Cara taps her glass twice to get our attention. She stands, and I can’t help but feel the formality is a bit over the top for a dinner that is supposed to be a group of friends. “I wanted to thank you for coming tonight. I’m so thrilled to have shared a night with great company and food.” We raise our glasses in a toast. “And because we’re friends, the dinner is on me. I can write it off,” she adds, proud of herself.
This dinner is not a group of friends. It’s a business dinner full of men and I’m getting the sneaking suspicion she wanted us here as her wing-girls to help her out. Naturally, she’s sitting between two hotties and the rest… yeah, not gonna happen.
Jack’s nice, but not my type. My type might share the same name as him, but they couldn’t be more different. My mind wanders back to Dalton and I check my phone. Sneaking it out of my purse, not wanting to be blatantly rude, I start to get anxious to meet up with him again. But I’m bummed there are no texts or missed calls. It’s still early though and he said he’d be late, so hope remains.
Jack leans toward me, and asks, “Do you have plans for the rest of the night?”
Cara stands up again and with her phone and a message displayed on the screen, she announces, “I have great news. I just got us into the concert tonight. My company is a sponsor and I pulled a few strings to get us tickets.”
“What concert?” Tracy asks.
“The Resistance,” Cara replies, sitting down.
I look at Tracy, and say, “I think our night just took a turn for the better.” Then I turn to Jack. “Guess we’re going to a concert.”
“Oh my God, Holli. I’m freaking out inside. They’re one of my all-time favorite bands. That giddy you were feeling earlier, it’s contagious. I’ve caught it now. I seriously cannot believe we’re gonna see The Resistance in a private performance.” She squeezes my hand because she’s so excited and I must say that I’m pretty damn excited myself. I have a couple of their CD’s and from what I remember from some magazine, they’re hot.
Tracy stands and says, “Dinner was wonderful. Thank you for inviting us. We’re going to freshen up and we’ll see you at the concert.” She looks at me and says, “Come on.”
I stand, giving my thanks. Jack stands, setting his napkin on the table in front of him. “I’ll see you there.”
Tracy grabs my hand, and says, “Move it, lady. I’ve got to pee and I don’t want to miss any of the show.”
“And here I thought that quick getaway was for my benefit.”
“It was… you and my bladder equally.”
“Gross,” I say, amused.
Heading into the bathroom, Tracy goes into a stall and I straighten my dress in the full length mirror. Opening my purse for lipstick, I see my phone and check for messages one more time even though I know I shouldn’t. I don’t want to be this hung up on a guy that may or may not even contact me again. I barely know him anyway? Well, I know him, his body and a few… Instead of analyzing everything I remember so vividly about Dalton, I bypass the phone and get my lipstick out and reapply.
“You okay?” Tracy asks, “That guy really got to you, huh?”
With a sigh, I say, “I get sick of guys feeling like they have rights they clearly don’t. I think Jack is used to getting what he wants by flashing his money around. I’m not impressed.”
“Because you’re a success all on your own. Feel good. Feel proud about that.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
When we stand, Tracy does a little hip wiggle, and says, “First round is on me at the show. We need to live it up tonight. Tomorrow we go back to being responsible. Tonight we party like rock stars.”
“Just like rock stars,” I say, feeling the excitement of what’s ahead overtaking all the rest.
“The leaves are truth. Secrets are the roots buried beneath the surface.” ~Johnny Outlaw
The venue is intimate; the size of this club is not a place to hold a huge concert. That makes this show even more exciting because of the access we’ve been granted to see such a famous band. It’s also really smokey in here. I wave my hand in front of my face to clear some of it away while following the group to an open area at the bar. Leaning over the bar’s edge to shout over the loud music, I order, “Three top shelf tequila shots.”
The bartender nods, then lines the shot glasses up. Grabbing the Anejo, he pours then pushes each one forward. “Ten each. Yours is on the house,” he says with an arched eyebrow.
I lay down the cash and a good tip. “Thanks.”