Page 4 of Playing the Backbeat

I shouldn’t have said anything. I was more so joking around, not realizing he’d actually ask me to elaborate. A tiny thread of embarrassment tangling up my insides pulls taut, and I force my face to remain neutral even though my stomach twists with discomfort at the wave of memories that hits me. It’s been so long, but I don’t know if I’ll ever forget that sinking feeling of shame.

“You could never handle the emotional wreckage I’d reduce you to,” I say with false confidence. He laughs and returns to his food, oblivious to the turn my thoughts have taken…or at least I think he is, until his silence has me returning my focus to him once more.

“What?” he asks, uncertainty ringing in the space between us. “Why do you look like you’re going to cry?”

“I don’t cry.”

“Everyone cries.”

I take another bite of my food and ignore the unsettling feeling sizzling my skin under his assessing stare. I suddenly realize the drummer with good hair and hot lips might be more than a pretty face. He’s an empath, and I return full swing to my usual self. The part of me that can’t be embarrassed by anyone or anything. The one with an answer to every question. The onewith a punch line for every joke. Jokes I refuse to be the butt of anymore.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Dylan,” I say, forcing myself to relax in my seat.

“I’m not sure that would be possible,” he responds quickly.

The air in the car seems to still, and I find him watching me, his eyes on my lips, all humor gone between us.

Before Dylan or I get the chance to do something that’s probably a little dumb and very much impulsive, Dom revives himself, mumbling something unintelligible then demanding a taco for him and Ellie. Dylan begrudgingly hands the bag to them.

Dylan drives us home, making light small talk between the four of us. I wait, holding Ellie’s door open, watching her crawl out of the car—a miracle, given the lack of coordination I’m witnessing. Before I close the door after her, I catch Dylan’s stare fixed on me.

My insides tumble at the heat in that stare. I give him a wink, betting that even if Dom and Ellie end up together, the hot drummer and I will most likely see very little of each other after this. But I hold onto that steady confidence he seemed to have in me, thinking my future was as bright as any other.

Probably should have held on a little tighter,I think the next day, when I flunk my econ exam.

Chapter one

Dee

Present Day

“Hey, shithead. Divert your eyes before I start charging you,” I snap at the newly twenty-one-year-old Chad. Brad? No, his ID definitely said Chad.

It doesn’t matter. He’s a twerp on the other side of my bar, which means I need him to keep his eyes north of the equator or he needs to move the fuck along.

“Can’t blame a guy for looking.”

I grimace and gag. Dramatically. Because fuckingick.

“Actually, I can. Get away from my bar before I ask muscles over there to show you the door,” I say with a nod toward Paul, our security guy. I refocus my attention on the drink I’m making for the service bar, watching Tweedledee scamper to his crowd of man-child friends in my peripheral.

Sex on the beach.Shit, I should remember how to make that by now.

It’s been three weeks since I was called into the biggest conference room at Keller’s Financial, along with more than onehundred coworkers, only to walk out with a small severance, termination of benefits, and the wordlayoffringing in my ears.

I shouldn’t have been shocked. The signs were there—I was a data analyst, but I wanted to hold onto hope. Hope that the job I had been working my ass off for wouldn’t be ripped away from me when I was finally thriving. Things were easy, basically second nature. I had built a solid team around me and a social support network. I’d been at Keller’s for almost eight years. I put in the hours and paid my dues at entry level. I finally found that ever-elusive balance between my work life andreallife. All that effort, down the drain.

What a turd sandwich of a month.

I still have to tell my family…my friends.

I’m going to. I’m not one to keep secrets—not many, anyway—but I expected to find a new job quickly. I applied to thirty jobs the day after the layoff. Impressive fucking work if I may say so, considering the four margaritas I had the night before to ease the pain and disappointment. Even hungover, I locked in the next day—admittedly not until two in the afternoon, but I was able to get my resume updated, polished, and pushed out to thirty potential employers. Ten replied before the end of the week, requesting an interview.

Which leads me to now. Ten interviews done and not a single callback. Not even when I sent a thank-you. Not even when I called to follow up and express my continued interest in the position.

Ghosted. Fucked over by the man again.

So here I am. Trying my hand at bartending. It’s…not going well.