Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(17)

“His artists,” he says slowly. “You know he’s only one year out of college, right?” Those green eyes lock on mine. “He’s well-connected, thanks to his parents. But still.”

“How well do you know the Ferris family?”

Ralph looks uncomfortable. “Brett and I were the same year in school, but I took a gap year before college.”

I wait, but he doesn’t volunteer more. “And…you guys hated each other?”

“Well, we were competitors,” he says slowly. “Brett was used to dominating everything from the student council to the tennis courts. And…” He shakes his head.

“And what?” I wait. “I might sign a contract with him. I need to know the dirt.”

Ralph chews his lip. “You won’t tell him I said this?”

“No! I swear.”

“He’s a cheater.” He leans on the bar and looks down at me.

“On women?”

“Oh—not what I meant.” He shakes his head. “He’s a cheater at life. If he sees something he wants, he takes it. Doesn’t matter if it’s not his.”

I consider this and wonder why I’m not more afraid. Probably because I’m desperate to break through. I’ve seen enough of the music industry to know that sitting quietly in the corner doesn’t work. “Even so,” I say quietly. “Brett was the first one to tell me that I had something special.”

“That can’t possibly be true,” Ralph says, tossing down his rag. “And even if he was, he won’t be the last.”

“Maybe. But he was the first one who could do something about it,” I admit.

“Ah, well.” Ralph props his chin in his hand, and we’re eye to eye. “I understand the appeal, I guess. But you could give me your phone number anyway.” He gives me a sneaky smile. “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

“Oh, Ralph.” I return his smile, but it’s meant to cushion the blow. “You are the nicest guy I’ve met in… Okay, ever. But did you consider what would happen if I said yes? I’d get to date you for maybe three weeks.”

“Three spectacular weeks,” he interjects.

I laugh. “Three earth-moving weeks, sure. But it will piss him off.” I jerk a thumb toward the man just outside the door. “Then I’ll still have to go back to L.A. and work with that guy. He’s going to figure out how to get my record made. And if that fails, he’s going to make it himself.”

“Well, Delilah.” Ralph’s expression turns resigned. “You’re definitely in the right line of work.”

“Why?” I demand, and it comes out sounding bitchy. “You think I’m mercenary? That I’ll do anything to get ahead?” You might be right.

“Back up, buttercup. All I meant is that you broke my heart in two minutes flat.” He stands up straight and starts wiping again. “That’s a songwriter’s mission, isn’t it?”

This guy. “Stop being so great, okay? It’s really hard to turn you down.” I drain the water and push the glass toward him.

“Leave me your number anyway,” he says, pushing a cocktail napkin toward me. “We can be friends.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, ignoring the napkin. “Seeing as I have very poor impulse control, that’s not a great plan.” I take out some cash to pay for my beer. Then I gather up the bits of mint I’ve torn apart and place them on the napkin.

“Hey,” he says as he makes change for my twenty-dollar bill. “What did you mean before when you said you had a bad experience with mojitos?”

“Oh.” I frown, because I never talk about this. “Not mojitos—no mojito ever did me wrong. But last summer I had a mixed drink at a party, and…” I fight off a shudder. “Well, I got roofied. Didn’t regain consciousness for fourteen hours.” Somehow I say this in an almost normal voice. But it freaks me out even to this day.

Apparently, I’m not the only one. The spoon rattles out of Ralph’s hand, hitting the bar and then the floor somewhere below him. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, gaping at me from across the bar.

Now I’m sorry that I told him. He’s actually turned white.

“Hey,” I say quietly. “It isn’t what you’re thinking. I woke up among friends in a safe place. But I couldn’t remember anything about the night before. So…” I clear my throat. “It could have been a whole lot worse. And before you judge him too harshly.” I nod toward the man outside. “He does actually have a knack for turning up when I need him most.”

Ralph’s eyes travel to Brett’s blond head, just visible in the window. “Still,” he says, almost gagging on the word. “That sounds horrible.”

“It was,” I admit, sliding off the barstool. “It wasn’t like being asleep. You lose time.” I shiver. “And I’m phobic about drinks now. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I’ll bet you are. Hey!” He snaps his fingers. “Do you want to make your own cocktail? Some afternoon when it’s quiet, you can come behind the bar and make a mojito. Or whatever you want. I’ll let you open a fresh bottle of rum and everything.”