Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue #1)(4)

Either way, I was going out with my friends for fun. Although, in general, I disagreed with their hopes of finding a future husband and father of their children at a bar, I was supportive in the kind of way that every girlfriend needs to be. I learned to do this in college.

I worked hard to get in to Princeton University and remained focused on my studies so as not to blow my parents money. Monica and I found each other there. We were the same major, and had most classes together. We formed an instant friendship over our comfort in hard work and penchant for sarcasm. I had my fun, but I just wanted to get through school in one piece and find a job. I really didn’t have an interest in a boyfriend. Not after Adrian anyway. Adrian and I dated for a year, but it was purely physical and when I wanted more he backed off. That was that. Well, that wasn’t really all there was. I loved him. It was the first time I had truly felt like this was love. I shook thoughts of Adrian out of my head as I flipped my hair and checked the time.

“Shit, 8:55!” I yelled at my clock. I jammed my feet into a pair of not-too-tall heels and ran out the door.

Finnegan’s, the Irish Pub, is only about a five minute drive from my apartment, which allowed me to show up at 9:00 on the dot. I liked Finnegan’s; they often have live music, and the bartenders know me by name. In the four years that Barnstable had been our home, Finnegan’s served our drinks.

I’m from Connecticut - for all intents and purposes - and Monica is from Rhode Island. We both wanted to move to Cape Cod, Massachusetts so we found a non-profit agency on the Cape that helped at-risk teens and families, and set our sights there. I got a job as a grant writer for the agency, and she secured one as a community educator; we agreed to have separate apartments so we wouldn’t get sick of each other.

Finnegan’s is the kind of place that has a hometown feel, appealing to both locals and tourists. It’s always busy on Fridays; I had to use a little extra muscle to make my way past the people drinking out on the patio and find my friends who would be waiting for me at the bar.

“HEY! EEEMMMBEERR! Miss November!” Monica screeched like an idiot. Her milk chocolate hair was twisted in to a cute up-do.

When Monica is giddy, drunk, excited, or a combination of the three, she likes to shout out ‘Miss November’ as if I’m pictured on a calendar somewhere in my bra and panties. My friends typically just call me Ember, which is equally as counter-culture, but somehow “cooler”.

As I headed toward the bar, I noted a stack of CDs by the bouncer signaling who was playing tonight. The name ‘Bo Cavanaugh’ graced the CD, and his smoky hot face sat above it. Steely blue eyes were set masterfully in his pale face against a black background. There may have been a guitar on the cover, but who could be sure - and who really cares - with a face like that? What is it about a bar, and a guitar, that makes me so tingly? I shook my head at the carnal thought and met Monica, Callie and Sarah at the bar.

“Ay caramba!” Callie rolled off her tongue like the sexy Venezuelan goddess she is.

“Thank God you wore a heel, Em.” Sarah slid in, “As much fun as it is always watching you wear flip flops…” Sarah’s about 5-foot-nothing and is constantly tip-toeing around in impossible heels, God bless her. She pulls it off, though, and is nearly more graceful in her heels than out of them.

“Thanks guys, you’re all so sweet,” I gushed sarcastically. “Who’s the new guy singing tonight?

“Don’t know,” Monica entered, “Josh said he’s not from here, but has performed for years.”

Josh is Finnegan’s manager, and Monica’s boyfriend of 2 years. We’ve known him since we moved here. He is boyishly rugged with sandy hair, olive skin, and a killer smile. He helps bring in the music at Finnegan’s, so we always share our likes and dislikes, which he promptly ignores. Josh and I share musical taste so actually, I do have some input.

Artists that played at Finnegan’s were warned well in advance that the patrons enjoyed live karaoke and they were expected to facilitate that. It’s amazingly fun. My parents’ affinity for music served me well on these nights. While I never took to an instrument myself, I was able to sing along with those who could play. I rarely had anyone to sing with at Finnegan’s, since my folk-rock taste isn’t shared by a majority of the musicians that turn up. However, since Josh took over the bookings, I found myself on stage more and more.

Over the next several minutes we drank beer, talked about our week, and I reassured everyone that I’d recovered from the frightening scene at the garage; when I picked up my car on Wednesday, everything seemed in place and no one mentioned a disturbance. Josh left us, hopped up on stage, and tapped the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Josh cleared his throat into the mic and emphasized “gentlemen” in an effort to encourage his species to rise above and act as such, “Finnegan’s is excited to introduce the talented spedBo Cavanaugh!” Josh clapped, and we all followed.

“Wow, he’s hot,” Sara whispered to us as Bo walked on stage.

He was wearing dark, worn jeans and a thin, loose fitting long-sleeved shirt that looked blue under the lights of the stage. His guitar was slung over his shoulder.

“Yea, I saw the CD at the door, now shush.” I was always interested in the musical talent that Finnegan’s was able to wrangle in, and I wanted to see if this guy had chops.