Authors: Michele Zurlo
A strange man sat at the bar, and Craig stood just behind him, beta-male style. Wrinkles of confusion made lines between his brows, and he also frowned, making premature lines on the rest of his face. Because I hadn’t forgiven him for his asshole handshake, I was tempted to comment on his wrinkle-making habits. But I didn’t. Mike thought I was a nice girl, and I was playing up that angle.
I am a nice girl, but I know how to be a bitch too.
The man with him studied me. He was older, silver-haired, and suave. His dark blue suit jacket was cut great and emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. I couldn’t guess his age, but I can tell you he definitely worked out.
Mr. Silver-Hair rounded the bar, extending his hand to Mike. “Mike MacMurtry, I’m Dawson Hanover, owner of Hanover Distribution.”
Mike shook his hand enthusiastically. “Mr. Hanover, you have one hell of a sales rep here. No pressure, yet she gets her point across. It’s been a pleasure to do business with her.”
I edged away. The owner of the company might know I didn’t work for him.
Mr. Hanover slung his arm across my shoulders. He did it in a nice way, but his firm grip let me know I wasn’t going to get out of this cleanly. I hoped to hell Dylan hadn’t noticed me yet. Maybe I would come back tonight to see his set.
“You’re right. She’s amazing. I’ve been listening to her for about ten minutes. I think she’s sold some of my liquor to me.”
I gave him an affectionate smile. He seemed nice, and I didn’t want to blow this for him. Craig didn’t rate consideration, but I already liked Mr. Hanover. He reminded me a little of John, only older.
I know you must be thinking I’m nuts to not break down and beg for forgiveness or make a fun for the door, but I wanted to see where this situation would lead. I’ve never been arrested for lying because I’ve never done so maliciously. In general, I don’t damage anything but friendships.
And even though I’ve alienated more than my fair share of people, I’ve managed to retain a core group of close friends: Jane and Luma. They’ve learned to spot my stress triggers. Also, if you ask me if I’m lying, I’ll admit to it. Always. Jane says I’m hard to love but so worth it.
“Well, I’ll let you two discuss the particulars,” I announced. “Mike, do you mind if I stick around and watch the band for a little while?” The size of my balls is amazing. No fear—not when I have absolutely nothing on the line.
Mr. Hanover released my arm. “That sounds like an excellent idea. You and I can talk afterward.”
I drifted off and let the men discuss the financial side of the deal. Some of the prices I’d quoted Mike were from the cheaper and cheapest sheets. I think that helped keep his attention. When he’d told me what he was currently paying, his rates mostly matched those listed on the most expensive spreadsheet.
Dylan didn’t notice me until I was about twenty feet from the stage, which just shows how much he was concentrating. The large dance floor was adjacent to the stage, and I had to cross a lot of open space to get to him.
He looked up. His eyes widened a little, and the corners of his mouth curved in a jerky smile. He’d just started singing, and I didn’t expect him to stop, which he didn’t. I stood in the center of the dance floor and watched his band play a song.
It wasn’t one I’d heard before, so I figured it was an original. I closed my eyes to better absorb what I heard, and I didn’t love it. Music feeds my soul. At one point, it functioned as my only emotional outlet, and John had encouraged that by taking me to many live shows and talking to me for hours about how music is constructed. Melodies seep into me and fill the vast silence. Well, good music does.
As I listened, I tried to figure out what was off. Dylan’s voice was pretty good. Rich and smooth, it washed over me. I liked the rhythms too. So, what was wrong? As I tapped my foot in time to the drum, it came to me. Without thinking, I hoisted myself onto the stage. I traced the black cords of the bass back to the source, and I turned up that amp. Then I turned the lead guitar’s down just a notch.
More than one of the four band members glared at me, but they continued playing. Dylan regarded me with an expression that mixed outrage and bafflement. It was a cute look on him. Some people might have used the word
ominous
, but not me. My spider sense is finely tuned, and I rely on it heavily.
