"You're going on that show?"
He tried to conceal his smirk, but his pride forbade such an act. "I didn't plan on it. The producers approached me. Obviously, I can't have a girlfriend while I'm doing something like that. Billie, try to understand that this is a career move for me."
"What are you talking about?"
He sighed deeply, as if I should easily comprehend his statement. "The publicity is going to skyrocket my business. You can't buy advertising like this."
"I see. So you brought me to this fancy restaurant to break up with me?"
"It's not you-"
"No, of course it's not me. It's you. You're so fickle that you're not just picking another girl, you're picking one hundred random girls you don't even know. It just makes everything crystal clear."
"I care about you. Try not to be upset. We don't actually have to end things. That's one of the things I wanted to tell you. The producers think it might be interesting if you applied for the show."
"What?" I asked, my voice fringing on hysteria.
"You know, secret ex-girlfriend angle. It would add some drama. Just think of it like a hiatus-a break from our normal scheduled programming." He chuckled. "Look, I'm already talking the lingo."
I stood, throwing my linen napkin at him. It fell on top of the candle centerpiece. For a brief moment, we both watched the flames until I threw the contents of my water glass to douse them. He opened his mouth, but I held up my hand to cut him off.
"I have no interest in vying for your attention, not in real life and certainly not on television." I flattened my palms against the table and leaned in. "Let me explain myself in a language you can understand. Our run lasted far too long. We're officially cancelled."
I stomped out of the restaurant in a heel-clicking frenzy, stopping only to get my coat. Once I got outside, I shivered against the brisk air and the realization that he was my ride. Shit. He approached me, calling out my name, but I refused to stop. I don't know how I managed to sprint in stilettos but that was what I did. Hailing a cab would have been sensible, except cabs on a Saturday night in downtown Chicago were as scarce as an early spring. A bus screeched to a halt a few feet from me. I made it just before he reached me. He wouldn't get to see my hurt and humiliation-at least I had that.
Only a few passengers were on the bus, but all of them gave me a double take as I made my way toward the back. I must have looked a mess-a stumbling, out-of-breath girl in a cocktail dress with a lopsided wig on her head.
I saw Preston standing outside the window, his hands shoved in his pockets. He didn't deserve my tears. I hated that he even had this effect on me. How could I have been so wrong about us?
I leaned my head against the window, replaying the events of the day.
This morning I'd had a job, good hair and a boyfriend. Now I had none of those things.
Worst. Day. Ever.
What else could go wrong?
Note to self-don't ask ominous questions. As soon as I uttered the thought, I realized the bus was going in the opposite direction of home. I hadn't even checked before I'd made my mad dash onto it.
I rode it for a while anyway. I could call on anyone in my family to pick me up, but as much as I loved them, I really didn't want to see them right now. Besides, I had to cry alone. Only when I was done with my pity party did I finally exit the bus.
I dug into my purse for my cell. My fingers circled around a coin instead. I took it out, staring at it … the copper color of a penny but the size of a quarter. The light from the street lamp showed off the figure of an Indian Chief on one side and an Eagle on the other.
I took out my phone and punched in the name, taking a deep breath, waiting for the address to Googalize. As it happened, The Lost Souls' Club was close, and hell if I didn't feel like a lost soul right about now. I needed a stiff drink and some friendly company. Surely this was a sign. The stoic expression on the chief's face all but screamed at me to make a decision.
"Okay, Chief, heads I go and tails I forget the whole thing."
I flipped the coin in the air. It glinted in the light before landing on my palm.
Tails. The eagle, looking all proud and spiteful, mocked me.
Two out of three.
Chapter Four
I thought of turning around about a dozen times and going straight home, but once I saw the lit-up sign spilling bright neon light on the dark street, it became a beacon for me. Then I heard the music, and I was a goner.
The Lost Souls' Club wasn't what I'd expected. It had all the trappings of a good Chicago pub. A pool table with burgundy felt stood on one end. The walls weren't covered with sports pendants, but black and white photographs of Wrigley, Solider field and even the now-closed Chicago Stadium. The walls were muted, the floor was black cement but it sparkled like it was embedded with glass, there were crystal chandeliers and the waitresses wore vintage halter-tops and jeans. It was modern-and classic too-as if someone had taken the glam of the 1940s and given it a modern spin. Somehow, all that fit into one place. Strange.
There was a stage area framed with velvet curtains. Evan Wright sat in the center on a bar stool, strumming a guitar and singing Nirvana's About a Girl. I'll admit I gushed … in all the places a girl can gush. His voice was perfect for this song-rough and raspy, but soulful so that every word came out with angst. He reminded me of Kurt Cobain in both his looks and voice, except he was bigger-broader. He had that grunge thing about him-that scruffy, messy, edginess to everything he did that made girls do fucked-up things, like show up to a bar to see him right after they'd broken up with their boyfriends. At least I wasn't alone. A gaggle of girls hung onto his every word, surrounding the stage.
"What can I get you, honey?" the bartender, a gorgeous, African-American girl with long braids and an affable smile asked me.
"A shot of Grey Goose, please."
"Can I see your ID?"
I fished it out of my wallet.
"Billie … that's a unique name."
"Thanks."
"Are you here for the band?" she asked, pouring my drink.
"I suppose. I've never been here before, but I love the look of this place."
Her smile widened. "Thank you. I designed it with my husband. He's the drummer up there." She gestured to the stage.
This would be a great place to feature in the magazine. My mood soured, remembering I no longer worked there.
"They're good," I said. "Why aren't they on a billboard chart?"
She nodded in agreement, wiping the counter. "Evan's been offered contracts before and he's played with some famous people, but he'd rather choose his own venues. I'm Tilla, by the way."
"Also a unique name."
"I hated it when I was younger, but I love it now." She gave me a conspiratorial wink. "Us chicks with cool names got to stick together."
A girl shrieked, drawing our attention back to the stage area. She yelled out that she wanted Evan to hold her babies. Apparently her babies were her boobs, because she lowered her tank top, exposing them. A huge guy wearing a shirt that said Security approached her. Whatever he said must have worked because she slumped back down in her seat. That's good, because a bar is no place for babies.
Tilla rolled her eyes. "What's wrong with her? I get it. He's a fire-breathing double shot of hotness on the rocks, but have some self-respect. No reason to turn my nice bar into a freak show. I'm going to kick her scrawny ass out of here if she does that again."
"She really needs to girl up."
"Grow up is right."
"No, girl up. Some guys need to man up just as some girls need to girl up."
Tilla nodded, repeating the words. "I like that."
Someone called to her from the other side of the bar. I was content to sit and listen to the music. Although no one in my family was particularly musically inclined, we relied on it as an outlet for our emotions. Right now, Evan Wright was the kind of outlet that shot dangerous sparks straight up my arm.
He wore ripped jeans and a black, short-sleeved T-shirt with a long-sleeved white one underneath it. They stretched over his muscular chest. He rocked mussed hair and stubble. Stubble … that perfect marker of masculinity-both aggressive and attractive.
"Thank you," he said, amidst the whistles and cheers of his fan club. "This next song, I wrote myself. It's called My Favorite Part. Hope y'all enjoy it."
The guitar riff was low and lingering, giving a sense of sexuality to the song.