Ashlyn’s face is alight. “I’ll walk you.”
Night has finally fallen and the air is heavier than it was when I walked in. She describes in exquisite detail what happened when Graham asked for her number and I don’t even bother to nod like I’m listening. She got what she wanted. That’s all I care about.
We get to my rental and I unlock the door, tugging it open.
“Think you can find your way back to the house?” she asks, suddenly serious.
“Please. It’s one street. I’m sure I’ll be okay.”
She presses her lips together like she doesn’t entirely believe me. “Thanks again, Everett. You didn’t have to... Thanks.”
“I didn’t do this out of the kindness of my heart. Remember, you owe me.”
She nods emphatically. “Of course. Any time you want me to listen to your songs... Well, you know where I live.” The smile she’s trying to suppress breaks through and she bounces on the balls of her feet a few times before darting forward, placing her hands on either side of my face, and planting a kiss squarely on my mouth. It’s soft, sweet, and over as quickly as it begins. “I’ve gotta get back in there. I’ll...see you.”
I watch her until she’s back in the brewpub, rubbing my lower lip the whole time.
Chapter Six
Ashlyn
Two excruciating days pass before Graham finally calls. While both Reagan and Teresa insist the lag time is typical of all guys, I can’t help being a little disappointed it took him so long.
I’m also disappointed Everett hasn’t stopped by to have me make good on my part of the deal, but I suppose I have no idea how long it takes to write a song. He’ll get me when he’s ready.
My phone conversation with Graham goes something like this:
Graham: “Hey, Ashlyn. It’s Graham.”
Me: Shocked silence. Clears throat. “Um, hi, Graham. It’s Ashlyn.”
Graham: Laughing—most likely mocking me for stating the obvious. “Yeah. So, I was thinking we could go out sometime. If that won’t cause a problem with, you know—that guy.”
Me: “Oh, of course not.” Thinking better of it. “I mean, I told him I’d see him sometime this week, but...”
Graham: “How about tomorrow night? I’m at the brewpub Friday, and you usually work Saturdays, right?”
Me: “Thursday—yeah, sure. Yeah. Thursday.”
Graham: “Thursday.”
I want to crawl into a hole every time the conversation replays in my head. I actually don’t work Saturday this week, but I don’t tell him that. And I do work Thursday, but—by some miracle—I’m able to switch with Dalton. He’s actually looking for more hours so he just takes the shift, leaving me free on Saturday.
On Thursday, I turn into a dithering pile of mush. I text Reagan so many times she finally gives up on whatever she had been doing and comes over. I didn’t call Teresa because, frankly, I’m a little afraid what she’d do to me. I don’t know how she gets her hair and makeup as perfect as it is, but I’ve heard her mention time frames before, and I just don’t have the hours required to work on it.
When Reagan arrives, she wraps me in her arms, petting my hair like I’m a dog. “There, there, my poor little ditherspaz. We’ll get you sorted.”
She’s looking effortlessly cool today in a black crop top and hot pink short-shorts, and I feel even more miserable than before.
“Do you know where you’re going?” She stalks to my makeshift closet and rifles through my meager offerings. I’ve picked up a few more casual, date-worthy outfits in recent months—mostly at the suggestion of her or Teresa—but most of what I own are the clothes I wore as a middle school teacher: button down blouses, trouser pants, pencil skirts. Besides that, I’ve got a handful of t-shirts from the brewpub that I wear when I’m working.
As she flicks through clothes hanger by hanger, my stomach sinks. I should’ve gone shopping. But I’m terrible at picking outfits.
“What are you doing with your hair?”
I finger the ends. “Um...down?”
She shakes her head without turning.
“Up?”
She nods and I sigh, heading toward the bathroom.
I live in an apartment above a garage. As dismal as that sounds, it’s actually a pretty cozy place. It’s a loft-style, with the main area split between the kitchen in front and my bedroom in back, with a cozy, just-enough-room-for-a-couch living area in between. My “closet” is a pair of mounted folding chairs—something I saw on Pinterest and decided was better than trying to cram dressers into the room. Sharing the adjacent wall with the “closet” is the bathroom, the only room you can’t see in its entirety as soon as you walk in the door.