I sat on the edge of the stage and slid down. It was too far to jump and not hurt something. When I resumed my position and closed my eyes, the song sounded better. The layered rhythms were well balanced, complementing Dylan’s voice instead of undermining it. Now all he needed were some backup singers. His bandmates needed to pitch in, but I didn’t think they’d take that advice from the crazy stranger who’d adjusted their settings.
As I absorbed the song, it changed back to the way it was. I opened my eyes to find the bassist and keyboardist throwing twin glares at me. I shrugged. It was no skin off my nose if they wanted to sound like shit. They played two more, and I identified the same problem, which they apparently had no interest in fixing.
When the last song ended, Dylan leaned his guitar against an amp, jumped down from the stage, and crossed to me.
His eyes flashed, and I knew he wasn’t happy with what I’d done. My ballsy behavior probably didn’t fit with the shy woman he’d met who freaked out about spilling coffee on him.
“Lacey, you can’t just come up on stage and mess with our equipment.”
I studied him intently, noting the way his jaw flexed and his lips pressed together. From the periphery of my vision, I looked for him to clench his fists. He didn’t.
“Okay.”
He waited a beat, two beats. I didn’t blink or step back. Finally, he shook his head. “Aren’t you going to apologize?”
“No. You sounded better after I made the change and worse when you changed it back. The acoustics in this place suck, and you have to account for that in your mix. I don’t see a soundboard, which is a mistake if Mike is serious about featuring better talent.”
By this time, the others had joined Dylan. Besides the two male guitarists, the drummer turned out to be a taller woman with an athletic build, long dark hair, and a lip ring. She looked enough like Dylan to be his sister.
I faced the hostile crowd without changing my expression. “You also need backup singers.”
The drummer snorted. “I told you so.”
Dylan flashed her an impatient look. “Daisy, hush.” Then he returned his attention to me. “Next time just say something. Don’t mess with my equipment.”
I’ve never had a man tell me not to mess with his equipment. I know that wasn’t what he meant, but I couldn’t stop from giggling.
Dylan had a hard time holding together his stern expression, and Daisy didn’t even try. The other guys were checking out my outfit and trying to figure out who I was.
“Lacey, we need to have a chat.” Mr. Hanover appeared at my elbow. He eyed Dylan’s unfriendly bandmates with a stern expression of warning.
How sweet. Dawson Hanover was my protector. I barely refrained from calling him Dad.
Dylan scowled at Mr. Hanover, then looked back at me. “Lacey?”
I felt bad because now he thought I hadn’t come by to see him. Then again, maybe that was a blessing in disguise. I shouldn’t have come by to see him.
“Dylan, this is Dawson Hanover. He’s a liquor distributor.” I gave Mr. Hanover a hopeful smile. “Did you close the deal?”
He dropped the overprotective parent look to give me a grin. “After the way you set it up? Absolutely. You’re amazing, Lacey. You’ve accomplished what six of my best sales reps have failed to do, and you made it look easy.”
Lying
was
easy. The truth is hard.
“Oh, good. I’m glad. Dylan invited me here to listen to his rehearsal.” I realized my mistake. Now I was sorry. I faced Dylan with a sad heart. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You didn’t invite me here for feedback.” I reached out and squeezed his shoulder as part of my apology. I absolutely was not feeling him up. “Best of luck tonight.”
With that, I turned and followed Mr. Hanover across the floor. It looked like Craig had already left. I halted abruptly. “I need to use the restroom.”
The fixtures in this bathroom were clean but worn. Mike needed to do some upgrades if he wanted to attract a different clientele. Perhaps he’d pour some of his liquor earnings into the bathroom.
I stared at myself in the mirror above the sink, the fluorescents making me look pasty, though I knew I looked fine in natural light. Another upgrade. Women don’t need to see a crappy reflection when they’re trying to look good while sweating in a too-warm bar on a crowded dance floor. My eyes—brown, in case I haven’t said—had a sparkle of excitement in them that gave me an impish air.
