Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(7)

Brett Ferris had also played varsity tennis. He fancied himself a star and that meant he’d hated me from the second my scholarship ass walked through the door. I didn’t worry about it, though.

But I should have.

In the stockroom, I grab the case of Dos Equis that I need to restock and then reenter the bar. Ferris doesn’t even look up. Not that I’m surprised.

What’s more surprising is the way he snaps at the lovely creature drinking her beer on the barstool. “Been looking everywhere for you. Let’s go.”

And just like that, my blood boils. I think I hear Danny groan from the kitchen.

But my girl just lifts her bottle and takes a leisurely sip of her beer, as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

Not that many people ignore Brett Ferris, so I laugh.

That’s when he notices me, his expression turning to distaste, and his eyes narrowing. He’s still on the phone. “Did you hear back from the Aussies?” he asks the unfortunate soul on the other end of the line. “Well, wake them up! Jesus. I need those numbers by Friday. Gotta run.” He taps the screen and then turns to her. “Let’s roll.”

She does not seem the least bit put off by his rudeness. “I need a minute,” she says to him. Then she waves a hand toward the door, as if to nudge him outside.

But he doesn’t budge, frowning down at her T-shirt instead. “That’s what you’re wearing tonight?”

A flash of irritation sparks in her giant eyes. “It’s funny! God.” She shakes her head. “I’ll follow you outside. Ralph, here, doesn’t need to listen to your calls.”

“Ralph, the bartender.” Brett smirks at me. “Nice career choice.”

“It’s honest work,” I say. Note the emphasis. But that’s as far as I’ll let myself go, even if he’s already killed every happy thought in my head. Not like that’s difficult these days.

“You two know each other?” she asks.

I am spared hearing Brett’s answer, because his phone squeals again. It practically splits my eardrums. I didn’t even know you could set a ringer that loud.

She winces and then points at the door. “Outside with that. Let me finish this in peace.”

“Hurry up,” he says. As he turns around, I notice that he’s wearing the biggest, shiniest gold Rolex ever made. Of course he is.

No wonder this girl is having a rough summer, if she has to spend it with that tool. His phone rings again, but mercifully he answers it. All we can hear is his barking as he recedes toward the door.

“High school,” I say to answer her questioning gaze. “He didn’t like me very much.”

“Competition?” she guesses.

“Something like that.” Yeah, it was exactly like that. But I don’t want to tell her my sob story. “His family runs this town,” I say instead. “And his mother created the music festival.”

“So I heard,” she says. “I’ve been following him around like a baby duck because he can introduce me to all the people that matter.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” I say, my mood plummeting even further.

She takes her final swig of beer. “Gotta hop.” She reaches into her pocket, pulls out exactly eight dollars and slaps it on the bar.

She’s on her feet by the time I can even pick it up. “Wait! Here’s some change.” Even with the tip the beer isn’t eight bucks. That’s why people come to Roadie Joe’s.

“Keep it!” She grins at me. “You’re a good man, Ralph.”

I push two dollars in her direction. “Tell you what. Give me your number instead.”

Her eyes widen. “I…” She hesitates. “I’d better not.”

Crash and burn. Wow. “Have a good gig, tonight,” I say, wondering how my life got to this point. One more little disappointment in a pretty brutal streak.

And I must not be very good at hiding it, either. “Thank you.” She bites her lip, turns around, and then leaves. The singles are still on the bar.

I didn’t even get her name.





Silas





Not three days later I see her again.

I’m coming out of the gym after a brutal workout. My legs are shaking from the squats I just did. It’s hard to say why I’m still pushing myself like this. My athletic career is probably over. But I’m not ready to accept it.

Anyway, I step out onto Main Street, wondering which protein shake to order, when I see those dark, expressive eyes looking out at me from a poster on a kiosk. And—this is embarrassing—I’m so startled that I actually trip over my own feet. One sneaker catches on the other one, and I briefly lose my balance and nearly go down.

Thank God only her photograph is there to see it.

Once I regain my balance, I move in for a closer look. Friday, nine p.m. at the Coconut Club. Singer-songwriter Delilah Spark.

Delilah. Now I know her name. And it looks like she finally scored a decent time slot at one of the bigger music clubs. Standing there on the street, looking at a poster, my smile is as bright as the sun.

“She sure is a looker,” rasps a voice beside me.

I jerk my chin to the left to see a red-faced older man chuckling to himself. Immediately, my blood flashes hot with irritation. I can’t stand the sound of his laugh or the leer in his eye.