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“Well, maybe I can change your mind this summer,” he said after his Shakespearean performance ended.
“Are you avoiding the question by the way?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, right. Your poor musical tastes distracted me.” I rolled my eyes with a grin. “The supermodel. No. Not real. Publicity.”
“Really? And the actress last year?”
“For not following me, you have a lot of details. Also, publicity.”
For some reason, alarm bells started ringing a little bit. What was real about Leo Turner? The guy in front of me? The bearded man drinking a beer in a dive bar and joking about his music? Or the suave popstar on the cover of every tabloid who drove fast cars and broke hearts? And who faked a lot of relationships?
“I’ve had real relationships,” he said, interrupting my thoughts. “At least I thought they were real.” He paused, taking a sip of beer. I decided there was probably a story involving heartbreak there. “It’s just, well, if they’re real, I don’t let the media get their hands on them. I keep them private. For everyone’s sake.”
I didn’t know if hiding a relationship was really a benefit. Brad’s face flashed to my mind, and I washed it away with more of my drink.
“And you?” he asked.
“Just one that tanked in New York.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Me too.”
“This is getting too heavy for a night out at the bar. Come on. Can you hobble up there?” he asked, throwing the rest of his beer back as he leaped to his feet.
“Up where?” I asked, eyeing him.
“The stage. I’ll let you pick the song. Just so it isn’t country.”
“Oh, I don’t sing,” I argued, feeling embarrassed just thinking about it.
“Well, luckily, I do. Come on. Let’s do it.”
“People might recognize you,” I argued as he grabbed my hand. My stomach plummeted to the floor.
“I won’t be a bloody fool and sing my own song,” he said. “Even if I did, no one’s going to recognize me here. Come on. I want the full American tourist experience.”
I pulled back for a moment and took a deep breath. I threw the rest of my drink down the hatch and squeezed my eyes shut. This was a terrible idea. Terrible.
I was going to sing with Leo Turner, a man who may or may not be a complete lie but who could sing.
Still, he yanked my hand again, and I found myself holding it, wanting to feel his warm skin on mine. A chill rattled through me despite my best efforts to stay neutral. I hobbled to the stage, hands shaking as I took the microphone. And then I looked out into the crowd as Leo flipped through the song choices.
“Tillie? Tillie Ashby?” a guy shouted from the tables. Leo paused to look out.
The man rushed forward. I squinted, cocking my head, trying to place him. He was wearing all black, but in a way that suited him. His shirt looked expensive, and when he came closer, he smelled expensive, even in the mildewy atmosphere of the Pirate’s Paddy.
“It’s me, Thad Kingsman. Do you remember me?”
My heart started to beat wildly. Thad Kingsman, the quarterback at our high school, the local hero. The guy everyone had a crush on. I didn’t even think he knew my name.
“Hi, Thad. Yes. What are you doing here?”
“Back for a family reunion and thought I’d stop at a local haunt. How have you been? How are things?” he glanced down at my leg but didn’t ask.
“Great, yes, just great,” I lied with a smile.
“I heard you went to New York? Are you just back in town visiting?”
