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“Who sings this?” I asked, sliding next to Blaire, the backup bartender I’d called in to help tonight.
“You don’t know?” Blaire gave me an incredulous look. “It won best song at the Grammy Awards last year.”
I didn’t branch off much beyond what was on my playlist for the gym. “What’s it called?”
“‘Second Last Chance.’”
Pretty title. “Who sings it?” The lyrics were almost verbatim phrases Barry had said to me.
“Lincoln Savage from the Dirt Dogs, but they didn’t write it.”
“Who did?” I asked, having a strange feeling I knew.
“Barry Evans,” she said, and I almost dropped my second glass of the night. “I think he also wrote another big hit last year.”
She called over the waitress covering for Rachel, hovering nearby to get a drink order filled.
“Cheryl.” Blaire leaned an elbow into the bar when the woman came closer. “What was the name of that song that gave Miss V her big comeback? You know, the one they play repeatedly on Spotify. The one about the butterfly.”
Oh my freaking gosh.
I grabbed the bar for support.
Barry knew I loved butterflies. That the way they looked was how music used to make me feel. How it made me feel now, listening to the current song. One he wrote, apparently.
This was definitely my day for shocks, and they weren’t over yet.
My phone rang. It was down on the rim of the ice well. The message that flashed on the display and who sent it made my eyes widen.
BARRY THE BIG SEXY BEAST EVANS: Meet me in the back. Dressing Room 1. Now.
What the hell?My heart started to race. He’d left. How had he returned without me seeing him?
“Cover for me,” I told Blaire, and she gave me a nod.
“You got it, boss.”
I untied the strings of my bar apron and laid it on the undercounter. Grabbing my phone, I skirted patrons and crowded tables on my way to the back. I scooted around a long line of women waiting to get into the restroom and strode down the hall. Dressing Room One was closed. I opened the door and entered.
“Barry?” I asked, fumbling in the dark for the wall switch.
“Right here.” He grabbed me by the upper arms.
My heart rate spiking, I squeaked as I batted at his solid shoulder. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“I told you where I was.” He flipped on the light switch. “What are you afraid of?” He squinted at me. “Or more accurately, who?”
“No one.” I blinked quickly at him and tossed my phone on a nearby table.
“Not true.”
“What do you mean?” I attempted deflection, a weak one.
“You know what I mean, and who.” He looked disappointed. “Rachel told me one of Martin’s guys came inside Footit’s the other day.”
I cocked my head. “When did you talk to Rachel? She didn’t mention it,” I said, wondering why.
“Not important,” he said tersely. “What’s important is you and me.”
