“You’re fucked,” Dominic observes mildly.
“Probably,” I admit.
We stand there a while longer, watching people dance. My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. Probably Robert wanting an update, or my manager Thomas with orders about keeping my head down.
The sooner this video scandal blows over, the sooner I can get back where I actually belong. Behind the wheel of a race car, pushing over 200 miles per hour, competing with the best drivers in the world.
That’s the only thing that matters. The only thing that’s ever mattered to me.
Everything else is just killing time.
CHAPTER 3
LARK
Tuesday nights at the Black Lantern are usually pretty chill, the kind of easy shift where I can breathe between customers. Tonight’s no exception. Just a handful of regulars scattered around the place, nursing beers and chatting quietly. I’m behind the bar rolling silverware into napkins, the repetitive motion almost meditative, while my mind circles back to that email from Maya at Tidal Records for approximately the hundredth time today.
I pull my phone out during a lull, like maybe the words will have magically changed if I stare at them long enough. They haven’t. Still the same requirements staring back at me in black and white. Quadruple my social media following. That’s what she wants before they’ll seriously consider signing me.
I need the numbers, the engagement metrics, the whole packaged influencer experience. Plus there’s my own issue with performing live, which I used to love as a kid but somewhere along the way lost completely. Every time I get on stage now I turn into a complete human disaster, freezing up and forgettinglyrics and hearing Brandon’s voice in my head telling me I’m not good enough.
It’s not even the rejection that stings the most. It’s the fact that my actual music isn’t what’s holding me back from this dream. It’s my complete inability to market myself like some shiny product on a shelf. Plus the few times I’ve attempted performing my own songs in front of people, I’ve frozen up so badly I couldn’t get through a single verse.
Brandon made absolutely sure of that particular damage. Two years post-divorce and he’s still living rent-free in my head, criticizing every note before I can even sing it.
The loud crack of pool balls startles me out of my pity party spiral. Jack Midnight’s been here for the past hour or so with Mike from our high school and two other guys I vaguely recognize from around town. Probably locals who want to be able to tell people they hung out with a famous Formula One driver, get some reflected glory.
Jack lines up another shot, sinking it without any apparent effort. Based on Mike’s increasingly dramatic groaning and head-in-hands despair, Jack’s absolutely destroying them.
I’m in the middle of rolling another set of silverware, the fork and knife nestled perfectly in the white napkin, when Jack approaches the bar. His beer glass is empty, and his dark hair is slightly tousled like he’s been running his hands through it.
“Let me guess,” I say, securing the napkin around the utensils. “Winning?”
“By an embarrassing amount.” He slides onto a barstool directly in front of me, setting his empty glass on the polished bar top with a soft clink. His fingers immediately start drumming against the wood in that restless way he always has about him.
“Poor Mike.” I place the rolled silverware in the caddy with the others and reach for another set of napkins from the stack. “He’s going to complain about this for weeks. Possibly months.”
Jack’s mouth curves into a half-smile that probably works absolute wonders on racing groupies and models in Monaco. “He’s already started making excuses. Something about the lighting in here throwing off his depth perception.” He nods with his head toward the pool table where Mike is currently examining the overhead lights like they’ve personally betrayed him.
“The lighting,” I repeat, unable to stop myself from laughing as I fold another napkin with precise corners. “Right. Because that’s definitely the problem. Not his complete lack of pool skills.”
“That’s the story he’s going with.” Jack taps his fingers again against the bar. “Another beer when you get a chance?”
“Coming right up.” I grab a fresh pint glass from the rack overhead and pull the tap, watching the amber liquid fill it steadily. “You know, you could let them win one game. Show some mercy. Be the bigger person.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He laughs, accepting the beer and taking a sip. “Besides, it’s good for Mike’s character. He needs the humbling experience. I’m really helping him out here.”
“Such generosity,” I say dryly.
He leans forward slightly, those green eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach do this annoying little flip that I immediately try to squash. “You should come play a game. Even the odds a little. Make it more interesting.”
“Oh, I bet you’d love that,” I say, rolling my eyes. He’s good at this, the flirting thing, but you don’t bartend for years without getting hit on by absolute experts. Jack Midnight is charming, sure, but he’s nothing I haven’t handled before.
“I reallywouldlove that.” His smile widens. “Come on. One game.”
“And abandon my post?” I gesture toward the bar. “Sarah would murder me.” I nod toward my coworker at the other end of the bar who admittedly doesn’t look particularly busy at the moment since she’s currently deep in conversation with Jayson about something that’s making them both laugh.
“Besides,” I continue, going back to my silverware rolling, “someone needs to be here serving drinks to your victims when you’re done systematically destroying their self-esteem and taking their money.”
