Page 84 of Prime Time Romance

“Traitor,” she hisses back.

But her voice is drowned out by Spencer, who is now trying to harmonize with the track’s backup vocals as the song transitions to the instrumental interlude.

I duck under the bar as the song hits the final chorus, and Spencer begins to improvise his own vocals.

When he finally reaches Brynn, he stretches out his hand. It’s unclear if it’s his final pose until he flexes his fingers, beckoning her to place her hand in his.

I can see the pleading in her eyes as he hits a final high note, and the song comes to an end. “Sloan,” he says into the microphone. “I just wanted to tell you that I—”

I reach up and clang the bell above the bar, hard and fast.

The ding ding ding drowns out Spencer’s voice, and the curious eyes of the crowd suddenly shift to me.

“Evening, everyone.” My plan was half-baked up until this point. Now I’m improvising. “I…uh…just wanted to say thanks for making it out tonight despite the weather we’re having. And to show my appreciation, I’m buying a round of hurricanes—on the house.”

The tone in the bar shifts from pin-drop silence to a roar of whoops and cheers.

Spencer’s song is long forgotten as the crowd rushes the bar. Candid love declarations are no match for artificial passion fruit and rum.

Sherry presses in beside me, her arm reaching for a tall glass as she eyes the growing crowd. “She better be worth it,” she mutters under her breath.

I already know she is.

The next hour passes in a blur of tiny paper umbrellas.

We run low on rum, but every time we think we’re out, another bottle somehow appears. Another strange coincidence in a town that seems full of them.

As the karaoke wraps up, the emcee puts on a playlist, and the dance floor fills almost immediately. Brynn and Luce jump up onstage, and as they do, Brynn catches my eye. She smiles and takes a notable step away from the edge, as if to say, I’m good, I won’t be falling into your arms tonight, but it’s followed by a moment where she holds my gaze just a little too long as she raises her hands above her head, her body moving to the music, and it makes me think that maybe she wouldn’t mind too much if she did.

“You did that.” Sherry pulls my attention off Brynn and onto a group of men, arms around one another in a huddle, belting out the chorus of “Sweet Caroline” on the dance floor.

“I’m sorry about the free drinks. I’ll work it off.”

Sherry shakes her head. “I know you will. You’ve been working your butt off all week.”

She reaches into the fridge, pulls out two bottles of Bud, pops the cap off one, and hands it to me.

“Who is this for?” I glance around the empty bar, but there’s no one waiting for it. Everyone is dancing.

Sherry holds out the second Bud and clinks it with mine. “The beer is for you. We’re taking a break. The storm seems to have missed us, and that deserves a cheers.” She takes a sip that’s followed by a long, appreciative sigh. “And I wasn’t talking about the drinks before. I was talking about this place. It’s never quite been like…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Like what?”

Her eyes scan the stage, the dance floor, the tables. “Like a community. Everyone together. Or at least it hasn’t for a while.”

That was the thing my dad loved most about Buddy’s. It didn’t matter who you were or what you did, you could come and be a part of something. God, I’ve missed that place. I thought the hole inside me these last couple of years was from losing him, but I think part of it was from losing Buddy’s too. My dad is gone, but Buddy’s is not—and I’m finally willing to admit that I want it back.

Sherry tosses her empty beer bottle into the trash can. “You should ring that.” She nods at the bell hanging above the bar. “It’s closing time, and we should take a break in the weather as a sign to send these bozos home.”

I wait until the end of the song to ring the bell.

There are a few disappointed faces when, instead of announcing another round of free drinks, I yell, “That’s all for tonight, folks. Get home to bed and then come back tomorrow. If you need a safe way home, come and talk to me. Otherwise, good night.” The crowd groans in protest but slowly makes its way out of the bar.

Brynn and Luce are the last of the dancers to jump from the stage. They walk, arms linked, back to their table, where they pull a slumped-over, brooding Spencer to his feet, and the three of them make their way toward the bathroom. As they pass, Spencer points a finger at me. “You, sir, ruined my big finale.”

I dip my head, feeling a little bit of sympathy for the guy. “Sorry about that, man.”

He and Luce continue on to the bathroom, but Brynn changes directions, coming over to the bar, where she pulls out a stool and sits down.