Page 22 of Playing the Backbeat

It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk more about himself, but I file away the information. I can’t align the Dylan I know—the carefree, easygoing, flirty Dylan—with the guy susceptible tothoughts so invasive he has to cope with them like that. I guess we still have a lot to learn about each other.

“Managed or not, I appreciate you telling me. You didn’t have to do that, but I’m glad you shared with me.”

He nods, clearly not wanting to discuss it any more than he already has. Feeling like I have no right to ask more questions—and grateful he felt like he could share as much as he did in the first place—I let him steer the conversation back to me.

“Two jobs in what…two months?” I ask. “Both telling me I’m useless? Yeah, that doesn’t feel good.”

Rejection always stings. As much as I want to pretend that it doesn’t bother me, I can’t. Not this time. Not when it’s one thing after another, piling on so high I just want to escape to an island. At least that island would come with a chance at big money if I made it onSurvivor.

His expression sobers, all sense of humor dropping instantly. “Keller’s laying you off was a result of poor business management. It had nothing to do with you. They laid off over a hundred employees that day. Were theyalluseless?”

“Only the men,” I quip. That earns me an eye roll. “No, they weren’t,” I admit softly.

“Can you honestly say you’ll miss bartending?”

I grimace. “Not there. The staff I worked with were fun, but management was unsupportive and uptight. At the end of the day, it’s really on me. I kept making mistakes. I didn’t make any effort to get better. I was too distracted looking for another job.” I swipe at my forehead, flyaway hairs brushing against my fingers. It hits me then how much of a mess I am. Getting fired last night was just another log on the fire.

God, what a shit month. What a shityearthis is turning out to be.

Exhaustion bears down on me. Between scouring the internet, applying to any and every job I’m qualified for, battling impostersyndrome, and wrestling with disappointment in myself for ending up in this position…I just want to go to bed.

“Well, you must not have had enough training. Come on,” he says, grabbing my knee and giving it a squeeze as he stands before striding into the kitchen.

Even after everything I’ve told him…he’s not blaming me. He’s not searching for where I fell short, where I could have done better. Dylan isn’t looking at my circumstances and judging me. So why am I doing it to myself?

I drag myself off the couch, folding my arms over my chest and swallowing around the lump in my throat. I join Dylan and lean against the counter as the theme song for the next episode ofSurvivorstarts playing. “What are you doing?” I ask, unable to keep the heavy dose of skepticism from bleeding into my voice.

“Getting you ready,” he says simply, eyes flashing up to meet mine with a fire that I know my defeated stare lacks. He starts cutting a lime and nods at the pantry. “What kind of liquor do you have? Grab whatever you’ve got.”

“Sweet. Is getting drunk at noon on a Saturday the answer to my problems?”

“We’ll see how well that sarcasm serves you during your first shift.” A huge grin takes over his face. “I need another bartender for show nights. Consider yourself hired. Training starts now. Let’s see what you’ve got, Deanna.”

Chapter ten

Dylan

“She’s terrible.”

“I know,” I mutter, glancing at Dee, who’s wiping down wineglasses at the other end of the circular bar. “But I need you to help her,” I beg Vicki, my bar manager and the new owner of an IOU from yours truly. “She’ll get it.” Dee nearly drops the glass as she tries to hang it on the rack above the bar, but catches it at the last second. “Eventually.”

“She’s already broken two wineglasses and she defaults to making Long Island iced teas when she forgets what people order. I’ve had three complaints already and had to remake the drinks. She’s going to cost you overages out the ass.”

“I owe her, Vic. Truly, she saved my ass with a place to crash while I nail down an apartment. And she needs this.” I give her my best sad-boy look and throw in a little pout for good measure.

She sighs and pushes off the bar with a huff. “Don’t use those puppy dog eyes on me. You’re going to need them when you have to explain to Ed why you had to buy more wineglasses this month.”

Yeah, the owner might notice, but I’m not worried.

A crash sounds from the opposite end of the bar, behind Vicki.

Okay, maybe I should worry.

I peer past Vicki to find Dee, hands fisted next to her ears, shoulders bunched up tight, staring at the mess of broken glass at her feet.

“It’s exactly what I think it is, isn’t it?” Vicki says quietly, eyes closed, slowly shaking her head.

Dee grimaces, slipping her hands behind her back as she starts gently toeing the glass aside into a neat little pile. “Slippery little fucker,” she mumbles. Dee continues nudging the glass around before she spots the broom and dustpan underneath the bar and begins sweeping up the mess.