She sighed, but the smile didn’t slip from her face. “They don’t hold a candle to the Comets ladies, but I have no complaints.”
The Comets WAGs not only consisted of Hannah Berg but also Natalie Slate, Jaxon’s wife and Dakota’s future sister-in-law. They’d pulled in Benji Mason’s—formerly Mills—partner and formed a tight-knit little girl gang that also included Natalie’s ex-in-laws, who happened to be foreign royals.
That girl gang was an exclusive club. Their girls’ nights were the stuff of legends. I had always hoped that one day I might be granted entry, but alas, Dakota had found herself on the inside in my stead.
It didn’t matter anymore. That dream was dead.
A flash of motion caught my eye, and I noticed Braxton slipping his phone out of his pocket for no less than the fifth time since we sat down.
“Got a hot date later?” I teased, startling him enough to look up.
“No.” He shook his head, trying to look innocent. “Just checking emails.”
I knew he was full of shit and called him on it. “You must be the ultimate speed reader, then. A quick glance, and you can scan an entire email before shoving the phone back inside your pocket?”
He glanced at Dakota for help, but she shrugged, saying, “You’re on your own.”
I leveled him with a glare. “I said no players tonight, Braxton.”
“I didn’t invite any players!” he protested.
“Then who are you expecting to get a message from?” I challenged.
“No one.”
“Sure.” I nodded my head slowly. “And the Pope’s not Catholic.”
“I swear, Bristol. No players have been invited tonight.”
Braxton was a good guy; I knew he was only trying to help. I was sure he thought he had the perfect guy for me, someone who would make Nix fade into a distant memory.
But I’d come here to do a job and not the kind that required a girl to get down on her knees.
I needed another whiskey.
I was at the optimal level of buzzed to dare to approach the stage when Braxton and Dakota decided to call it a night. They were my ride, but I brushed off their concerns about leaving me there by promising I would order a car from a rideshare app.
Dakota gave me a doubtful expression when I assured her I would be fine alone. I was well aware that I didn’t have the best record when intoxicated. In college, she’d insisted on affixing a tracking tag to my clothing when I went out to party. I had a bad habit of calling her the following day, not knowing where I was.
Hugging her, I shooed the happy couple to the door. Drinking made me horny, and I didn’t need my bestie and her boyfriend cockblocking me tonight.
Racking my brain, I knew there was some saying about getting over a man by getting under a new one. Seemed like solid logic. A good fuck could make you forget your own name.
Not that I‘d come out tonight looking to get laid, but I might be persuaded if the opportunity arose.
However, the odds of a man approaching me significantly decreased the second I stepped up to the microphone.
Even a little tipsy, I knew I was tone-deaf. I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life, which was why I had been so adamant that Hannah would never witness me singing.
Typing my selection into the wall-mounted touchscreen, I took a cleansing breath, allowing my body to sway as the first notes of the song filtered from the speakers. This first one was a giant middle finger to Nix, a little country number about beating the shit out of a cheater’s car. I let all the rage out while I belted out the words to a thinning crowd inside the bar. I didn’t need an audience. Hell, it was probably better that I didn’t have one. This was for me. It was cathartic, releasing the past.
When no one stepped up after I finished that first song, I chose another. And another. Until it was nearing closing time, and I knew I’d have to call for a ride home soon.
That was when I saw him through my slightly blurred vision.
A man had taken a seat front and center at the closest table to the stage, which also happened to be where I’d left my latest glass of whiskey, sipping on it between sets.
I giggled inside my head.
