“I’m going to go before I say something I’ll regret.”
I grabbed my coat and beanie from the hooks by the door and stepped out into the rainy, gray evening. The weather had been this way all week, hovering over us like Mom was hovering over Cassidy. Dark like the words Mom and I never usually said to each other. Like the hurt we hid behind the love. Both of which had come tumbling out of me in the wrong way.
I needed a drink. I needed music. I needed noise and chaos.
Marco was going to kill me for going without him, but I’d be gone and back before he knew it. No one in this town really cared about the sensation Brady O’Neil. I wasn’t going to cause a riot or be chased down the street by fans wanting to tear my clothes off. The worst that could happen was I’d be recognized, asked for an autograph and some pictures, and I’d have to come back to the apartment. If I stayed here, dwelling on everything that had gone wrong with my relationship with my family, it was going to eat at me until I lost my way.
I looked up at the apartment one more time before walking away. I didn’t stop until the neon lights of Mickey’s hit me, the glimmer of them reflecting in a blur on the wet pavement. There was a small line waiting to get in, which wasn’t always the case. I went to the employee’s entrance. Mick had allowed me into the bar that way since my first single had hit number one on the country charts.
In the kitchen, a few people glanced up, but no one stopped me. When I reached the kitchen door, Sheila, the head chef, finally spoke. “Long time no see, Cormac!”
My real name was a sarcastic twist on her lips, and I just gave her a wave as I went through the swinging doors into the heart of the bar. The music was loud, and I realized as soon as I heard the croak onstage that it was karaoke night. I groaned inwardly because it meant the place would be busier than it would have been otherwise.
I hit Mick on the shoulder as he filled a pint at the taps. “Hey, man.”
“Brady!” His old, weathered face turned into a smile you could barely see below the wrinkles. He was a man who’d lived his years hard and fast. “Didn’t know you were in town.”
“Cass had her baby,” I explained as I made my way to the spot at the bar that was always mine when I came in and was, thankfully, vacant. The position of the barstool shielded me some from the front door and the tables.
“Did she now? What did she have?” Mick asked.
“A baby boy named Chevelle.”
“Chevelle?”
“Yep. That way, no matter what gender he discovers he is growing up, he doesn’t have to change his name if he doesn’t want to.”
The thin red cocktail straw that Mick had hanging out of his mouth, as his way of replacing the chewing tobacco of his youth, stilled. Then, he shook his head. “That Cassidy. She’s always a thinker.”
I laughed.
Mick sloshed tequila and margarita mix and a dash of a secret ingredient into a salted glass and handed it to me. Mick knew I wasn’t any more of a beer drinker than I was a driver. Couldn’t really stand either.
There was a pause in the music as the next set of karaoke aficionados worked with the DJ to get the song up and running. I was paying more attention to my drink than the crowd until the first few notes of “Scrabble Tiles” hit the sound system. I groaned internally at my first hit song being played.
Mick grinned at me over the pint glasses, and I tugged my beanie down lower over my eyebrows. The beard was still a good cover. It was so much darker than the hair on my head that it threw people off the scent pretty easily. Making sure I wasn’t in my “Brady costume” helped as well. I was in a long-sleeve T-shirt instead of a flannel and there were no cowboy boots or hat anywhere in sight.
The two female voices that took up the song had me looking up in a heartbeat. Tristan and her dark-haired friend from the hospital. Her friend was in a yellow dress and knee-high stiletto boots that made her look like a model, but it wasn’t her who had me staring, not in the least. It was Tristan who had my eyes frozen to the stage.
She wore a sexy wrap dress that clung to her curves instead of hiding them like every other outfit I’d seen her in. Curves that made me ache. On her feet was a pair of cowboy boots that looked worn and comfortable. Her hair was down, hanging straight without a lick of curls and allowing the dyed mahogany strips to stand out against the pale hue of honey that was the same color as her daughter’s. Even from where I sat farther back in the dim lights, I could tell she had makeup on, because her lashes stood out as if they were a mile long. Dark. Glittery. Eyes calling to me as she sang Ava’s words about finding and losing someone.
Tristan didn’t have a singer’s voice. It wasn’t any good at all. Would have been laughed out of Juilliard on day one of voice class, but it still enthralled me. I listened, eyes trained on the stage, while she and Stacy moved around, singing up against each other almost like Ava and I had, once upon a time, on a stage in a salon in New York City.
When the song was over, the DJ said, “Thank you for that remarkable performance, ladies. Let’s give Stacy and Tristan a round of applause.” The crowd clapped loudly, appreciation for Stacy and Tristan’s enthusiasm and stage show rather than their voices.
The two women were laughing as they climbed off the stage, and I stood up so I could get a better look at where they were seated. They were at a booth in the corner, which meant they’d been there early enough to get it. They were sitting with the black-haired man I’d seen with Stacy at Elana’s, arguing over the validity of Fleetwood Mac at Christmas. He put an arm around Stacy, kissing her cheek and claiming her for the world.
There was no other body in the booth, which likely meantTristan wasn’t there with a date. That knowledge sent relief skittering over my skin. Butat the same time, the thought of Tristan being a third wheel made my gut twist in objection. I’d been that way with many of my closest friends as they’d found true love and marriage and baby carriages. It was hard being the odd man out.
Before I could think it through, I was walking toward the table with Mick’s eyes on my back. Normally, I never left my stool. I drank, shot the bull with him, his staff, and whomever happened to be with me that night, but I never really mingled.
When I got to the table, I said, “Well, that was the best version of “Scrabble Tiles” I’ve heard in a long time.”
Tristan was the one to react first, her long-lashed eyes turning in surprise. Her whole demeanor turned from relaxed to on guard.
“Don’t patronize us. It was fun.” She flung her words at me.
“I didn’t say you were going to win any vocal awards,” I teased, lips quirking at her annoyance.