Page 4 of If the World Was Ending

“That new song kicks serious ass,” Briar informed him as he slid into the booth beside her. She patted his head like he was an adorable puppy before handing him a whiskey sour. “My treat.”

He smiled gratefully and put the straw to his lips. “Did you like the bridge? I wasn’t sure about the bridge.”

“It’s perfect. No notes,” Briar assured him and stared right into his eyes. When she did this, he knew she wasn’t bullshitting.

She sighed and tapped her phone screen, checking the time. He watched her. “When is your call time tomorrow?”

“Seven-forty,” she groaned, then looked guilty. “It’s steady pay. I need to be grateful.”

Colby nodded—and waited—because whether she should be grateful or not, he knew Briar would still gripe at least a little bit. “It’s just the show is SOOO bad! Like so bad. I don’t know how it hasn’t gotten canceled yet. Like, fuck. Humanity really is devolving if they’re watching that garbage and liking it.”

Briar worked on a half-hour sitcom that really wasn’t funny. Colby agreed he had no idea how it got renewed for a second season, but Briar was the head makeup artist, and it was a steady gig in Hollywood (well, technically Burbank), so she really shouldn’t complain. Colby knew thousands of people who would kill for a steady job in this town. Like that hot, spaced-out guy in the restroom today. He said he was an actor, so he would probably kill for a job on Briar’s shitty sitcom.

“Where were you when the earthquake hit?” he asked as he pushed around the ice cubes in his drink with his straw.

“We worked until four in the morning the night before, so I was sleeping,” she explains, twisting one of her braids around her finger. “I mean, I felt a shake but just thought it was my roommate banging another rando.”

Colby laughed and tried not to make it sound awkward. He had been one of those randos—when the weather dipped really low a few months ago, and the heater was broken in his van. Briar had invited him to sleep on the couch, and that roommate came home drunk and horny. It had been fine. He hadn’t finished, but he had made sure she had.

If anything, the encounter had made it clear to Colby that he didn’t need casual sex. It felt like work. He usually couldn’t keep it hard long enough in those situations, even though he always went into them thinking he wanted it. He was beginning to think he was broken. Especially when there were people he had a connection with, but he didn’t want to get sexual with them. Like Briar. He would go to war for her, and he knew that she would help him bury a body, no questions asked. Briar would probably enjoy it. But they’d never hooked up, and the idea made him feel almost queasy.

Briar finished her drink and rested a hand on Colby’s forearm on top of the table. “You good for tonight?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Colby nodded. She was always concerned about his living situation, which was nice. No one else was ever concerned. “Gonna go back to WeHo and find a nice curb by work. Have an early shift restocking all the shelves that got fucked in the quake.”

“Hey! Extra cash. Guess earthquakes are good for something.” She slipped out of the booth, then leaned over the table and cupped Colby’s angular chin in her hand like an overbearing mother. “Be safe. Be strong. Wear a condom.”

Colby laughed. “Be safe. Be strong. Fuck the haters.”

“With a condom!” she called back.

He watched Briar strut out of the club and wished he were attracted to her. God, how simple would life be if he wanted to fuck Briar, and she wanted to fuck him? They could move in together, support each other, maybe marry, have babies, and his family loved her—and would love him again. Probably.

“Excuse me.” Colby looked up and saw a guy in a rumpled dress shirt and leather jacket standing across the table. He looked like he hadn’t slept much or had maybe just gotten off a bender.

“Hey,” Colby said with a friendly but distant smile. There could be some grade A weirdos at these things. One guy once offered Colby forty bucks to play guitar, live, in the background of an adult film. Naked. He said no, of course… because his van hadn’t needed a heater in that moment.

“You were good,” he said and jerked his head toward the stage. “Best one tonight.”

“Thank you.” Colby’s smile got softer.

The guy scrubbed his uneven beard with his hand. “I’ve seen you before. Once at Laurel Hardware.”

“Oh yeah?” Colby nodded. “I love playing that room.”

He loved it because the crowd was engaged. Laurel Hardware was a popular West Hollywood cocktail bar that advertised its live music nights well, and people actually came to hear music. Places like this, sometimes the audience was startled when people started getting up on stage, like they had no idea why people were singing while they ate mozzarella sticks and drank cheap beer.

“You've always been a solo act?” he asked.

“Mostly. I mean, in high school I was in a couple of bands.” Colby shrugged, and the guy stared, studying Colby for some reason.

“Would you consider it? Again?”

“Joining a band? Why?”

“I have these two guys…” The man stopped when Colby’s face dropped into a mask of disinterest. “I should start by saying my name is Maxwell Ford, but everyone calls me Ford.”

He leaned over the table to drop a business card in front of Colby.