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“He’s been working hard at it since he was eighteen,” the bouncer said. “His name’s Mason Howard. Enjoy.”
I shrugged, knowing that I would more than likely forget the name in ten minutes. As I stepped into the back VIP area of the bar, I blinked my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The smell of smoke was suffocating, but it was whatever. I took a hard right and trotted up the steps to the celebrity area—the place you go to keep from getting ran the fuck over—and headed for the bar.
“You’re back,” the brunette bartender beamed, flashing me a flirty look. “Same thing?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, eyeing the dark-headed guy getting his stuff ready on the stage. “That’ll work fine.”
“Same for us too,” Aaron shouted from somewhere behind me.
I let out an irritated sigh. He’d be blackout drunk within the next hour—that was for sure. I really should be too.
But nope. There I was, taking a seat at one of the tables closest to the railing, without even a fucking buzz. I trained my attention on the guy almost ready to go. He was maybe my age? I couldn’t really tell from a distance, but seeing him for some reason made me think…
What would have happened if Dad hadn’t been able to afford an agent? Would that be me up there? Just trying to get someone to notice me?
Something that felt a lot like guilt slammed into me like a ton of bricks, and I did my best to push it away. It was like one visit to some janky classroom and singing a stupid overplayed tune with Lena Harris had triggered something weird inside of me.
And it was not welcome.
“Hey, y’all, I’m Mason,” the guy spoke into the microphone, his voice deep.
Country singer?
Aaron and Nel joined me at the table, pulling out stools and taking a seat—though Aaron nearly faceplanted on his first try. The bartender brought our drinks, mine a Jameson on the rocks, and set them down for us. I swept mine up and gulped it down like it was water…because, well, it basically would be if I let the ice melt.
“This guy looks like he might not fit in here.” Nel laughed, downing his beer. “Maybe that’s why they keep giving him the last spot.”
“Maybe,” I muttered, just as he picked up his guitar. He started to strum some sort of folksy tune. However, the moment the guy opened his mouth and started to sing, I changed my mind.
He was fucking good.
“Holy shit,” Nel commented, immediately pulling out his cell phone and beginning to take a video. The guy’s voice had a deep gentle rasp that made my eyebrows rise. This guy definitely deserved a record deal, and the more he sang, the more I really fucking believed that.
“Damn…” Aaron said. “We need to meet this one.”
I nodded, entranced by the tune. I didn’t even notice the bartender had given me a fresh drink until I lifted it to my lips, surprised by the fresh burn. I tapped my foot against the rail of the stool, eating up the acoustic set.
He needs a band—or maybe not.
The guy—Mason Howard or whatever—was really making it work for him. As he finished the first song, the crowd applauded, but not with the vigor the guy deserved.
So I did.
I stood to my feet and clapped, shouting out loudly. Aaron and Nel joined me, following suit.
“You deserve to be famous!” Aaron belted across the now mostly quiet bar. The guy looked up at us, squinting in our direction.
And even from up here, I saw a flicker of recognition in his face—but he didn’t seem all that excited to see us.
Must not like our music.
I shrugged and sat back down, not even offended by it. Everyone liked different things. However, just as I thought that, he leaned into the microphone.
“I hope it’s all right that I have a special guest.”
Everyone clapped.
“She’s been a good friend of mine for years, supporting me way before I was landing decent gigs like this.”
