The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(29)
“I’m really sorry,” Shredder said, offering her one of the towels. He seemed to want to reach between her legs to dab the liquid himself but then sighed in relief when Kylie snatched it away from him. “Next drink is on me.”
“Oh, it will be,” Kylie said, taking the towel and dabbing at her clothing. Then, she planted a lingering look at the fly of his jeans. “I’ll spill it on you personally.”
Eloise chuckled at the humorous exchange taking place between the two. They would make a great comedy duo, she thought. Too bad it was karaoke night and not stand-up. “Shredder, this is my assistant, Kylie Rose,” she said by way of introduction.
“Hi there,” he said sheepishly. “Name’s Sheldon Politski, but call me Shred. After what just happened, I strongly feel we should already be on a first-name basis.”
“I’m Kylie, and you can call me Kylie,” she said with a wry smile. “Because a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
Cole scoffed and rolled his eyes. “That’s Shakespeare, Rose. You’d best leave that to the Beantown Bard.”
Sheldon flicked Cole away with a turn of his beefy wrist and smiled back at Kylie, a lopsided, completely charming grin that transformed his face from pleasingly pleasant to downright irresistible. “Well, I would call you by either name if you’d just give me your number.”
It was hard to tell between the dim lighting and Kylie’s bright clothing, but Eloise swore her assistant was blushing. Just then the emcee stepped to the mike and announced a welcome and the format for the sing-off. Everyone focused their attention on the stage as the first contestants queued up for their turn.
Cole took a seat next to Eloise, ordering her another Death Rides a Pale Horse. “Should be a fun night,” he said.
“Well, it’s certainly starting off with some excitement,” she agreed. “I see Spud working hard. Where’s your friend Trey? Shouldn’t he be here? I thought he organized this event.”
“He’s picking up some supplies, door prizes and stuff. He should be here any minute,” Cole said, taking a swig of his beer. “He wouldn’t miss a chance to get behind a microphone.”
“Oh? He likes to sing?”
“Yeah, it’s how we met. I used to go to these open mike reggae nights back in Milwaukee; Trey was a regular. So hot he’d melt your heart. Or your panties.”
“I didn’t know you wore panties.” Eloise laughed and shook her head. “Reggae. How do you stand that stuff?”
Cole looked crushed. “It’s great music,” he insisted. “It’s relaxing, it’s soulful. It’s truly the music of love, if you understand its roots.”
Eloise gave an amused shrug, wanting desperately to connect with him since it seemed so important. Tonight, she’d give it the old college try. “If you say so.”
The first contestants took the stage, some of them laughably horrible and others remarkably good vocalists. Eloise applauded each of them in turn and couldn’t remember having such a good time since her carefree college days. The beer was cold, and her date was hot. She and Cole held hands and kissed in between watching the performers and talking about their families and backgrounds. He confessed his love of Italian food, “just the way mama makes it,” he’d joked, and again mimicked his mother’s authoritative voice.
“Hey, buddy, you’re up next,” a voice called from behind the bar. Cole turned to the sound and broke into a wide smile.
“Hey, man, where you been? It’s about time you showed up! There’s someone I’ve been hankering for you to meet. Someone important.”
Eloise looked over as she heard Cole speak, still clapping for the last contestant. Her hands suddenly froze together as if time had shrieked to a shit-screeching halt and stared at the man behind the bar. He and Cole clasped hands in an urban-style handshake.
“El, this is Trey Reynolds,” Cole said, breaking away. “Proud owner of Blues & Brews. Trey already knows you, from the Town Hall meeting.”
He sure does. El felt her blood turn to ice inside her veins. She gasped for breath as the room started spinning. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when everything she’d never known she’d wanted was dancing just at the tips of her fingertips. This was the guy in the ginger beard? He’d shaved it off since then, and underneath was a face she couldn’t forget.
“Eloise? Something wrong?” Cole prompted, a worried look on his face as she teetered, almost falling over.
Speak, you chickenshit. If you don’t, he wins.
“Hello,” she murmured, not recognizing the painful grit in her own voice. Her heart felt as if it had been ripped from her chest cavity without the benefit of anesthesia.
Trey nodded, swept his obsidian gaze over her body in appraisal and dismissed her as insignificant in the same glance.
“Hi.” He turned to Cole, handing him a fuzzy-looking bundle. “Your wardrobe, man.”
“Hey, respeck, mon!” Cole said, unraveling the bundle and rising from his seat. Eloise kept her eyes on Trey. He acted as if he didn’t recognize her at all, and she felt torn between relief and bitter resentment. Twelve years, a gold stud in his left earlobe and a new-age nickname didn’t alter his true identity. Trevor Reynolds stood not five feet away from her, alive and well and apparently oblivious to the past.