Lying would help me wiggle out of this situation. I hadn’t meant to draw so much attention to myself. I turned on the faucet and wet my hands.
The door opened, and Dylan stepped inside. He watched me, not interrupting my ritual right away. He looked at me in the mirror, and I was too focused on what I was doing to care what he saw.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He hadn’t. I was about to be busted for lying. “I’m nervous about talking to Mr. Hanover.”
Dylan crossed his arms and nodded. “You don’t have to talk to him, Lacey. I can go out there and get rid of him.”
I lifted my gaze from the observation of my third cycle and met Dylan’s in the mirror. My knight in a vintage NIN shirt. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone offer to fight my battles. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”
“What does he want?”
I started on number four. “I’m not sure. He can’t be that upset, though. I think I made him a lot of money today.”
“He’s your boss?”
Funny fact: John noticed early on that I tend to lie when presented with an open-ended situation. He asks me lots of yes-no questions. I shook my head. “I just met him.”
Dylan frowned. “Don’t leave the building. Insist on meeting with him here.”
That was sound advice. “Okay.”
“How did court go? Did you pay your fine?”
Cycle five. “The judge let me off with a warning.” I did not explain my courtroom shenanigans.
“We’re playing tonight. Do you think you can come?” He chewed his lip.
I wanted to chew his lip. I thought about that, and about the fact that he was married and his sister was in his band. I shrugged. “It depends on what my friends want to do. I think we’re going to a movie.”
We hadn’t yet agreed on which one, and that meant we might end up at one of our apartments doing Jell-O shots or making margaritas. Or both.
His gaze flickered away, and he didn’t bother to conceal his disappointment. “We go on at midnight, if you want to stop by after.”
I finished with cycle six and felt much better. “I’ll see what they want to do.”
Dylan handed me several paper towels. “Was the mix really that bad?”
“You sound better with less lead and more bass. It complements your voice. Backup singers would also help, especially in the chorus.”
I deposited my paper towels in the trash. Dylan tucked a strand of curls behind my ear. I looked up to find him regarding me with a mixture of fascination and wonder.
“I do appreciate your feedback. Nobody outside the band has heard us play yet.”
A joke about his stage virginity would have been funny right then, but butterflies stampeded in my stomach. I needed to get away from Dylan. Being close to him was too much temptation for me to bear. “You know we’re in the ladies’ room again, right?”
He looked around as if this were the first time he’d realized what went on in a women’s bathroom. Spots of color crept up his neck. “Sorry. I figured you were washing your hands. I just wanted to make sure you stopped.”
I took another step away. “And what would you do if I didn’t?”
He tilted his head and studied me. “I don’t know. You don’t look frantic anymore. Did that guy make you upset or was it me?”
“Mr. Hanover might not be entirely pleased with me, and I’d rather not go into the reasons.”
Dylan nodded, accepting my evasion. “Like I said, don’t leave the building with him. I’ll play around with the sound while you have your meeting. That way you won’t truly be alone.”
Chapter Four
I
T
T
URNS
O
UT
M
R
. H
ANOVER
wanted to offer me a job. I tried to tell him I wasn’t qualified to be a sales rep, but he only laughed.
“Lacey, you weaved a great story; that’s all a salesperson does. You helped Mr. MacMurtry see how the Hanover Company could improve his business. Some of your facts were wrong. I did correct those for Mike. But considering you’ve had zero training, that’s to be expected.”
He set me up to shadow another rep—not Craig, thank goodness—and go through a training program. I start Monday. Helluva week. I had to fill out an application and take my résumé to Human Resources for them to keep on file.
I was sure he’d check my references, so I didn’t include any, and I hope Thomas Pritchett doesn’t answer the phone when they call my last place of employment. The last thing I need is for a lie that netted me a job to expose one of my poorer, more dramatic, too-desperate lies.