Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(16)

He glances up at me, and I see him thinking hard. “I don’t think I’d enjoy telling a pretty girl about all my failures. And I’m sure I’ll figure my shit out eventually. My plans for after graduation didn’t work out. Suddenly, I’m in need of a Plan B. But I never made a Plan B, and now I’m regretting that choice.”

Wow, I know this song so well I could have written it myself. “You didn’t make a Plan B, because that felt like cheating on plan A,” I tell him. “You thought that if you made a Plan B, then it would mean that you doubted yourself. And the universe would make sure that Plan A never happened.” Source: all my life choices.

“You seem to know a lot about this,” he says, reaching for the limes.

“I’m a girl without a Plan B. Plan A is taking so much longer than I thought.”

He glances up at me, and the kindness in his expression hits me like a wave all over again. “People say the music industry eats its young.”

“That’s true,” I agree. “With gusto. And extra hot sauce. At least you have a college degree. I don’t even have that. And I don’t have any family to fall back on. Not that I want to give up, but I bet everything at this roulette table, and I still don’t know how it’s going to work out.”

He studies me for a moment with serious eyes. “Don’t give up, Delilah. Not yet. Promise?”

Something passes between us again that’s bigger than flirting. For a songwriter, I’m a pretty cynical girl. I don’t look for love stories on every street corner. But Ralph has the strangest effect on me. When he smiles, it makes me want to write sappy songs and believe things that I don’t usually believe.

“I promise,” I say, sounding like a soap opera character.

Ralph gives me a smile that I feel everywhere. Then he goes back to work.

I pull out my notebook and flip through my songs in progress. I appreciate how empty the bar is. Ralph is busy making drinks for patrons out on the patio, but there is literally nobody on either side of me. It’s like I’m at a library that serves beer.

Wait. There should be libraries that serve beer! I scribble that down on my notebook page to think about later. You never know where you’re going to get an idea for a song.

A lovely hour passes this way. When my beer is drained, Ralph asks me if I want another.

I shake my head.

“Glass of water?” he asks.

“Well…” I’m embarrassed to tell him how deeply my phobia runs. “No thank you.”

He puts an empty glass on the bar. Then offers me the soda gun. “Are you sure?”

This guy. I take the gun and point it into the glass. One of the buttons is labeled “water,” so I press it, quickly filling the glass. “Thank you,” I say, feeling ridiculous. I already know this man isn’t going to slip anything into my drink. And yet I can’t bring myself to let anyone serve me.

So I tease him, instead. I reach over and press the button again as I’m handing it back to him, drenching the back of his hand.

“Now you’ve done it,” he says, grabbing my wrist and wielding the soda gun like a weapon.

Caught, I let out a high-pitched shriek that I’ll probably be embarrassed about later.

But he doesn’t spray me. He just lets go of my hand and laughs. “You’re lucky you have that notebook, girly. I don’t want to wreck the next Grammy-winning song.”

That shuts me up, because it’s rare for anyone to show so much faith in me. Except for Brett, of course. He’s the first man who ever said, “I think you could go all the way with your music.”

And speak of the devil. His voice is somewhere behind me now and getting louder. “The tracks are good, Arnie!” he barks in a voice that’s too loud. But that’s Brett for you. “You get them in front of Chet by next week, or I’m taking them somewhere else!”

The whole world suddenly hopes that Arnie gets the tracks in front of Chet just to save our eardrums.

He strides up next to me, still yapping into his Bluetooth. And he actually snaps his fingers at me, the way you’d summon a dog.

Okay, that’s mortifying. When Brett and I are alone together, he seems driven and a little eccentric. Out in the world, he just comes off as rude. “I have five more minutes,” I point out calmly. Even though Brett is pretty much in charge of everything that happens with my nascent career, I make a point to never take any shit from him. “I need to finish my water.”

Scowling, he checks his gold watch.

“Go outside,” I insist, reaching out to give him a gentle shove on his khaki-clad hip. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Chet needs to hear these sooner rather than later,” he bellows. But at least he turns toward the door.

I don’t glance up at Ralph until he’s gone. My bartender doesn’t say anything, but it’s so obvious he’d like to.

“You don’t like him,” I say pointlessly.

“Maybe I’m just jealous.” Ralph wipes down the bar where I splashed the water.

“No,” I press. “You think he’s an arrogant, entitled asshole.”

“Well, now that you mention it.” He grins down at the shiny wooden surface.

And I have to laugh. “He’s really not that bad. And he’s a bulldog for his artists. I need someone like that who’s willing to browbeat the label into giving me a chance.”