She opened her mouth to speak, but I stepped in.
“Actually, I’ve got it,” I said, McKenzie’s back pressing against my chest as I threw my card down on the bar. “But thanks, man.” I clapped him on the back.
The guy’s jaw nearly disconnected as it fell open.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, elbowing his friend, who quickly turned around.
“Is that Luca Sterling?” the dude’s buddy whispered loud enough that I still heard him.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked McKenzie as she poured cheap tequila for another customer.
“I’m getting my own,” McKenzie started to argue, digging for her card, but I put a hand on her arm.
“I owe you, remember?”
“A shot of Jack and a whiskey sour,” she said, before tipping her head up to me. “And thanks.”
When the bartender returned with her drinks, McKenzie pounded the shot and grabbed her cocktail.
“Much better,” she said. “I didn’t want that perfectly good buzz I had going to waste.”
“Where do you want to stand?” I asked, gesturing toward the mob of fans hugging the front of the stage.
“How about over there?” She pointed to the back wall where there were only a few people lingering among a handful of high-top tables.
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s good.”
“That’ll keep us out of the crowd and give us plenty of room to dance.”
“Dance?” I asked. My brow furrowed as I followed her, my hand hovering at the top of her jeans. “I don’t dance.”
“Ah, so all that crap about wanting to have fun was bullshit, then?” she asked over her shoulder before taking a swig of her drink. “Whatever. It’ll givemeplenty of room to dance.”
I studied her as we settled in the back of the club until she glanced up and caught my eye.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.” I smirked, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Just looking forward to seeing your moves.”
She brought her glass to her lips and took a big gulp. “It’s a very rare occurrence that I’m drunk enough to dance in public. Or at all.” Another swallow and all that remained was ice.
“So tonight is a particularly special occasion?”
“Something like that.” Shadows darkened the corners of her eyes. “I’m going to go to the bathroom and grab another drink before the show starts.”
She sauntered off before I could say anything, but I kept watch from a distance, so I could step in should any other losers try to talk to her. Luckily this time, nobody bothered her at the bar as she pounded another shot before starting back in my direction with a drink clutched in each fist.
Itdidseem like she was drinking a lot, but she’d said she needed to let loose. All alcohol ever did was make me even more miserable than I already was. If it helped her relax and it wasn’t something she did all the time, who was I to say anything? Besides, I was there to keep her safe.
The house lights went out, and the room erupted as a single spotlight illuminated the stage.
“Right on time,” she said, a hazy grin spread over her berry-stained lips.
The opening guitar licks to “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)” began to play and four regular-looking dudes stepped into the light. My expectations were low when I saw the lead singer was wearing a collared shirt and khakis, looking like he’d gotten lost on the way to a PTA meeting. But then he opened his mouth, and I was transported to a My Chemical Romance concert.
“Holy shit,” I shouted over the music.
“They’re good, right?” McKenzie asked, tipping back her drink. She threw her hands in the air, nearly spilling her liquor, and cheered.
