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I take a seat at the bar and order a beer, and then swivel around to watch Troy’s performance. It doesn’t take long for him to notice me staring at him like a hungry dog.
When his gaze mingles with mine, I flash him my most brazen “I’m looking for a sexy good time” smolder. And in response, Troy winks at me, not missing a beat in his song.
Well, damn, that was easy.
Looks like I’ll be playing Star-Struck Groupie tonight.
Chapter 8
Georgina
Wednesday 12:37 am
“Good night, everyone!” Troy says into his microphone. His blue eyes flicker to me, the same way they’ve been doing for the past hour and a half. “I’m Troy Eklund, and I’m here every Tuesday and Friday night! See you next time.”
There’s a smattering of half-hearted applause, the most energetic of it, coming from me. Troy notices my enthusiastic clapping and raises his beer bottle to me from the stage. So, of course, groupie that I am, I raise my beer to him in reply with a bold wink. And that’s all it takes. After sliding his guitar into its case, Troy heads straight to me at the bar.
“Is this stool taken?” he asks.
“I was hoping you’d ask me that. Sit, please. I was supposed to meet a blind date tonight, and he never showed up. So I’ve been saving that stool for you.”
Troy settles onto the seat next to me. “That guy made the biggest mistake of his life, and he’ll never know it.” He raises his near-empty beer bottle toward the front door of the bar. “Thanks, dipshit! Whoever you are.”
I giggle and bat my eyelashes shamelessly. “I think we’re both feeling grateful to that dipshit for standing me up. Here’s to silver linings.”
We clink.
“What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Georgina. You’re Troy?”
He nods. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Mr. Blind Date picked the place.”
Troy raises his beer bottle toward the front door again. “Thanks again, dipshit! I owe you one!”
“Ha, ha, ha.” I laugh flirtatiously.
“You want another one?” he asks, motioning to my beer.
“No, thanks. I’m driving. But let me buy you another one to thank you for all that incredible music. Seriously, Troy, you’re amazing.” It’s the truth, actually. The guy is indisputably talented.
“Sure. I’ll take another one.”
I flag down the bartender and order his preferred beer and a club soda for me. And then settle onto my stool as Troy proceeds to talk my ear off. About himself. And how amazing he is. He tells me about his musical inspirations, not that I asked, and why he wrote such and such song he performed earlier, not that I remember it. He talks about how he first realized he’s a natural on guitar. Oh, and did I notice he has perfect pitch? He tells me story after story about himself, and his talent, and his musical inspirations and philosophies, almost all of it unsolicited. And never once does he ask me a goddamned thing about myself. Which is why it takes all of ten minutes for me to realize, with certainty, he’s an arrogant asshole. And not the good kind. Not like Reed. No, the kind I genuinely want to punch in the face.
When I manage to sneak in any words into Troy’s monologue, it’s obvious he’s only waiting for me to finish talking so he can say whatever he’s got cued up on the tip of his tongue. When, against all odds, I’m able to sneak in a little joke or snarky comment, which I’ve done about four times, Troy’s chuckle isn’t sincere. It’s made of tin. Nothing more than a ploy to get himself into my pants.
All of which makes me think about Reed, even more than usual. I miss him so much, even though I’m bound and determined to hate him for what he did. But, see, when I talk to Reed, he actually listens. Mostly, anyway. Yes, occasionally, he sits there, smiling like a Cheshire cat while I’m talking, and it’s obvious he’s thinking I’m silly or amusing or fuckable. But, at least, even at those times, he’s listening, even if his eyes are blazing with amusement or heat. But this guy? His brain is an echo chamber, filled with nothing but self-congratulations.
Also, Reed always laughs at my jokes, no matter how stupid they might be. And Reed’s laughter is always sincere. True, Reed is always thinking about getting into my pants, every bit as much as this guy is. But it always feels with Reed like he’s as attracted to my brain and personality as my body. That might not have been the case in the very beginning. When Reed first saw me in the lecture hall, I know he wanted to bone me, based on nothing but animal attraction. But I’d say the same thing about myself. It certainly wasn’t Reed’s heart I wanted to bone in that lecture hall. But by the end of our amazing week together, there was no doubt Reed wanted to “bone” my soul, along with my body, every bit as much as I wanted to bone his. Or, at least, that’s how it felt to me.