Now I head into the bathroom and stare at my reflection. I’ve applied makeup half a dozen times, washing my face after each application, and now my skin is pink and shiny. Ignoring that for the moment, I pull my hair back. I’m not sure what Reagan thinks I should do with it. A ponytail? After trying a few ideas, I settle on a chignon at the base of my neck.
It makes me look like a teacher.
Before I can pull it down, Reagan calls me back into the main room.
When she sees me, she heaves a sigh, but she smiles. “I figured you’d go for sexy librarian.”
I’m not sure whether she means it as a compliment or not.
She hands me an outfit: white shorts with a lacy overlay, a light blue scoop neck tee, and a pastel-striped scarf that she makes me allow her to drape around my neck after I’ve changed. She settles me on the edge of my bed and restyles my hair and does my makeup before letting me look in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.
The effect is striking. For once, I don’t look like the mousy girl in the front of the classroom or the teacher ready to hand out a detention. I look more cool and composed—more like Reagan or Teresa. The makeup gives me a touch of elegance, and my redone hair, while similar to how I had it before, is more effortless and relaxed. Sexier. Even the scarf, which I’ve tried and failed several times at incorporating into an outfit, looks just right.
I hope Graham likes it.
A buzz sounds through the apartment and I jump, squealing. Reagan puts her hands on my shoulders, holding me in place, fixing me with her gaze. “Calm,” she intones. “He’s just a guy. You’re just a girl. You’re already doing something right because he did call. He did ask you out. So don’t worry about whether or not he likes you. Just be yourself.”
A thousand thoughts bubble to the surface of my mind. What do I talk about? What if the conversation lags? How much information is too much on a first date? But the look in Reagan’s eyes keeps me from letting everything tumble out in a rush. I press my lips together, nodding.
I fight running down the stairs to get to the garage door. I can’t be too eager—that’s something I know already.
I take a breath before opening the door.
But it’s not Graham.
“Everett?” I step outside, quickly looking toward the road. What if Graham pulls up right now? Would it be good or bad for him to see Everett here?
Everett blinks a couple times before shaking his head and smiling. “Busy?” His tone indicates he already knows the answer.
“Graham’s coming over. We’re going out.”
“Congratulations.” He runs a hand through his hair, but his eyes don’t leave me. “I was gonna see if you could give a couple songs a listen. I’ve gotta get some to the studio tomorrow—”
“I could come by tomorrow morning. First thing.” A pang of guilt sweeps through me. I promised I’d help, but he’s got to understand why I can’t do it right now, doesn’t he?
He nods. “Sure. Not too early. I like to sleep in.” His mouth twitches like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. “See you tomorrow.” Without waiting for me to respond, he turns on his heel and heads toward the main house.
I blow out a breath, pressing my hand to my face before heading back up the stairs toward the apartment.
I find Reagan in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. When she notices I’m standing behind her, she doesn’t look the tiniest bit abashed. “This is payment for hauling my ass from my apartment to help you in your crisis.”
“And what were you doing that was so important? Soul Shift marathon on Netflix?”
She sticks out her tongue and I know I’m right. Not that I can exactly take the high road on this one—I’m more than a little obsessed with the show myself.
“So, that date went quick. What, he didn’t dig sexy librarian?” She snaps. “Ooh! Let me guess: His mom is a librarian and going out with you looking like that got him feeling too oedipal and he had to take off.”
I roll my eyes as she sets out the makings for a turkey sandwich. “No. Wasn’t him.”
She flicks her gaze at me. “Who was it then?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I haven’t told her Everett’s the lake house’s tenant. I’m not sure if that would be enough for her to put together his name with his musical personality. Although it wouldn’t be telling her directly, it might still be considered breaking the NDA I had to sign before he showed up, and I don’t want to risk it. “Jehovah’s Witness.”
Before she can ask a follow-up question, the buzzing sounds again and I bid her farewell.
This time, it is Graham at the door, and my breath catches. I can’t help it. He looks even sexier framed by the lush green of the grounds and the slanting summer sunlight. He wears dark jeans and a tight-fitting black tee and it’s incredibly sexy in its simplicity.
His eyes travel the length of my body, from my scarf to my wedges and back, before landing on my face. A smile curls his lips. “Ready?”
He drives an old minivan, which surprises me. I must have a weird look on my face because he nods toward the chair-less back section. “It’s good for gigs. I can haul the drums and amps and stuff.”